My father was a relentlessly self-improving boulangerie owner from Belgium with low grade narcolepsy and a penchant for buggery. My mother was a fifteen year old French prostitute named Chloe with webbed feet.
My father would womanize, he would drink. He would make outrageous claims like he invented the question mark. Sometimes he would accuse chestnuts of being lazy. The sort of general malaise that only the genius possess and the insane lament.
My childhood was typical. Summers in Rangoon, luge lessons. In the spring we'd make meat helmets. When I was insolent I was placed in a burlap bag and beaten with reeds - pretty standard, really. At the age of twelve, I received my first scribe. At the age of fourteen a Zoroastrian named Vilma ritualistically shaved my testicles.
There really is nothing like a shorn scrotum... it's breathtaking. I highly suggest you try it.
Not a comic, but a superhero book I started recently was the novel Batman: Revolution by John Jackson Miller. It's set in the world of the Tim Burton films and introduces The Riddler to that world after introducing Clayface in the last book, Batman: Resurrection. These hit a specific nostalgia for me as a fan of that version and Miller 100% recreates the feeling and characterizations in a way that none of the tie-in novelizations or the Batman '89 comic even attempts. Definitely a great read as a sort of time capsule.
In terms of comics, I already gushed elsewhere about my big Fall readthrough of most of Ed Brubaker and Sean Phillips' Image work, in addition to Brubaker's Velvet with Steve Epting. Seriously, some of the best comics' work that has ever existed if you're even a passing fan of noir and crime fiction, whether you're into stories set in the 20's, the 70's, or contemporary. My personal recommendation is to just start Criminal: Volume 1 with the Coward arc and keep going.
But for superhero fare, I've been having a blast with Absolute Flash and Absolute Martian Manhunter. Both books take the most risk with their respective heroes' lore and use it to shape something that feels fresh and new. On the Marvel side, the current run of Ultimate Spider-Man fills a similar niche and is about to wrap up. Al Ewing's Immortal Thor and now Mortal Thor runs are also excellent and a great examination of The God of Thunder.
In a panic, Julian Day secured the handcuff attached to the case of three million dollars to his wrist as he was ushered back towards the shipyard's entrance. Down to a single armed guard, the only one who hadn't heard a violent struggle and gone running off to investigate rather than secure the package or its handler first, he had made the decision then and there to table the deal in light of the unfortunate intervention. His employer would be displeased with the fact that the Shark was now holding onto the item a bit longer, Day knew that for certain. But this outcome seemed far more preferable than attempting to have one guard haul the sizable crate into the back of an SUV while either the Falcones, the Maronis, the Chechen, or the GCPD emptied a sea of bullets into both his and White's forces. Preserving the money was the least he could do to ensure that the deal would resume another night - though at the moment, the more pressing question seemed to be whether Warren White could be trusted after this bungling. He had even noticed the putrid arms dealer running off by himself shortly after the chaos began, likely hiding in some frigid pocket of the docks that he'd found to evade capture by the police. The mental image of that impishly-faced halfwit burying himself in a freezer full of imported fish made Day's lips curl in revulsion, forgetting the immediate peril that he'd found himself in.
"You're driving."
Straddling in from behind the guard, Day removed a set of keys from his pocket and thrust them forward, awkwardly forcing them to be collected.
"As soon as we've left, our employer will be expecting a call from me."
The guard nodded, still keeping his weapon up.
"Just stay close. Radio contact went dark, so we still don't know what's going on back there."
Julian's eyes darted back, nervous. "I don't think I want to know."
Was it peril, though? As the struggle on the other side of the docks raged on, with shouting and thumping being vaguely heard from Day's position, he started to wonder why he hadn't picked up on the noise of any gunfire. If this were one of the other mob families out to retaliate for trading under the table, he doubted that the conflict would sound so contained. The Italians often brandished the finest firearms, relishing in the chance to use them. The Roman had taught them to take no prisoners in these matters, as Day was well aware from working under that outfit. And the Russians or the Triad weren't going to bother sneaking about when they could engage in open barbarism. Which only left the GCPD, who had always been the least subtle in their approach. They would announce themselves over bullhorns and sweep in under the roar of helicopter rotors on the occasions that they even bothered to put on the act of public servants. So if it wasn't any of them, the Calendar Man began to consider the only alternative that remained.
A couple of years ago, a would-be vigilante had started making trouble for the Falcones. A few weeks after these disturbances became noticeable, Day would be one of the first to witness him in action: sporting an all-black ensemble with his face hidden by a balaclava, the vigilante surprised them while preparing a shipment of narcotics bound for Blüdhaven. Even at so primordial a stage in what would become a career in self-righteousness, he had seen him single-handedly fight off a crew of highly trained foot soldiers with finesse. The assailant had thankfully never noticed Calendar Man before he took off after a driver who tried to escape with evidence linking The Roman to the shipment. The incident had stuck with Day until a few months later, when whispers began to circulate about a member of The Royal Flush Gang. The drunken idiot had apparently claimed at a local dive that they had just murdered the vigilante on the orders of their psychotic leader, The Red Hood. As he sobered up into the early morning hours, a group of bar patrons was given a chilling account of an ambush, the merciless beating that followed, and an eventual execution. When pressed for proof, it was claimed that the body had been dumped in Gotham Harbor after the extent of the injuries had left the face unrecognizable. It seemed simple enough to be true, Day thought at the time. Another story of some fool attempting to take the law into their own hands. Somehow, Gotham had always known how to make an example of them.
But that hadn't been the vigilante's end. Almost as soon as Julian rationalized that death for one so capable seemed a bit too simple, his theory began to materialize. Because not long after that band of lunatics claimed to have eliminated him, reports had started coming in of someone looking to continue right where the masked man had left off. Someone who was even more skilled, whose methods were far more unconventional. Described to appear like a ghost in the night to dispatch his enemies with precision, looking as if he were some demon that the city had conjured up. Day actually laughed off the initial sightings, chalking them up to underworld rumor. After all, the sources were killers, thieves, and the other lowest of the low, so their narrative seemed questionable. But after a few weeks, the sightings didn't seem to stop, and the ferocity of the attacks had actually escalated. Even Carmine Falcone admitted that he'd encountered the madman on the night of his emergence, whispering some trite about having eaten Gotham's wealth and spirit in the mobster's ear. A definite connection between that original man in black and this new, evolved wraith that now stalked the city's criminal element had never been proven, but The Calendar Man had quietly maintained that The Red Hood hadn't succeeded. That he'd pushed the vigilante to up his game, as it were, and start presenting himself in a more fearsome light. That the psychopath's carelessness had actually given birth to something worse.
"It's unlocked, sir. I'll cover you."
Day began to stray from his train of thought as his accompanying guard frantically pried open the driver-side door, his weapon trained in the direction of the distant brawl. Truthfully, whether this was the handiwork of the so-called Batman or some other third party hardly seemed relevant at the moment. All that mattered was getting himself secured and putting as much distance between him and the shipyard as possible, with the additional prayer that his new employer wouldn't have him shot for failing to secure the payload. Moving to grab the handle on the rear door, Day struggled to lift his arm and paused, having briefly forgotten the heft of the steel case that had been cuffed to him. His frustration building, he then realized that the key to the cuff was still with the thug that had been originally attached to it, having been instructed to trade the case off after the deal went haywire. That man was nowhere to be seen, meaning Day was likely stuck like this until they could find a hacksaw. Clenching his fists, he wondered if the evening's indignities would ever cease.
"Huh. You hear something?"
"What? What is it now?!"
The night itself seemed to answer him. In unison, Day and the guard snapped their heads towards the docks as they began to hear a faint laughter echo across the area. Seemingly feminine and maliciously mocking in tone, growing louder as it seemed to emerge from every direction. If Calendar Man hadn't been afraid of anything happening before, this new development certainly put him closer to the edge. Involuntarily, he backed against the side of the vehicle, watching the guard set his weapon's sights towards the air and shifting from left to right in a vain attempt to pinpoint the laughter's origin.
"Sounds like someone's..."
CRACK!
Without warning, the guard found his head constrained within the crushing hold of a thick leather bullwhip. Panicking, he immediately lost his composure and screamed, firing half a clip of ammunition into the air. The whip's coil so heavily compressed his eyes that he was unable to notice an approaching figure darting out from the shadows and perform a somersault above him. Unable to comprehend what was happening, Day barely caught a glimpse of the gracefully moving shadow landing behind the guard, jamming a hard knee into his spine and jerking his neck backwards. Too afraid to try and intervene on the guard's behalf, Day's already pale complexion shifted a shade whiter as he quietly wondered if he was to be next.
Throwing his weight to the left in a bid to swing the brunt of his rifle into his attacker, the guard didn't realize that the swiftly-moving figure was already a step ahead. Throwing in a sweep kick to knock him off his balance, his attacker then vaulted into a sideways cartwheel and sprung into an upside-down kick that landed violently across the guard's still-enshrined face. He dropped his weapon just in time for Day to watch him be pummeled with a series of quick attacks, followed by some swipes that revealed jagged cuts across his face with every slash, painfully bringing him to his knees and then to the ground, before a brutal stomp to the head finally rendered him entirely limp.
"Who..."
"I wouldn't worry about your boy, Julian. He'll sleep it off."
Still catatonic, Day remained focused on the whip as it unspooled from the unconscious guard's freshly mangled visage, sliding loosely across the pavement. Then his gaze trailed up to its wielder, the mysterious assailant who he just learned knew his name. A masked woman in a leather jacket stood over the fallen guard, her back turned to Day as his mind finally considered a retreat. A consideration that came far too late, with the woman spinning into a charge and leaping into the air, her wild eyes briefly locked with the horrified Calendar Man's. Before their attention shifted to the case of three million dollars that tantalizingly dangled from his arm.
"Shame about the deal going south, though."
"Up for a renegotiation?"
"Was I supposed to feel that?"
Batman's leg slid back across the partially frozen docks, feeling his knee begin to throb with pain. Amused at his opponent's failure to drop him with a Muay Thai kick to the chest, Killer Croc patted the steel tire iron against his open palm as he casually stepped forward, making sure to flash a grin wide enough to display his sharpened, nicotine-yellowed teeth. While remaining unintimidated, even resuming a stance, Batman quietly admitted that what just happened had definitely thrown him off his guard. Despite the minor trauma to his head from the iron's blow, his opening attack hadn't been made in desperation. In the interest of predicting the coming fight, he had noticed Jones's leering gaze towards a cigarette during the attempted exchange. Making the mental note then and there to strike at the lungs to gain an early advantage, he assumed that since the move had worked before on scum that had dwarfed him in size, Croc would react to it with considerably more than a chuckle. But if anything, it caused the brute to charge with more energy than before. Lifting the iron above his head, Croc's gaze read as someone who wanted to toy with his prey before delivering the kill. Reaching back into a hidden compartment on his belt, Batman was determined not to give him the satisfaction.
"Feel this."
Whipping his cape aside, Batman arched his arm to the left and swung downwards, slamming a handful of miniature smoke pellets onto the planks below. By the time Croc brought his own weapon down, he could only watch as he became enveloped by the growing cloud of a darkened chemical irritant, causing him to blindly decimate a crate that stood where his enemy once was. Yet despite the smoke threatening to choke him, Croc remained largely unaffected. Another sign to the now hidden Batman that the failed kick hadn't been a fluke. Stepping through the cloud, wiping away a few tears brought on by the agent, Croc's eyes darted up towards the top of the stack of shipping containers that surrounded him, expecting some sneak attack from above. What he got instead was a violent punch across the side of his face, delivered just after Batman tore through the cloud with a rolling lunge. Following it up with another from the opposite direction, a third from directly ahead, and then an even quicker haymaker that collided with the top of Croc's skull, Batman didn't allow himself to breathe for fear of inhaling the smoke and losing his momentum.
That ended up being a mistake. Growing annoyed by the succession of meager blows, Killer Croc tossed the tire iron aside, opting instead to break through Batman's escalating close-quarters attacks by shooting his arm forward and brutally snapping his hand around his opponent's neck. With a squeeze powerful enough to crush another man's larynx, Batman felt his throat suddenly tighten as the armor plating in the cowl slowly began to warp, pressing against his windpipe. Even as he struggled to breathe, Batman's mind raced towards an inevitable conclusion that Croc's strength and endurance seemed to confirm. The grip was immense, even for a hardened ex-con. And despite a weapons-grade riot dispersal and at least four concentrated attacks to the head and face, Croc's resolve hadn't been the least bit tested.
"A couple of swipes and some smoke? How are there fools in this town who're scared of you?"
Croc savored every moment of Batman's attempts to break free, barely noticing a couple of nerve strikes as they smacked against his forearm. Feeling empowered, his hold on the vigilante's throat tightened even more.
"I was never one of 'em. And it looks like I had you figured right. You ain't shit."
He was a mutant. While Bruce Wayne had traded blows with hundreds of opponents spanning the entire globe, and The Batman had spent the last three years dispatching criminals across the city, he'd never encountered one in combat. Truth be told, he never even saw the need to prepare for it. With the city under the control of the mob and a heavily corrupt GCPD, most mutants and metahumans saw Gotham as a last resort for refuge. Under the former Commissioner Loeb and the current Mayoral administration, racial profiling was already on high as it was. Individuals with abilities just didn't see the need to rock the boat, especially with organizations like Frost Industries doing the work to ensure they were relocated if outed to their communities. As Batman watched his vision blur, he realized that his mission had been too focused on the common scum that polluted the streets. If a leviathan like Croc could manage to take him by surprise, there had to be others that were still lurking in Gotham. Hidden in the cracks, disenfranchised enough to want to climb the ranks of the underworld and put their talents to use.
But he'd have to live long enough to consider that for another night. Feeling more outmatched by the second, the choking Batman reached into his belt and slid a batarang into his hand, beginning to feel the struggle to remain conscious. If a direct assault wasn't going to earn him anything against Croc, he'd have to start fighting dirty. Violently stabbing the razor's edge of the batarang as deeply into Croc's hand as possible, he assumed that qualified. Once embedded, he yanked it backwards, watching a jolt of pain twist Jones' arrogant expression into a surprised grimace. The grip immediately loosened, allowing Batman room to breathe and giving him the chance to bend both legs upwards, pinning them against Croc's sternum. With a savage thrust, Batman smashed the heel of his boot into his enemy's jaw, sending Croc stumbling backwards while launching himself into a backflip, gracefully landing atop some nearby machinery. Feeling at the damaged plating as he gasped for more air, the vigilante turned towards Croc and watched him rip the projectile out of his hand, a crimson stream dripping down his fingers. Momentarily examining the bloodied bat-shaped shuriken, Croc angrily glared back at Batman, staring him dead in the eyes while applying enough pressure to crush the metal into an unrecognizable husk. By the time it hit the ground, Croc had managed to produce the discarded tire iron once more.
"Message received. I'mma make this slow."
Retrieving the grapnel gun hidden underneath his gauntlet, Batman's attention shifted upwards. Firing off a line, he rapidly ascended into the air above Croc, angering the latter by this perceived move of cowardice. Ratcheting his arm back, Croc tossed the tire iron into the air, only narrowly missing Batman as he reached his destination: a suspended crate hanging from the crane above. Unable to see his opponent's next move, Croc snarled loudly and paused, managing to hear an unexpected sound: the ignition of a miniature blowtorch, followed quickly by the snap of a cable. Initially confused, it didn't take long for Croc's eyes to widen with realization. The other side of the cable buckled and the crate dropped out of suspension immediately, hurtling toward Croc with the speed of a homing missile. The killer only managed to let out a quiet gasp as the wooden box smashed ontop of him and splintered into pieces, with broken planks colliding against their immediate surroundings.
Covered in sawdust, Croc now found himself slowly crawling along the snow-drenched docks, his head spinning with every labored movement, thoughts blanketed in a daze. But one thought managed to ring louder than the rest. Ever since he'd arrived in Gotham, there had been rumors floating among the underworld that for all of his intimidation tactics, The Batman refused to leave any bodies. Even when given the chance to end his enemies permanently, it seemed as if the vigilante had gone out of his way to avoid a kill. Given the severity of what had just happened, letting that crate drop without the certainty that it wouldn't crush the man below it, Croc wondered if rumor was all that had ever been. Grabbing onto a nearby railing, Croc weakly pulled himself up and hunched over it.
Looking around, he noticed that his enemy hadn't made a sound, much less another appearance. He was in too disoriented to laugh, but he wanted to. Maybe the big bad Bat had realized what he'd nearly done, becoming so overwhelmed that he'd fled. Or maybe he'd really been a killer after all, assuming that the job was finished by the time the crate had hit him. To be honest, Croc didn't really care. In the nearly thirty years of his cruel existence, nobody had ever brought Waylon to this point before. Guessing that he was likely suffering a concussion, he didn't even know whether he should seek medical attention. It had never been nessescary before, given that his mutation made it so he'd withstood most injuries.
For the insult of putting him through that uncertainty alone, Killer Croc promised himself that he'd personally hunt the Batman down, skin him alive, and consume his still-beating heart. With the thought of the savagery to come pushing him into a second wind, Croc stumbled ahead to try and regain his composure - only to start to hear a noise coming from above him. Irritated, Croc's neck slowly craned towards the night's sky, becoming confused as the noise grew louder. Like the sound of a flag that furiously unfurled against a torrential wind, or even the wings of a...
The thought crossed Croc's mind a millisecond too late. Spinning around to get a better view of the open space behind him, the criminal beheld a truly horrifying display as Batman descended upon him with an all-encompassing wingspan to complement a look of righteous fury. Trying desperately to will himself move out of the way, Croc was forced to endure the brunt of his enemy's attack, his chest colliding with the reinforced heels of Batman's boots driven at a blinding speed. Feeling the impact more acutely due to his weakened state, Croc flew back and tripped over another railing, the upper half of his body careening into an adjacent ramp and shattering it. Without warning, Batman landed ontop of him, jabbing a hard elbow into Croc's throat. Attempting to stifle a pained wheeze with an even louder growl, Croc swiped upward at the vigilante and tried grabbing at him, but found himself unable to react quickly enough. Batman leaped backward and spread his cape, allowing the wind to pick up and lift him into a short glide, putting a few feet of distance between him and Croc.
By the time Batman landed, his opponent felt a slight tugging at his ankle. In the midst of his follow-up attack, the vigilante had managed to sneak in an extra move by wrapping Croc's leg within a thick cable. Assuming it was one of the many toys that seemed to fall out of that ridiculous belt at every turn, Waylon didn't allow himself to fear whatever came next, ignoring it in his feeble attempts to regain his standing. It was only when Batman spun around and tossed another batarang into the sky that Croc paused, watching it sail through the snowy air and slice into a much higher control panel, hitting a switch that caused the overhead crane to hum with life. Looking down at the cable attached to him, Croc's eyes went wide. He had attached him to the crane itself.
"You fuckin' coward, let me outta this! Let me out, you hear?! Fight me like a man!"
Batman stared back, void of emotion as Croc's entire world shifted.
"Tempting. But I had something else in mind."
As the blood began rushing to his head, and Croc felt his body be forcibly lifted from the docks, he watched Batman break his stoicism to do something unexpected: reveal the abandoned tire iron from beneath his cloak. Launching into a fevered sprint, Batman brought his arm back and lunged forward, bringing the iron down upon him with a heavy swing. Just before he abruptly lost consciousness, Waylon began to realize something about this fairly brutal encounter.
Fewer words inspired the dread of everyone who heard them, and fewer still invoked memories of an invasive chill that stabbed at the soul. The city didn't just get frigid and bitter in the latter half of the year, as with any given corner of the world. Gotham somehow incubated the cold and stored a reserve of it in the air, continually building on it as the weeks passed. So whenever it was unleashed every December, the streets became nearly uninhabitable. The number of homeless who ended up dead from exposure always exceeded the national average, power lines routinely exploded and blanketed areas like The Narrows in darkness, and stubbornly, crime levels only seemed to rise. The figure cloaked in shadow remembers his father once remarking that describing the weather as subzero temperatures felt like a disservice, watching his wife try and bundle their boy up to the latter's satisfaction. The memory of that lived with him ever since, reawakening in his mind whenever the first autumn breeze scraped at his skin. That was how he knew to begin preparing for the months ahead, because the drop in temperature merely acted as a harbinger for the chaos that was always lingering. Waiting to greet him with unforgiving arms, taunting his resolve and telling him that he was in way over his head.
But Bruce Wayne had been to Siberia. Walked across a literal desert of ice with nothing more than the clothes on his back, the life-threatening winds all that there was to keep him company. As he was told by the locals who witnessed his perilous return from the mountains, Wayne should have died then. Should have frozen to death on the river bordering Verkhoyansk, as many others had before in pursuit of a fool's version of enlightenment. But he had the audacity to keep living. He doesn't attribute it to luck, nor would he make light of it - it's the way it happened. He just kept going, knowing that he was closing in on the end of a very long journey, nearly ready to embark on the start of his life's mission. That was six years ago, and he still remembers it like it was yesterday. So whenever the city's wind chill reaches twenty below, he remembers to simply keep moving ahead. As if to ask Gotham if that's all she's got.
Tonight was no different, but his focus was elsewhere. The East End Shipyard bustled with unexpected activity as three SUVs pulled into the lot, prompting the guard to immediately let them through the gate. He would say he was paid off, but The Batman knew the reality. The guard was threatened, with the likely promise of violence to befall him or his family. That was how these organized meetings usually managed to evade unwanted attention - stacking the deck in their favor ahead of time, mercilessly cutting away any variables. His eyes narrowed as the first SUV parked infront of a tower of crates labelled with the Falcone Shipping logo. The Roman was not likely to make an appearance tonight, nor were any of his representatives. If any of them knew about this, there would've been guaranteed bloodshed. Which meant the nature of the deal about to transpire was high stakes.
The first to emerge from behind the passenger door was a man that he had encountered before, as confirmed when the night-vision scope in the cowl brought the face into focus. Through Gordon and the DA's office, he had been made aware that this was a primary suspect in several open cases, remaining protected until only very recently. Julian G. Day, known colloquially as "The Calendar Man". He was trouble and often brought trouble with him, though the man himself was hardly formidable. Acting as the liaison between the Falcone and Maroni families for years, Day's given trade was knowledge; dangerous knowledge. The way he earned the trust of both bosses was by being analytical in his record-keeping, memorizing every major deal that had taken place in Gotham over the last six decades. Information such as financials, acquired assets, and active members on the payroll in any given year lived in his mind, as if he coveted the day and date of a mob calendar like no one ever had. It made him a benefit to men like Nathan Gambol and Rupert Thorne, as Day was able to provide information that would give them leverage over the other underbosses. But following a betrayal that nobody seemed willing to discuss, his luck would eventually run out whenever Falcone's grip on the underworld began to slip. The Calendar Man had been keeping a low profile ever since.
To see him here tonight suggested a shift in allegiances. But even from The Batman's vantage point, Day's expression remained inscrutable; hardly a surprise, as he was well known for his sociopathic demeanor, preferring ledgers to people. Day would sooner push a disgraced member of the family through the front entrance of Gotham Central than entertain giving up a sliver of data from his archives. As others began to file out of the SUVs and surround him in formation, what really grabbed Batman's attention was who ended up exiting last. Once they emerged, the vigilante was reasonably sure that the vehicle tilted from the sheer weight of its occupant. Waylon Jones - "Killer Croc" Jones. Highly dangerous, known as one of the most formidable figures in the underworld. Standing at six-foot-nine, with over three hundred pounds of muscle, it was an understatement. A born criminal, Jones had been in and out of juvenile detention no less than seventeen times before he began working for the mob. Some for robbery and B&E, but all with additional assault charges. He had seen the crime scene photos of some of Jones' victims. It was never pretty.
And that was before Croc met Salvatore Maroni. Forming an alliance in Blackgate almost a decade ago, Sal had convinced the beast to act as his bodyguard. As soon as his notoriety grew within that role, Jones would force a prison tattoo artist to commit his entire body to ink to cover a skin deformity. This resulted in Jones appearing as if he were covered in crocodile scales. And in the years since, he had only leaned harder into the gimmick: filing his teeth to points, growing out and sharpening his fingernails, and rarely allowing himself to be seen without a leather jacket. But what really disturbed Batman about a man like Jones was the work that he became known for after prison. Often called upon to make someone disappear, Killer Croc made sure they didn't just vanish. Weeks went by without a word and missing persons cases would wind up cold until finally, the GCPD discovered parts of the victim floating in the Sprang River - partially devoured. It sickened him to even watch Jones lumber behind the group that followed Day onto the docks, imagining the final moments of the people that the alleged cannibal had murdered.
Croc was the reason he was here. Not just because Batman felt the need to make him pay for the crimes he'd committed - for those, the vigilante figured he'd just have to accept the consolation prize of giving Croc enough of a beating in the extraction of what he needed. But the monster had information on someone who had gone dark, for all intents and purposes. And he was certain that Jones was going to tell him, given that the severity of the interrogation would depend entirely on how soon. The thought lingered with the man in shadow as he watched Day, Jones, and their entourage approach a waiting figure that was similarly flanked by several armed guards. In Gotham, there were far too many options available for smuggling weapons. Though not nearly as bad as the narcotics trade, it was prevalent enough for one man to rise above the other dealers and remain unaffiliated with the major crime families.
Warren White, The Great White Shark. A nasty piece of work, White had been moving arms through the city like they were chess pieces. Discretion was his specialty, and he'd developed several methods for getting them onto the streets without notice. The GCPD had brought him in for questioning before, but they never found enough to make anything stick. And not for lack of trying on The Batman's part, as he'd broken countless of the Shark's bones. But like any other cockroach, White found his way back out there eventually. Offering the same wares with the same reliability, and no questions asked.
Before they greeted White to begin the exchange, The Batman could hear Croc complaining about an issue he was having with his new employers, fidgeting with the collar of a dress shirt that had been poorly sized to fit. It begged the question of whether Maroni had ever been paying him enough.
"Hate wearin' suits, man. Thought I made that clear to the boss."
Day's expression didn't change so much as shift. Even in this level of cold, he was by far the most frigid thing here.
"Yes, well, you've certainly made it clear to us many times already."
Croc's indignance appeared like a thunderclap, cutting through several of the men ahead of him to approach Calendar Man directly. The others remained quietly uncomfortable, preferring to stay out of whatever was about to happen. "The fuck'd you just say?"
Day didn't turn to face him and instead massaged the bridge of his nose, frustrated. Not even trying to hide his disdain for working with what he considered to be an uncivilized brute.
"I intend no offense. But as it has been explained, our employer wishes to exude an air of professionalism as his empire expands. Gotham is used to a certain kind of decorum at this high a level, even among these less than desirable surroundings. You're part of a different league now, Mr. Jones. And with that comes expectation."
Rather than resort to violence, Croc snorted loudly and kept his eyes focused on the significantly smaller man ahead of him. Like any predator that had caught a glimpse of their evening meal.
"Yeah? Well, expect me to give a shit when I get the payday I was promised. Otherwise, this'll be the last time it'll happen."
The former ignored the latter's tone, retrieving the pocket watch hidden in his lapel and noting the hour. The idea of running late for their appointment seemed to bother Day far more than anything the beast could do to threaten him.
"I will try and keep your delicate preferences in mind."
A low growl aside, Croc was surprisingly cordial from there. But The Batman's mind kept circling back to what Day mentioned about "decorum" and the fact that they were operating on a higher level. What did that mean? Were they working for a new player in town? It had been rumored that someone was moving in on Falcone's territory, but he never actually entertained the notion. The Roman had been running Gotham since the eighties, having worked his way up through a dynasty of cut-from-the-cloth mobsters. Falcone's grandfather had instigated the Romans' Holiday massacre of the thirties, where hundreds of people were said to have been executed in one night in retaliation for one-time kingpin Rex Calabrese refusing to relinquish the city's territory. That night was said to be the one that doomed Gotham to its current state, and Batman had found nothing to contradict that. So the idea of someone finally unseating the so-called king from his throne felt unlikely.
Then The Batman noticed the armbands of Calendar Man's crew. It looked to be a sort of triangle symbol. An odd affectation, suggesting some unifying element that the vigilante had yet to become privy to. It told him that there was something bigger at work with whoever was holding their proverbial leash. If there was one similarity Batman had to any of the garbage that sought to control the city's crime, it was that he also didn't like variables. The vigilante realized that he'd have to investigate their employer when this was done - Gordon was likely going to want to know if his department was going up against a new faction, and he needed to be sure they were both ready for whatever happened next. If a play was being made against The Roman, it would lead to another gang war. The very last thing that Gotham needed.
"So we doin' this, or what? I didn't come out here to freeze my friggin' balls off."
An extremely agitated White kept both arms folded tight against his sternum, trying to feed warmth into the weathered jacket that poorly shielded him from the draft hovering over the river. The shipyard was less than an ideal meeting spot in the best of conditions, but it was the only one guaranteed to be free of prying eyes. On approach, Calendar Man calmly looked towards the men White had hired who were brandishing semi-automatics. Croc didn't seem the least bit phased by them, more preoccupied with getting it done and getting the hell out of the cold himself. Only when one of the men folded his hands over a newly lit cigarette did the beast even flinch, evidently craving one himself. The Batman took note, wondering what else about Jones he could exploit.
"Very well. As you'll note from the arrangement, the price was three million. I'm to assume you still have the item?"
White sarcastically shrugged.
"Nah, I sold it weeks ago. Just marched the boys out here for the hell of it."
Day raised an eyebrow, prompting White to elaborate.
"Of course I still have it. You kiddin' me? Who else in this town's got this kinda cash to spend on used wares?"
Jones clenched a fist, but Day remained stagnant in his tone.
"Handled, perhaps. But I doubt it was truly used, given what I've been told of its capabilities."
"Hey, I only acquired the thing from a third party. If they figured out how to turn it on, more power to 'em. Doesn't really concern me."
The Batman's curiosity was piqued as a couple of gunmen behind White rolled in a large crate on a rusted dolly. There were no labels indicating what was inside, nor did the context clue provide insight as to what Day's employer could want with it, but the fact that the mystery item wasn't being treated as another cache of the exotic rifles and pistols that White specialized in dealing made the vigilante wonder if there was more to this deal than he'd originally assumed. Whenever the crate was lowered onto the docks in a space between the two men, Day prompted one of his own guards to step forward, revealing a massive titanium briefcase that was handcuffed to the thug's wrist. Lifting it and clicking the locks open with a swift motion of his arms, the guard popped the top of the case to reveal a neatly stacked row of thousand-dollar bills. White advanced, cautiously studying the cash for any potential forgery. He found none.
"Jesus, you didn't come to play."
"Of course not, Mr. White. We came to deal..."
Day placed his hand on the case and gently lowered the top of it, staring daggers into the Shark's hungry eyes.
"Provided that what you're offering is the real thing. The Red Triangle may be a new player on the field, but we're not to be made as fools. Not at this juncture."
The Red Triangle?
He made a mental note of the name. It had a Russian connotation, but he also seemed to remember it from something in the recent past. A news article or something similar that had alluded to it. Unable to pinpoint the memory for sure, Batman unfurled himself from a crouched position - upside down, latched to the arm of a crane that was suspended high above the group of criminals looking to do business. From there, he could see that despite a clear frustration with being cut off from handling such a large amount of money, White had relented any argument and was stepping back, motioning for his men to open the crate. Two of them emerged with crowbars and began to slide it under the wooden lid.
Before they could continue, Day's expression suddenly and dramatically changed, taking a step forward himself and raising both hands in a bid to stop them from breaking the seal. White recognized this and gave a loud whistle, prompting the men to pause what they were doing and look up. The Batman's eyes narrowed while watching Day begin to look over his shoulder, surveying his surroundings with a new sense of paranoia.
"No, not here. Doing that in the open would be unwise. There are too many interested parties."
The Shark shot him an annoyed glare.
"Buddy, there ain't no one else out here. Even if it weren't fifty freakin' below, the cops would never come by the docks at this time of night. Probably too busy hasslin' the call girls on Mazzucchelli street."
"Let's just say that the police are not my employer's immediate concern."
White's expression softened, seeming to realize what Day really meant. The Calendar Man casually gestured to his men, who were all waiting to enact whatever order was about to be given.
"Perhaps as a bit of insurance, your men would agree to search the area with mine? Surely, we're not the only ones at risk here."
White's brow furrowed.
"No dice, chief. My men are stayin' right here. Yours can knock themselves out if they want, but I'm not leavin' myself exposed to anything more than a case of hypothermia."
Although hesitant, Day didn't try and argue with White's position. He knew that he didn't have the leverage. So The Calendar Man snapped his fingers, directing the gunmen in league with The Red Triangle to fan out and begin checking the shadowy corners created by the high stacks of crates around them. Croc remained with Day, effectively revealing that the beast's task had been to guard him specifically. The Batman watched each thug begin to split off into groups of two, memorizing their positions in relation to one another. Knowing how much simpler it would be to pick them off now, he decided to seize the opportunity.
Spreading his cape against the wind like the wings it was modelled after, the vigilante used one boot to kick against the back of his other boot's heel, deactivating the magnetized pulse emitting from beneath and sending him into a quick drop. The memory cloth of the cloak fell rigid against the open breeze above the docks, and he silently dove into a glide that went unnoticed. Passing directly over the area that the Shark, Croc, and Calendar Man still inhabited, Batman was gently carried by his glider onto the top of one of the higher crates, prompting it to fall back into a cape upon landing before the vigilante sprinted through a gristled pane of snow that softened his steps.
Leaping into a particular darkened area, Batman landed and assumed a stilled position, readying himself for the attack as the first two approached. After waiting a moment, he quietly leapt out of the shadows and grabbed the one closest from behind, covering his mouth before he could yell out and scraping the side of his neck with one of his gauntlet fins. The tip of it was covered in a potent chemical compound, rendering the hapless gunman unable to move, much less speak for the next few minutes. Dragging him into the darkness, The Batman re-emerged from his natural element and slammed his armored knee hard into the back of the next one's skull, forcing him to stumble forward and slam against one of the crates. Signs of a concussion were instant, and the thug fell backwards before being swiftly caught by his unseen attacker.
Placing the second gunman next to his fallen partner and positioning them out of sight, the microphone in The Batman's cowl picked up further idle chatter from the primary group. Listening in for anything that could give him a clear opening, he awaited the next pair to approach in search of their colleagues, retrieving a number of items from within his utility belt. But to the vigilante's surprise, instead of two more rounding the next corner, a lone gunman emerged, having apparently split off from his partner to investigate the noise created by the crate being hit.
Doesn't matter, he thought. Just makes it easier.
But as he took a quiet step ahead, he would come to regret that thought. Just as he was seconds away from grabbing the clueless thug, something entirely unexpected happened. The thug swung around with his gun raised, spotting The Batman mid-movement. The vigilante's eyes went wide under the cowl, noticing that a distinctive shadow had been cast upon both of them from above, alerting the thug to his presence. Craning his head to the side, he managed to spot the fleeting glimpse of a figure that had appeared on the crates as it dove away. It appeared slender, and potentially feminine - with what seemed to be the shape of cat ears atop its head.
The Batman grit his teeth as he realized what was happening, but not before turning his attention back to the spooked gunman, who had originally been too petrified to fire. But he was beginning to sober up from any sense of panic, as his blank expression turned to outrage, aiming the weapon directly at The Batman's chest.
"CONTACT! WE'VE GOT MOVEMENT ON THE WEST SI---"
In a dark flurry of movement, Batman dove forward and violently snatched the thug's weapon from its owner's grasp, smashing the side of his head with the brunt of the assault rifle. His opponent dazed, the vigilante went to work by shifting his leg beneath the gunman's as he fell back, causing him to trip and collide with snow-covered planks that made up the shipyard's platform. Weakened and hurt, but still conscious, the gunman attempted to get back up and defend himself - only to watch the sole of The Batman's boot collide hard into his face, followed up by a whirlwind series of precision strikes. Holding the gunman by the front of his bulletproof vest, the vigilante became satisfied as he fell limp, dropping him and moving into a standing position.
Stealth was no longer an option. Despite a rage simmering inside of him towards the ill-timed interruption, Batman could hear the sound of movement and shouting in the immediate area. There wasn't time to dwell on what had happened, even who had likely caused it to happen. The Red Triangle and The Great White Shark's men were coming in fast, and the only way to adapt to his newfound peril was to improvise. Removing a few smoke caplets from his belt, some flash grenades, and a couple of batarangs, Batman refocused his energies and breathed quietly, slipping back into the dark.
"Think it came from this way!"
"Echo-Three, was that you?! Say something, man!"
"Stay focused! We don't know who's out there!"
"What the hell's going on?! Was that one of you?!"
"We're down three of our guys! Someone's fucking with us!"
The Batman's hand tensed on the batarangs, closing his palm over the grenades and caplets. He could barely hear his own breathing over the sound of oncoming footsteps. But once he started to see their shadows cast over the corners leading into the area, he knew his time was up. Without a word, Batman shot out and dashed across the area between the crates and leaped high, throwing the caplets to his left and divvying the flash grenades to his right. Smoke billowed out from around the thugs as they emerged, irritating their lungs and causing them to start firing wildly - though none seemed to have spotted their tormentor before it engulfed their line of sight. The flash grenades exploded with a luminescence that seemed to blanket the skies, compounding their inability to comprehend what they'd walked into.
"What the shit was..."
There were nine armed guards. Equipping the batarangs, The Batman spread his cape outward and quickly descended from a position above, having caught himself in a split jump as the chaos had erupted. Slamming a high kick into the first one's chest, the vigilante hurled his self-styled shuriken into the second one's hand, causing him to yell out in pain and drop his rifle. The others struggled to break free from the cloud of smoke, which Batman had avoided with a set of plugs built into the nose of the cowl. There was one that tried to bark orders over the others in an incoherent attempt to make sense of what was happening, but a black gloved fist torpedoed out of the smoke to smash him between the eyes. The Batman's horned silhouette advanced over the smoke, casting a fearsome image that caused a few to scream.
"WHAT THE HELL IS THAT?!"
"WHO CARES?! LIGHT IT UP!"
The effects of his distraction were wearing off quickly, and the remaining seven guards were gathering their wits. Diving forward, The Batman rolled through the smoke, somersaulted between them, and entered close-quarters combat. Catching the first with a hard elbow, the vigilante twisted, driving his knee into the next one's stomach. A roundhouse kick nailed the third one across his jaw, while the man to his right suffered a broken nose upon Batman driving his face hard into his steel-plate-covered shin. The first recovered and attempted to fire his gun, but he was too slow to avoid the scallops of Batman's cape as they whipped out and struck him across the face, anchored by a kevlar mesh that landed into him like hardened stone.
Wrapping the second's neck within his arm, the vigilante utilized momentum to drive the third into the fourth with a grab-and-roll maneuver. The other three rushed him at once, prompting The Batman to release his chokehold on the second and spin him around, violently pushing him forward with a precision kick to the throat. He went flying into one and threw the momentum off of the other, but the third approached unaffected. Visually targeting his next move, Batman tossed the remaining batarangs that had been hidden in his palm at the thug as he wildly swung a punch, instead feeling the metal projectiles embed themselves deep into both arms, both legs, and his left cheek. Unable to properly react to the pain, he paused in befuddled silence, allowing Batman to connect a spinning kick that crashed hard across his face.
Following a few more maneuvers, some bones crunching against eachother, and more than a couple muffled cries of pain, The Batman finally emerged from the dissipating smoke as the victor, with all nine guards having been rendered into a pile of bloodied and broken debris lying at his feet. Turning towards the path that would lead him back to where White, Day, and Jones once stood, Batman prepared to retrieve his grapnel gun and fire it towards the top of the crates. Calendar Man and Croc had likely heard all of that commotion and ran, and he seemed to remember hearing the sound of the door to one of the SUVs slamming shut amid the violence. But as he reached back into his belt, he was struck hard from behind, feeling something hit the back of his head. Stumbling forward, the vigilante fell onto one knee and watched a sudden bevy of lights and spots obscure the clarity of his vision.
"Heh. You're a little late, freak. Halloween was weeks ago."
The Batman recognized the voice. Killer Croc, the man he'd come here for in the first place. Whenever he turned to face the behemoth, he noticed that Croc was brandishing a large tire iron that seemed like a toothpick in comparison to the size of his massive hands. The cannibal grinned at him, more amused with this seemingly ridiculous sight than anything.
"Waylon Jones..."
"Oh, you heard about me? Damn, I'm kinda touched."
Croc took a step forward that seemed to shudder the ground beneath him.
"Heard about you, too. They said you were a bad motherfucker."
Lifting the tire iron above his head, The Batman tensed his entire body as he prepared to face off against Croc. He told himself that the criminal had merely gotten in a lucky shot with the hunk of metal, that it had only momentarily thrown him off. What he didn't realize was that Croc had hardly swung it. Raising his fists, Batman spat out a wad of blood pooling into his mouth and assumed a fighting stance. Croc's grin grew even wider.
Your opener for Sif has definitely glued me to her narrative as she finds herself a stranger in a strange land. The opening bit itself is particularly well written and your prose actually seems to leap out when in the first-person narrative, which is impressive as someone who's enjoyed quite a few of your past runs. And as you went into her recent fleeting memories of Asgard itself, I suddenly found myself able to envision the version from the MCU vividly as Sif/Diana melded with it as if she were always there, always part of it. What this will mean for her integration into Midgard and Earth is anyone's guess, but I really like the implication so far that she could be as seamless a fit here as there. Looking forward to more.
As everyone knows if they read my app, I'm a big fan of this Superman you've crafted as started in the last game. With this iteration and its two posts written by you so far, you've effectively translated what was a well-crafted first draft into an experimental second with a hint of some new twists and a more rounded, seasoned portrait of who Clark is as The Man of Steel. You've embraced the idea of Superman as a protector, and with the sunstone tech and the Absolute cape, it seeds the idea that this version will be a force to be reckoned with. I can only imagine how cool it'll be to see more of the rogues' gallery rear their heads and how this Superman will inspire the rest of the established PC heroes.
As I've said before, I haven't finished the last run yet, which is essential to your current run - so I can't speak to what Vol. 2 is just yet. What I can do is talk about my experience with Vol. 1 so far, which is five posts as of tonight. What sticks out to me first is that scene in the opening post of John's routine, of watching him sadly, pitifully trying to shake off the cobwebs of the night before and trying to get through what seems to be a miserable existence of haunted grief for his missing sister and a slew of bad habits that have rendered him nearly a ghost at nineteen. From there, add to that your portrayal of a dingy, cockroach-stricken vision of Liverpool where rose-colored memories are about the nicest thing anyone could probably say about the area, where the downtrodden and the suffering make their existence out of pain just about as fucked as John's, and it's a wonder that a character like Chas can enter proceedings and not feel immediately tainted by what feels like a world that's seperated in it's own little corner of Hell. The scene of John seeing Cheryl in a stranger's house, wandering in to confirm suspicions, seeing more visions of endless hallways and being carried out in the midst of chaos he unintentionally made - I found it a perfect metaphor for where he'd found his rock bottom of a life, and it gets the biggest clap I could muster for someone writing a comic book character on an internet forum. Another moment that got that reaction from me was when Chas lost his stoic resolve to beat the living fuck out of the dealer who casually insulted Cheryl. Those moments of human frailty in a story that's undoubtedly leading up to something other (it's called Hellblazer, after all) are what's going to keep me reading this until I've reached the present. This is class act stuff, the kind of writing we would all aspire to meet if we were lucky.
Bastard. Just when I think you're out of the superhero fiction side of things for good, just when I fully believe you've left us behind for greener pastures and a "life", you come back into a character you have a long, storied history with and write a post that firmly establishes that you've never lost it, like you never left. The Pops part of the post definitely reminded me alot of the underrated Netflix show, but the switch into near hardboiled noir the moment that Luke left the shop and stepped out onto Harlem's streets left me giddy with anticipation for the story to come. Bastard!
I've been a fan of your characters ever since Chow Yun Castle in the original UOU, and you've only seemed to grow by leaps and bounds since then with your numerous approaches to The Question. But for whatever reason, even when considering your most recent short-lived run, Moon Knight feels like the character that you were always meant to write. Whether that's just timing in regards to your continual growth as a writer and Marc just found you in the moment, or he was waiting for you to really delve into him and form an attachment, I don't know. But it works so well. As a fan of Moony since I was a teenager, you've not only already given justice to his many voices - both internal and external - but you've made the rather ballsy decision to take a recent, beloved run on and reshape it as your own, and the results so far are pitch perfect to making it feel like you made it from scratch. The scene with the patients and Dr. Emmet in art therapy was something that I legitimately thought 'I wish I could write a scene like that' with, and I feel like this is only the tip of the iceberg. If you let it, this run is gonna take you far. From one anointed brother of Khonshu to another, I can feel it.
This. This is what I was hoping for whenever you last applied for Ollie in the ill-fated UOU: Resistance. A deeply personal feeling tribute to a favorite character that reads as authentic to the spirit of Green Arrow as anything I've read in the official comics, up there with the likes of Smith and especially the recent Chris Condon run. That's what I got here, and what I expected. What I didn't expect was a small glimpse into a larger superhero world that felt equal parts Denny O'Neil's early Batman and a page out of Astro City, where Green Arrow and Speedy feel like actual giants that walked the Earth at a time before this current crop came to be. Loved seeing Roy and Mia be the opener before, but the adventurousness of the flashback is what had me hooked and grinning from ear-to-ear by the end. It was said elsewhere, too, but your voice for Ollie really evoked JLU and I can't freaking wait to see more. Hell, I can't wait to interact with him, just to compare notes with a G.A. who's got quite a few years on Bruce in this reality.
Fuck. That's what I was thinking over and over while reading that first scene between Emma and Scott. The reaction being in response to the fact that your prose not only portrays movement and action, it commands visceral feeling and emotion. So much so that I felt like I was intruding on a deeply private moment as Emma fought desperately to conceal the manic everything that was threatening to undo her rageful scorn towards a man that was already looking to approach an incredibly tense situation in the wrong way. It was honestly a relief to get to her more tranquil self in the present of Krakoa, and doubly so in the second post, with her and Storm performing in a game of human chess as she outlined her plans for the Gala. You've presented an entire world here with the narrative of the mutants' long-fought need for equality being basically won, but the characterization of Emma herself remains the standout, and I am blown over by it so far. Definitely one of my favorite parts of the RP's first week of content.
There's alot to be said for taking ground that's been tread upon hundreds of times in so many different ways and getting it to feel fresh and new. That's what we get with this dramatization of Banner's accident, the one that we all know will transform him into something meaner and greener. And there's alot to mine from that, from Banner's confrontation with General Ross to his interaction with Betty, to Talbot's useless ass. It's all interesting as setup for things to come, but what really got me for a headspin is when you transitioned into Bruce's post-accident... experience? Hallucination? Divine intervention? And shit went insanely freaky, fast. The images that you managed to conjure up in combination with the first experience of, at least what is implied to be, Devil Hulk evoked alot of nightmarish, otherworldly ideas that you wouldn't typically associate with Bruce moments after getting pelted with enough Gamma to end an existence. I absolutely loved it, the transition feeling as though it's threatening us with a perilous journey that the Hulk should be for it's protagonist.
The kid in the reflective shades stood upright, a lit cigarette hanging loosely from his lips. His hundred-and-eighty-dollar suit and tie shifted as he turned to face the man that he was to spend the night driving, indicating an ill-fit that the shaggy, unkempt goatee had already betrayed in regards to any sense of confidence or class. Joseph 'The Rook' Cambrea took one look at him and realized that for all of Rupert Thorne's talk of expansion, his eye for vetting qualified candidates still lacked a certain finesse. But as the kid put out the cigarette, the aging mobster nevertheless smiled and gave a small wave, trying to hide as much of the hobbling as he could upon approach. The engraved onyx-and-silver-tipped cane certainly didn't help, but Cambrea was too proud a man to show any sign of weakness, even if the years had visibly worn him down. His mop of graying, slick-backed hair was the first thing that the younger gentleman noticed whenever he got a good look at his new employer. It was different from what he'd expected, clearly, to the point that he almost didn't see the hand that jutted out for a customary greeting.
"Name's Joe. Don't give me any of that Mister crap, alright? Just stick to Joe."
He made sure that his tone was friendly, save for a certain inflection under the surface. One that was meant to say that as long as you don't fall out of line, you'd be treated well. It would be enough for the kid to know his place this early in the arrangement.
"Guessing you know these streets well enough to send me on my errands?"
The new driver was clearly tense, wracked with enough anxiety to dull his expression. Joe already noticed that one of his hands had been shaking from afar, nervously twisting the cancer stick in his mouth as he waited, leaning against the unmarked car that had been parked on the corner. Probably nursing an addiction to those things, Cambrea thought, generously waving off any notion that the kid was too green for this in his head. So it was a welcome surprise whenever the kid finally reached out and shook his hand - despite appearances to the contrary, he had a damn firm grip. Joe almost wanted to remark on it, but they were already late for the first appointment as it was. His own fault, having spent the last twenty minutes dry heaving some pills infront of his bathroom sink. The ugliness of age was its own punishment for a life lived this long in Gotham City's oldest business.
"I know 'em enough."
Cambrea smirked, noting the kid's accent. Northern Jersey. Those guys didn't mess around when they were called upon to be part of Throne's crew. Pushers, dealers, guns-for-hire, wheelmen. If you needed a guy to get the job done, you made a call up to one of the ex-cons living in Newark. Maybe even Warren County, if you were desperate enough.
"You from Paterson? You look like you might be from around there. Ain't no way you're a local."
The kid's face was inscrutable, even with his eyes hidden.
"I'm from here. Spent a lotta time in Morristown, but I was born just a couple blocks away."
"Heh. Morristown. That explains it."
Giving him a playful nudge in the shoulder, Cambrea circled to the car that the new guy had been assigned, noting the make and model. Cadillac, about a decade old and painted midnight black, freshly waxed. When assigning him drivers, Thorne had always been good about indulging Joe's specific taste in cars to go with them, never wanting to be seen in anything too flashy but always looking for a ride that wasn't often spotted on these streets. And the Cadillac definitely qualified, given that most of the people living in Burnley were still scraping by in some used, beat-up monstrosity of a Toyota. It wasn't a rich neighborhood, which was exactly why Cambrea had always liked living here. Reminded him of his roots, which was something that was getting harder for his contemporaries to remember. They all felt like they needed to live above their station to be worth something. But if you stuck Joe in any middle-class neighborhood in the East End, he was more than content.
"Alright, first stop's gonna be in The Cauldron. You get the itinerary?"
The kid quickly shuffled past Cambrea in order to reach the rear door first, opening it so that his client could easily slip inside and situate himself in the back seat.
"Got a text this morning, yeah. Didn't mention the Cauldron."
Cambrea placed a hand on the door and raised an eyebrow.
"Hey, I can get this part. Don't you worry about it."
The kid apologetically nodded. "I was given instructions."
"And you're good to follow 'em. But you're with me now, and you'll find that mine are the only ones worth paying attention to. Which is why you're gonna take us to the Cauldron."
Tapping the side of the car with his cane, Cambrea entered the back seat and allowed the kid to shut the door, just this once. He honestly hated being doted on like he was an old maid, which was why he made it a point to always dissuade his drivers from acting too cordial. But the driver was new, and despite the brevity of their encounter so far, he showed some promise. Enough to get Cambrea to reconsider whether his initial reading of the kid was off, especially whenever he climbed into the front seat, buckled himself in, and rather confidently assumed the wheel in what looked to be one swift motion. Joe pulled out his phone and began to cycle through the notes that he'd committed to text. As he scrolled, he noticed how long the list had gotten and remembered it was going to be a long night. Looking back up at the kid from the rearview mirror, Cambrea smiled again.
"You look nervous, junior. Am I gonna have to worry?"
"About me, sir? Never."
"Like I told you, it's Joe. Not sir."
The kid's gaze was serious. But at the same time, he was nonplussed. Despite first impressions, Joe began having a rare optimistic thought. That this one might be more interesting than the last few chaffuers that Rupert had sent his way. Most of those guys had been brought to him with an unspoken deal in mind, an arrangement that told Cambrea that they had royally fucked up in some way that had caused Thorne to re-assign them. Driving Joe around Gotham was the job they took to earn their place back in the fold, to make amends and prove that they were once again ready to get their hands dirty. For this reason, all of them were eager to get Joe's approval, knowing that his word had carried considerable weight in the underworld for the last fifteen years.
"What's your name?"
The driver quietly pulled out onto the street before answering. As he did, Joe quietly began wondering to himself what this kid had done to get put here, and whether he truly understood the nature of the task he had been assigned. These errands usually weren't pretty, and alot of the ones that had flunked out ended up doing so because they either couldn't handle Cambrea's approach or the often harsh realities of the life itself.
"Max."
Joe quietly chuckled to himself. "Small world. I got a brother named Max."
The elder man looked out the window, watching his neighborhood pass him as the car slowly merged onto the street heading into Park Row.
"He's a shithead. And a shitty driver, too, so you'll excuse me if I'm not gonna call you that. You got another name?"
"Yeah."
Tilting the shades down to expose a pair of sleepless eyes, Max looked back into Joseph Cambrea's directly - and suddenly looked void of any nerves. The minute that he sat behind the wheel, any lingering signs of an amateur seemed to have faded. Joe took note of that, knowing that the rest of the night would serve as a test. But if Max earned himself a passing grade, Joe could see the kid having something resembling a future. Which in Gotham City was a very rare thing.
"My lord, our scouts have triangulated the artifact's position."
The Source Wall.
Legends had spread throughout the cosmos about the celestial barrier's origins, with some even bold enough to speculate that it was where Perpetua herself had been exiled by the will of The Living Tribunal for the crime of trying to remake the multiverse in her image at the galaxy's dawn. The being once known as Uxas remembered such tales from his youth, so many untold centuries ago. A cautionary tale that served as a warning against following in the Mad Goddesses' footsteps, to try and bend the very foundations of reality to the whim of the individual. The ruling class of Apokolips had once known such folly to be impossible. But gazing upon it now, its rock formations spread across the stars before him like a river of molten lava flowing over the seared flesh of his kingdom's willfully defiant carcass, Darkseid could only wonder if whoever told such tales would ever be able to comprehend the glory of Anti-Life.
"It seems to have rested within the very stone itself for millenia."
Or indeed, the Infinity Stones. The Dark Lord of Apokolips had seized the opportunity to find one of these supposed artifacts for as long as he sat upon the throne, an unspoken ambition that had irked him as he went about enacting his reign, commanding his armies, bringing untold horrors to those who would refute submission to his life's glorious purpose. The stones had proven difficult to find, yes, but the truth of their existence could be easily verified by those ageless ones whose twilight was at hand - with enough force. An aging high priest of the planet Xandar had been the one to be tortured into giving Steppenwolf the location of this gem of untold power, broken after repeatedly asking his Gods to spare him from the galactic hunter's cruelty.
His prayers were met with silence. Steppenwolf merely mocked his fading resolve as chilled blades slashed into flesh that was actively melting; the location would be given straight after. And now, watching with intent from the other side of an open boom tube, Darkseid could easily feel the power reverberating off the gravel that surrounded it like a casket. With a wave of his hand, the Master of Darkness sat back and allowed a group of Parademons to step forth with weapons charged, crackling with electricity. The near-mindless beings roared with eagerness to pulverize The Wall's exterior shell, their mechanical wings activating and propelling them forward, breaching the circular portal.
"Yes...", Desaad hissed, gleefully. "Yes, that will do, sire. In mere moments, your loyal soldiers will deliver the artifact to your worthy hands. I can hardly wait for you to channel your desire for Anti-Life into it, and see the wretched equation be revealed at last."
Tufts of crimson fire lurched from Darkseid's eyes, steadying Desaad's enthusiasm.
"Silence, worm."
Instantly, the lesser being fell to his knees, obediently quiet and head lowered as far to the ground as Desaad could manage.
"That wretched equation will yet be the salvation of existence. Only through my will can it be shaped to end all transgression, all war. All suffering at the random whims of a merciless universe. This is what I have dedicated my being to realize. And you would so casually insult it?"
The effortless malice of Darkseid's voice struck at Desaad with the fury of a thousand comets - merciless, yet undeniable. He was immediately grovelling for his God's forgiveness, debasing himself with no hesitation, giving no thought to the audience of the Apokoliptian court that had been assembled. Granny Goodness grinned from the far side of the room, hoping against hope that the Dark Lord would make an example of this cur's insolence. But Darkseid's focus lay elsewhere, and as his gaze met The Source Wall yet again, his eyes narrowed with dissatisfaction.
Steppenwolf recognized the same, approaching the boom tube himself.
"It would seem as though the Parademons' attacks are ineffective, sire. The stone of it doesn't even seem scratched, despite reining blows that would put down even the fiercest Kree."
Removing a massive sword from the back of his dark armor, Steppenwolf cracked his neck and smirked, ever determined to prove his capability in the face of a challenge.
"No matter. The stone shall be yours, lord Darkseid. Even if I have to shatter the very stars to deliver it."
But before Steppenwolf could pass through, an unexpected reaction occurred from the Wall itself. The Parademons, tirelessly hammering their energy weapons against the stone, were forced back with a massive pulse of unseen intensity. Shot in all directions through open space, sent helplessly flying into the void and beyond Apokolips' reach. It seemed as if the Source Wall were protecting itself, doubtlessly infused with a manner of countermeasures against those who would seek to disturb the rock. Steppenwolf hesitated for a moment, but prepared to embark anyway.
Until Darkseid's hand landed hard against his shoulder.
"It would be a useless gesture. As much a waste of your efforts as theirs."
"Step aside."
Placing his hands behind his back, Darkseid calmly moved past his uncle, prompting Steppenwolf to abandon his bravado and kneel aswell. If the Wall itself was unwilling to part with the artifact that lay buried within it, then the Lord of Apokolips saw no other recourse but to face its defiance personally. The Dark Lord closed his eyes and, with what seemed to be careful consideration of his next move, Darkseid faced the portal for what seemed like an eternity. In reality, it was only a moment's pause, allowing the energies within his body to build enough to deliver a truly horrifying display of power.
Opening his eyes, Darkseid stood emotionless as a radiant blast of Omega energies surged ahead, zig-zagging their way through the boom tube and colliding with the Source Wall with the violence of a missile strike. The Source Wall shook, its latent energies unsure of how to react to a beam of such power. Slowly, cracks began to form in the gravel, glowing with a brilliant orange aura. But as Darkseid focused the Omega Beams, a realization dawned that nearly shook him to his core. Even in the midst of his attack, the cracks were actively healing. Steppenwolf also appeared shocked, approaching from behind.
"Impossible. None has ever withstood the energies of the Omega Sanction!"
Darkseid's anger was apparent. With teeth grit, he pressed on with the blast, determined to outlast The Source Wall's apparent attempts to maintain self-preservation. Desaad finally rose from his shameful display, seemingly affected by his lord and master's inability to capably affect the stone. It had been said that The Source Wall was older than time itself, older even than the very galaxy that housed it, but to be able to heal itself from this level of onslaught? That was a sign of an unspeakable power.
So much power that even Darkseid, whose will was unmatched, was forced to relent. Closing his eyes with great effort and allowing the beam to dissipate, the Dark Lord's frustration was more than palpable. Momentarily losing his composure, looking as if he would gladly murder every corrupted soul that stood assembled in his royal court, it took only seconds for him to regain it. There was another way, a solution that could potentially weaken the Wall long enough for the Omega Sanction to penetrate, but he had hesitated to rely on such a weapon for this task. But with the prospect of success so tantalizingly close, Darkseid saw no use in that uncertainty.
"Desaad."
The purple-cloaked figure placed his hands together and solemnly closed his eyes, awaiting whatever punishment his master had yet to unleash for his earlier infringement. Perhaps it was fitting that it came after Darkseid's rage had been properly agitated, allowing the inevitable torture to be that much more of a fulfilling use for his God's efforts. Instead, Darkseid simply turned and pointed toward him, as if a stern parent who was chiding its disobedient offspring.
"I will grant you this one opportunity to reclaim your worthiness. Do as your lord commands, and your insolence this day will be forgiven."
Desaad bowed. "I eagerly await your instruction. What would my lord wish for me to do?"
Darkseid smiled, wickedly.
"Awaken the World-Eater."
The Lord of Anti-Life's will be done. For just beyond Apokolips' atmosphere, a planet-sized craft hovered in the infinite of space, devoid of color or discernible shape. It appeared older than time, even older than The Source Wall that it now floated opposite. But after receiving a signal sent from the cosmic machinery inside Desaad's chambers, the craft suddenly came to life with an array of massive faded lights and the whirring of moving parts. This had once been known as Taa II, the Worldship. Dominion of The World-Eater itself, the only home that could be considered as such by a being that regularly towered over entire solar systems' suns, not to mention one that could easily extinguish them.
Taa II's hide had been scarred by a massive symbol, signifying its turn from unparalleled force to obedient dog of the one, true power in the universe. The seal of Omega burned brightly upon the Worldship's activation, and it took little time for the being that lingered inside to be stirred from its slumber. Taking no time to question the nature of its new master's commands, having had any vestiges of a will of its own programmed out of it whenever Darkseid managed to tame the rampaging storm, Galactus rose from Taa II's impossibly massive hull and stepped forth, blocking out the light of the stars. Casting its shadow upon The Source Wall, a visible harbinger of the end of all things.
Appearing on the balcony of his Apokoliptian castle, Darkseid stared up at moon-sized eyes that emerged in the smog-filled clouds of the eternally burning heavens, stark white and pulsating with energies that would make other Gods quiver with fear. But not he who would remake the universe in his own image, as his elders had long warned against. Perpetua be damned, for she would ultimately not see the day when Anti-Life would subjugate all life in the known universe, and extend into even the multiverse beyond it. Darkseid would see this and more, bending the Infinity Stone to his will as easily as the World-Eater itself. It would reveal the location of the Anti-Life Equation to him, and prosperity could then begin in earnest.
But for Galactus, Darkseid had only one command, directing its attention towards the obstinate Source Wall.
Very well, where do I begin?
My father was a relentlessly self-improving boulangerie owner from Belgium with low grade narcolepsy and a penchant for buggery. My mother was a fifteen year old French prostitute named Chloe with webbed feet.
My father would womanize, he would drink. He would make outrageous claims like he invented the question mark. Sometimes he would accuse chestnuts of being lazy. The sort of general malaise that only the genius possess and the insane lament.
My childhood was typical. Summers in Rangoon, luge lessons. In the spring we'd make meat helmets. When I was insolent I was placed in a burlap bag and beaten with reeds - pretty standard, really. At the age of twelve, I received my first scribe. At the age of fourteen a Zoroastrian named Vilma ritualistically shaved my testicles.
There really is nothing like a shorn scrotum... it's breathtaking. I highly suggest you try it.
<div style="white-space:pre-wrap;">Very well, where do I begin? <br><br>My father was a relentlessly self-improving boulangerie owner from Belgium with low grade narcolepsy and a penchant for buggery. My mother was a fifteen year old French prostitute named Chloe with webbed feet. <br><br>My father would womanize, he would drink. He would make outrageous claims like he invented the question mark. Sometimes he would accuse chestnuts of being lazy. The sort of general malaise that only the genius possess and the insane lament. <br><br>My childhood was typical. Summers in Rangoon, luge lessons. In the spring we'd make meat helmets. When I was insolent I was placed in a burlap bag and beaten with reeds - pretty standard, really. At the age of twelve, I received my first scribe. At the age of fourteen a Zoroastrian named Vilma ritualistically shaved my testicles. <br><br>There really is nothing like a shorn scrotum... it's breathtaking. I highly suggest you try it.</div>
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