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Old wrinkled hands measure out a dark tie and Wesley surveys their work in the mirror. Loops, folds, twists and tucks. He worked to flatten and square the knot, before straightening the lengths. He watched as the tie changed shape before his eyes. The tie gave way and in its place a sterling silver framed hourglass now hung from his neck on a chain. The old man’s neck stiffened.

Rex Tyler

Dodds and Tyler sit in Rex’s boxy brown Chevy. A pudgy middle-aged Rex behind the wheel, as Wesley sat quietly in the passenger seat. The elderly man seemingly shrunken in the bucket seating.

“So how’ve you been anyway, Wes?”

“You know me, Rex. Running out the clock.”

A fleeting look of horror crossed Rex’s face, before his eyes returned to the road for a few minutes. Wes could see the cogs ticking in his former partner’s head as he tried to formulate a response.

“Well, you know, we all feel real bad about what happened. And yes, you seem to have been--”


“--I mean, Terry’s a little older too, sure not where you are but--”

“Rex. It’s fine. It was a joke.”

“A joke? Yeah. Well, it’s a pretty shitty joke if you ask me...” His focus went completely back to the road.

“Rex. I had all of my years with Dian. As far as I’m concerned, everything else from here is just gravy.”

“Well… Alright. I guess you’ve made your peace with it.”

The pair drove the rest of the way to the funeral in silence.

Wesley shakes his head and closes his eyes tightly with a wince. He cautiously re-opens his eyes, barely daring to peek and its back. The tie is just a tie.

It’s been happening more frequently these days.

The family curse.

A few weeks ago, police found him staggering around his neighbourhood back in the old mask again, wearing that long tailed trenchcoat that looks about three sizes too big. If it weren’t for a pandemic sending the world to Hell in a handbasket he’d probably have been shut away and his estate turned over to the state.

When the world goes crazy enough, the mad can pass for sane…

He closed his eyes again and breathed deeply. When he opened them the world shifted to darkness and his heart raced.

Charles McNider

Wesley stood by the grave alone, but with him. Company for a man who couldn’t even see if he was there. Whilst the other six all acted as pallbearers.

Because the job would be too much for a blind man or for sensitive Wesley.

Maybe it was fitting though, he thought. Since if it was him in the box instead of young Johnny Thunder, who’d be the odd one out standing with the good doctor? Probably Johnny, he suspected.

Ted Grant and Al Pratt carried from the front, the smaller man never wanting to seem backward in doing the heavy lifting. But with the Champ carrying the casket on his shoulder it looked almost comical watching Pratt lifting the box at a level above his head. Or would under different circumstances.

Terry Sloane and Jay carrying from the middle. Seems appropriate. The pair maintaining an even keel and lending support to what was always an odd blend of guys.

And Rex and Ted Knight bringing up the rear.

Wesley turned to the good doctor. “So… How’d the autopsy look?”

“I don’t know. Was found by NYPD. The state coroner's handling the autopsy.”

McNider didn’t play dumb. Both men knew exactly who he was talking to, and had too much respect to give an “Is that you, Wesley?” like he might in order to preserve his cover for another man.

“Even this one?” Wesley asked, looking for anything to read on the stoic man’s face. “You’re not going to find a way in for this one?”

He could see the question had been plaguing McNider’s mind as well. “It’s not as easy as that, Wesley.”

“It’s been years, Charles.”

The doctor turned to face the older man square on, making him feel uncomfortable as he gazed into faded sightless eyes. “It has been years.” McNider confirmed, with an emphasis on the 'firm'. “But the years haven’t treated all of us the same, have they? Some of us they might still press into service, if we were found. No matter how long we've been living with looking over our shoulders.”

Wesley dropped his head and mumbled into his shoes. “Sorry, Chas.”

A few seconds passed and they moved back to standing side by side as they waited for the coffin to be brought to the grave. The older, but more vibrant looking doctor donned dark glasses which looked out of place on this unseasonably overcast day and sighed deeply, before turning to Wesley.

“I can’t PERFORM the cut, Wesley. But I have a line to a man on the inside. I’ll be getting a full copy of the report and filings a few days after the fact.”

“I get it. I’m curious and I care too, Wes. But I still can’t afford to take any stupid risks.”

“Thanks.” The pair quickly reconciled.

Looking to break the ice, the conversation was quickly changed. “Rex looks… like he’s filling out.” McNider looked for the right words, but with none coming to mind settling for selecting blunt ones.

“Yes. It’s the stuff. It’s wreaked havoc on his metabolism. I suppose we’ve all paid our prices in one way or another.”

The blind man mumbled in agreement as the casket was brought forward.

8/1 - The Weekly Post Check

@Byrd Man - The Flash - EXPIRED
@Hillan - Alan Scott - EXPIRED
@Simple Unicycle - The Question - EXPIRED

@Roman - Jonah Hex - 2 Days Left
@Lord Wraith - Superman - 3 Days Left
@Hound55 - Sandman - 3 Days Left
@Polyphemus - Crimson Avenger - 5 Days Left
@IceHeart - Green Arrow - 6 Days Left
@Tackytaff - Birds Of Prey - 6 Days Left
@Mao Mao - Misfits - 6 Days Left

While players past their expiration dates are eligible to keep their characters should he provide a post in the immediate future, their claims to the characters are annulled at midnight EST, and will remain invalidated while past the expiration. If someone else applies for a an expired and is accepted before a post is made past midnight, his or her application/posts will themselves be voided.

Safe For This Week:

DocTachyon - S.H.A.D.E.
Reason: Gave prior warning of absence until 8/4.

Deadline Expired - Removed From Roster Due To Inactivity

@Hexaflexagon - Sarge Steel
@Natty - Hawkgirl

Sorry, but them's the breaks. One post every two weeks prevents removal. You're allowed to re-apply for your character should you choose, but I'd recommend having an IC post ready beforehand.

Thank you and happy posting.

Re-posting just to fix the tag so we don't lose a Crimson Avenger without warning.
*Subtly merges Alan Scott into J.S.A...*

Last Night…

“Mind you don’t pop your top, Rook.” The Sergeant warned.

The young officer heeded his Sergeant’s warning and kept his distance; he may have been young, but he knew well enough not to charge in and disturb the crime scene.

“So how do we handle this?” It was an unseasonally cool night. Steam rose from the subway grills and manhole covers and the first dead body he’d ever seen on the job lay supine on the cold bitumen.

“I just called in, we should have a detective car here ETA 10. Until then…” he tossed the keys to the younger officer, “There’s a roll of tape in the trunk, go get it and cordon off there… through to there--” He pointed at the wide entrance point to the alley “--and divert onlookers back through to the main roads.”

The young cadet caught the keys and nodded, with the task in his mind fresher than the body they’d caught down the dead-end street.

After he’d completed the task and other support cars had arrived, allowing him to put someone else on the menial work, he snuck back to watch the detectives and his Sergeant in action.

“Me and the Rook caught this about fifteen, twenty minutes ago. Anonymous tip from a pay phone. Body was as-is.”

“Sir, tape’s set up and Taylor’s taken over crowd control.” The young officer announced his return, the two detectives doing little to acknowledge him but a slight head turn and an expression of mild inconvenience.

“With all due respect, Sergeant, you ain’t caught shit. We’re the ones who are going to have to be working this.” The first detective vocalised that sense of inconvenience, throwing a cigarette butt back down the alley before approaching the crime scene. “Techs been called yet?” He asked, hunching over to look at the body, and cocking his head from side to side as old experienced eyes soaked up the environment.

“Yeah, CSI van’s on its way. Got told there’s a thirty five minute ETA there.”

“…so expect it in an hour or so.” The other detective responded. “Got it.”

The second detective pulled his phone out and started snapping off photos of the crime scene.

The cadet hunched down behind the first detective and watched, resulting in an audible sigh from the elder lawman.

“So what do you figure was the cause of death?” He asked the detective.

“Well, so far I think we can safely rule out ‘old age’ and ‘gunshot wound to the face’, but I think we might leave the rest up to the coroner to determine.” He sarcastically fired back to the irritating younger patrolman, pointing out the victim’s clear face. The sergeant shook his head at his younger partner.

The younger officer took the hint and stepped back out of the detective’s space. The victim’s face was indeed clean, but the scene was not without signs of a struggle, his breast pocket was torn and hung loose on his coat like a dog’s tongue, with a hole at the bottom of the point where the pocket used to join where it was torn through to the shirt.

The officer thought for a second and using his own finger he hooked his own breast pocket and furrowed his brow. Something didn’t make sense to him. The sergeant tutted him, signalling him to leave the detectives to do their work but something stuck in the younger man’s craw. He moved his finger and hooked the other side of his pocket and was no more satisfied at the result. Then his brow re-settled. He had his answer.

Considering the fall of the body he marked off an invisible path with his line of site to a dumpster in the alley.

He turned to the detective with the phone. “Snap some off of what’s under the dumpster.” He said brazenly.


The young officer dropped down to his knees and pointed underneath. “I’m pretty sure that was on the victim.”

A few photos later and a gloved hand gingerly lifted a pen from under the dumpster and placed it in an evidence bag.

“His pocket was torn up. The torque didn’t match the hole unless whoever ripped it was pulling on either a pen or one of those mechanical pencils or something. Presumably the killer was pulling down on that, might be able to pull a print.”

“Huh… Got some hawk-eyes on you, huh kid?” The detective begrudgingly credited the younger officer for the pickup. “Still… too early to say ‘killer’ until the coroner can give us cause of death. Could be the deceased had a heart attack or stroke, clutched his chest at the pen, then his arm seized and he tore the pocket.”

“OK.” The eager younger officer nodded, absorbing the lesson and looking to push forward. “So has he got a wallet on him? Can we I.D. the victim?”

“We don’t touch the body ‘til the techs get here. Normally we just snap the photos off to cover our asses in case some lawyer tries to get cute and claim something shady. Pen’s still a good pickup though, you’re right there was a logical progression there and we lifted it clean. Tech’s get here, we’ll look for a wallet, or they’ll try DNA, prints - or at a push - dentals for a match on the deceased.” The other detective replied.

The rookie cop nodded, soaking up the procedure.

“All you need to know is, if you find another one, keep the crime scene clear and don’t touch anything.” The dourer detective added.

The sergeant walked over and put his arm around his younger partner. “Come on. Shift change is about to happen. Crime scene’s secured and they’ve got this under control.”

The younger officer acceded and walked back to their patrol car, but he looked back multiple times on the way...
@webboysurf Presents:

In my dreams I fly...

I soar through clouds of tangerine coloured mists and every cloud plays different music. I dive through a fog playing Big Band by Count Basie, and sweep through a wisp of Gershwin’s Rhapsody in Blue.

I bend physics and kick off of a floating dandelion seed, spinning and rising through Billie Holiday backed by Louis Armstrong. I briefly feel saddened at the realization that Dian can not experience this with me, but then dream distracts just as life does and my spirits soar once again, as I do, with Sinatra.

I feel the familiar tug and experience a flash of existential dread, as I know what it means. The dream’s once again taking control. Believing I need to know something, filling me with purpose. I plead for it to let me go. I’m an old man now. Haven’t I earned the right to peaceful sleep? To sweet dreams?

The answer comes abruptly as I’m dragged down to Earth. I produce my mask from the back of my head and put it on in preparation of the turmoil to come.

It would not take long. I’m surrounded by others wearing similar masks. Soldiers, pushing forward in a war before my time. The telltale sign of horror – THE CREEPING DARK GREEN MIST pushes towards us. A gas I would never have used myself in my own past, I see soldiers first try and outrun the gas, before those it had already caught slowed as trained. It would attack the respiratory system more insidiously if the victim were running and taking larger breaths due to fleeing. But the officers also knew it helped disperse the gas. Which one of these two facts was the greater reason the officers trained the men so remained to be seen. As men's clawed hands grasped at their own throats, some men frothed, others eyes wide with terror from the seeming inevitability of their demise.

I look on in horror unable to help, my own mask perfectly sealed and keeping my own lungs clear of the poison. I had long ago made alterations to my own mask to better prevent the passage of gas. It was important in my task. But I suspect my mask’s complete immunity has more to do with my own dream state and the message I’m supposed to take from it than from any alterations I had made to it in the real world.

I see one soldier stagger right to me, his mask foaming and eyes wide. The gas has started to dissipate. Its purpose complete.

This man.

He’s drowning and panicked by the thought of the end. His airway blocked, despite the gas’s passing. I throw the man down onto the ground and pull the mask off to try and allow air, and am suddenly met with the rising froth and foam as he tries to spit the obstruction clear.

The dark green of his army uniform starts to bleed into the dirt as I pat him down, looking desperately for some kind of solution. Anything that can help this man.

The dark green uniform has bled out into a lime green suit, somehow repelling all of the mud from the trenches to remain in pristine condition. I keep patting down and feel a solid object in his breast pocket. I hold it to the light, its significance clear. It’s some kind of pen. The man still squirms, drowning in his own fluids.

I jam it into his throat, attempting to perform some kind of field medic tracheostomy. Blood starts to pour from his throat, he raises his hands to his neck from the pain, but I pin his arms so I can keep trying to save his life. I pull the pen back out and am met with muffled moans. I try to quickly dismantle the pen to separate the tube from the rest for a makeshift cannula whilst he screams even more violently. Wincing slightly at the unpleasantness of what must be done I push the pen’s outer tube into the hole I created and watch bubbles of blood burst through the pen.

I push back to a seated position and hope I’ve done enough. The blood keeps pouring from his throat and bubbling out of the pen. I watch and hope. The blood pours into a sort of sideways figure ‘8’ shape across his neck, before rapidly clotting into what is instantly recognizable as a bow tie. It starts to change colour as it dries in the hot afternoon sun. Still the bubbles of blood continue to rise from the pen, then finally.

He gasps a final rustle as whatever’s left of him leaves this mortal coil, his eyes left wide-open in terror but empty.

I look down at my hands but they’re not bloody. Just… hands.

I gasp and jerk upright in my bed, trembling from the nightmare. My old wrinkled hands envelope my face, trembling from the shock of what I’ve just experienced.

“Wesley, dear… Are you alright?”

I look beside me in the bed and see Dian. Lying in a wedding dress, stroking my leg and trying to calm me from the vision.

I smile, and she takes my hand and pulls it under the covers. At first I wonder where exactly she’s taking me, but then she places my hand on her stomach. But it’s not her stomach. I flip the quilt back and find her holding my hand to her pregnant belly. A smile crosses my old wrinkled face, and a tear falls to my cheek. I cling to this despite my cognitive dissonance. Wedding bells.

And then a crack of THUNDER and a flash of LIGHTNING and for a second I can see Dian’s skin go translucent and the outline of her skull through her face. The chiming of bells.

I jerk upright with a start. Alone. And I can hear the old landline phone besides my bed ringing.

I struggle and wonder whether I’m still asleep or awake and then conclude it doesn’t matter. I’ll find out soon enough. After all, if I’m awake then I know exactly what this phone call is.

I look to the empty space in my bed besides me and immediately feel worse. Then I look to the phone. It rings again.

“No point in putting this off any longer…” I murmur to myself as I lift the phone off of it’s receiver.

“Hello?” “Yes, speaking.” “…” “Yes.” “Look, this isn’t…” “Jay…” “Just tell me. Enough of the small talk, you’re going a mile a minute.”

I’m awake.

“Funeral’s Tuesday at three?” “Okay. I’ll be there.” “Talk to you then, Jay.”

I’m wide awake and it happened. Johnny Thunder is dead.

When I’m awake I can’t fly.
No..? Nothing? Fine. The Hell with you all. I'll have her turn Joker...

<Snipped quote by Morden Man>

0/10, on account of the app being anything other than Martha "Batman" Wayne. You rejected the voice of the people, so to hell with you!

Clik. Clik. Clik.

A curious noise startled the two crooks from their hideous deeds.

"What was that!?"

"Shuddup! We need dis money. Who would dare make a move on us in a city this bent? We let Flass dip his beak so we get to move the goods. Simple as that. Now MOVE."

Clik. Clik. Clik.

The first goon slipped and staggered on something as he carried his crate before he regained his balance and checked his feet for what nearly tripped him up.

He looked down and saw them... Loose pearls!

Raising his head back up, he caught a glimpse of gritted teeth behind a lipsticked grimace.

"IT'S THE BAT!!" he cried out, as the string of remaining pearls cut into his neck and he was dragged off his feet into the darkness.

His partner drew cold steel and fired hot lead blindly into the dark.

The freaks. This city used to be so simple. Grease the right palms and a man could make out a dishonest living if he were willing to get dirty enough. Now there were freakjobs and lunatics like the Bat poking their well made up faces and furry stolls into the mix.

But he emptied a full clip into the darkness. The deafening silence in response both simultaneously disquieting and promising that maybe he'd done enough to tag her, or at least take flight. That's what bats do isn't it? He tried to reassure himself. Surely that's what happened, right?

He backed up down the alley until he felt a solid bump from behind which startled him and knocked him to the ground.

The darkness given statuesque form on three-inch heels.

"What the Hell are you?!" He cried out.

A dark growl penetrated the night from the woman who was once Martha Wayne, the outraged response to a woman who had everything stolen from her - husband and son - by the worst this city had to offer.

"I'm Batman!"
If you go with Friday, I don't doubt some early birds will pump some posts out by then. People who weren't going to be ready until Saturday can still get there's done then anyway.
Byrd's Flash is broken link..?
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