Roman — Roleplayer Guild

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P A N D O R A   ♦   T R A N S G R E S S O R   ♦   T R I N I T Y  O F  S I N
C H A R A C T E R   C O N C E P T:

"Witty Quote"

This is where you outline your vision for the character including any notable changes or differences from the regularly accepted canon. This should be a short summary that provides insight into where the character is in terms of their overall progress and development.

C H A R A C T E R   M O T I V A T I O N S   &   G O A L S:
Why do you want to play this character, what is the driving motivation behind both this desire and the character themselves. What do you hope to accomplish and where do you want the character's story/stories to go?

C H A R A C T E R   N O T E S:
Any additional notes you want to put either for yourself, the GM's or other players to help clarify your vision or continuity.

S A M P L E   P O S T:
A sample post that can be used in the IC if you so desire upon acceptance. This post should provide an example of your vision for the desired character. This sample post should meet all standards outline in the rules and additionally include dialogue, mannerisms and other actions representative of your intended portrayal.

P O S T   C A T A L O G:
A list linking to your IC posts as they're created. This can be used for a reference guide to your character or to summarize completed arcs and stories.

 T H E  B A T M A N
T H E  B A T M A N

At least two ribs cracked. Shoulder dislocated. Body slick with sweat beneath the armour, and still coughing up smoke. A wave of exhaustion hit the Batman, and he stumbled slightly, loose arm still swinging raggedly as he clutched his injured shoulder. Carefully, he released it to press a finger to his ear, and activated the radio in his cowl’s horn. It chirruped, and then the line was opened directly to the Batcave. 
“Alfred…need med table prepped. Sling for arm, and set two-“ Batman groaned as something in his chest creaked, “-three ribs.”
“Understood, Master Bruce. Your heroics have made quite the stir on social media. One cellphone video has already been posted to Tweeter and is making quite the splash.”
“I don’t do it to get Trending, Alfred.” Batman replied, his patience three-ribs-and-a-shoulder thinner than usual. 
“Quite right sir. We shall expect you back at the manor shortly?” There was a tinge of something akin to hope in the butler’s voice. “…Master Todd rather misses you, sir. It’s been days…”
Batman paused, casting his mind to his ward. Jason was a good kid and a better soldier, but there was still work to be done to ensure he understood the mission and its parameters, and he didn’t spend as much time as he should with the boy. Dick had been so independent. Jason needed a father, but raising a child was not the battle Bruce has spent years training for. 

He looked upwards to the sky, staring at the batsignal that cut a wound across the cloudy night sky, and clenched his jaw as he finally approached the Batmobile.  He rested his limp arm against the brick wall of a building, and then, with a precise, quick movement, shoved his own body weight against his shoulder. He grunted as a hard pop burst forth, and then stepped back, rolling his now-relocated shoulder. It hurt, mobility would be impacted, and he’d be sore for at least a couple days - but he could move it, and that was enough. 
“Sir?”
“Not yet Alfred. I’m still needed.”

-

GCPD Lieutenant James Gordon paced up and down, his steps kicking up dust. The construction framework surrounding him was, at one time, intended to become a new block of affordable flats, but had at some point been purchased by one of Falcone’s shell-corps before that dream had materialised. Falcone likely had his own ambitions for the development, but these had been dashed when he’d been arrested, and then incarcerated, and the land officially became city property. Of course, the city did nothing with it, various councillors and Gotham public officials debating the best use for it, all the while ignoring its initial purpose; and so it stood derelict, a skeleton of homes, nothing but concrete and rebar and wire, eighteen storeys high and the city’s pollution blackening every surface. Two years ago, Batman had installed the signal, after the success against Falcone and Maroni cemented his partnership with Jim. That very first night, it lit the sky in silent celebration. Every time since, it had been an omen. 

Batman stepped silently from behind the metal barrel of the light, and Jim found himself startled when he reached the end of his pace, swivelled on the spot, and suddenly found he was no longer alone. He moved forward to shut the light off, but Batman stopped him. 
“Leave it on. Remind them I’m out there. Sometimes, that’s enough.”
Jim didn’t protest, merely shrugged, and then lit a cigarette. Batman stood, silent and stoic, as he took a long drag and blew the smoke out into the night air before he began to explain why he had called. 

“Breakout at Arkham. Your oldest friend.”
If Batman had a reaction to the news, Jim couldn’t see it. 
“How many dead?” He asked. More to the tally. He didn’t know why he kept count. 
“Two, so far. Ha, his cleanest yet.”
“More will come.”
“Oh, undoubtedly. More always do before we stop him. Always playing catch up…”
Batman declined to make comment. Jim still wasn’t looking at him. 
“How?”
“It’s not his usual M.O., you know. Low body count. Minimal destruction. No one injured. We didn’t even find out until shift swap…”
Batman understood. “He didn’t break out. He was released. An accomplice? Someone paid off?”
“Thats the thing. All the inmates are being unusually forthcoming, and they all say the same thing: he was just as surprised as we are. This wasn’t his plan. It was someone else’s. And they walked past 30-something other inmates to get to his cell. They wanted him loose. No one else. And they left a message.”
Batman didn’t need to ask the obvious question; he merely took a single step forwards, beckoning the information from Jim. 
“I think it’s best if you see it yourself.” He said, turning back around to flick his cigarette over the edge. “Before the station boys get in and contamina-“
Jim stopped mid-sentence as he turned, and Batman was gone. The light burned brightly, casting the bat into the sky. 

-

Inmates jeered and hollered on all sides as Batman walked through the asylum corridor. Angry shouts followed him and Jim as they made their way into the deepest corner of Arkham, where Gotham's darkest nightmares were locked away and forgotten. Here, behind clear walls in sealed cells, dwelled the city's most damaged, and damaging, individuals, a cabal of men and women who, like Bruce, had experienced unimaginable trauma in their lives, tragedy they were unequipped to deal with. Like Bruce, they had been sharpened by it into something new. Unlike Bruce, their zeal, born of calamity, did not take the form of a protector. 

The Joker's cell appeared before them, looming out of the darkness at the end of the corridor. Even from here, the open doorway into the room seemed impossibly askew. A single dirty bulb burned dimly within; Batman could see the splashes of red inside already. He pushed forward, ignoring the inmates that continued to heckle and deride the Dark Knight. His steps felt heavier the closer he got to the empty cell, resisting his commands to step further and further down the corridor. The room yawned open before him, dingy and ill-kept. Batman stood upon the threshold, willing himself to put that final foot through the doorway; a strange fear seized the back of his mind, that once he stepped in, the door would slam shut behind him, and the Batman would be locked away forever in the depths of the Asylum. He took a steeling breath and stepped forward. The door remained open. He breathed out. 

Before him were two bodies - Arkham staff, the Security Lead and Head Orderly, Batman could see from their ID badges - slumped against the wall, leaning their heads against each other and arms arranged fondly on one another's shoulders. Their faces had been carved up, ghastly smiles torn into their cheeks and eyes ripped from their sockets; yet despite the gruesome handiwork there was minimal blood splatter within the cell itself. Upon the wall was daubed:
"TWO FOR JOY"
In the breast pockets of each of the victims there had been placed a single black-and-white feather. Batman plucked one from the sticky-red of their shirts and examined it closely, shining a torch along its length. Was it a match to the feather debris found in the boy's neck? Or to the bird that he had encountered upon the rooftops in Crime Alley? The feather flashed a monochrome sheen in the harsh white beam of Batman's flashlight. A common Black-Billed Magpie, indisputably. It made sense, with the rhyme, that now spooled out in Bruce's mind with the second line presented so macabre before him. Unconsciously, he ran the numbers, summing up the total body count threatened by this killer. 

"28..." he mused, stepping out of the cell as he secreted away the feather for cross-reference testing at the cave. He wasn't expecting a reply.
"91." It came anyway, off to the side, its quiet solemnness making it stand out among the crass heckling of the cruder inmates. From behind a thick transparent wall, in a cell not unlike that which Batman had just left, crouched a man of short stature and thin, sandy-blonde hair. His eyes darted around rapidly, focusing on sights unseen by the common eye.

Batman stood before Jervis Tetch's cell, examining the hunched-over criminal. Psychology doctorate, hobbyist hypnotist, ephebophilic rapist. The man was mentally ill, his condition only worsening in Arkham's unholy halls, but Batman held little pity for the wretched man. 
"Seven for a secret." Batman said; it was the final line of the rhyme. "28." 
"Nonono..." Jervis replied, absently, only ever half-there. "Eight for a wish, Nine for a kiss..." he straightened as he recited the poem, his emaciated frame stretching uncomfortably beneath the thin Arkham inmate uniform. "Ten for a surprise you should not miss. Eleven for health, Twelve for wealth..." Tetch approached Batman, standing straight but still a few feet from matching Bruce's stature, his eyes still darting about following some invisible trace.  
"That's 78."
"Thirteen beware the Devil himself." Jervis concluded. "91."
"Did you see who released Joker, Tetch?" 
"Wishes be horses, beggars will ride."
"Are they working alone?"
"Turnips be watches, wear one by my side..." Jervis turned away, hunching back over as he crouched in the corner. "If's and An's be pots and pan, tinker never works."
"Jervis! Answer me!"
"Snicker-snack, she left them dead. With their heads, galumphing back."  
Batman stood silent. Since his incarceration, this is how Jervis Tetch, Gotham University PhD, communicated. Garbled nursery rhymes and nonsense. He was wasting time. 
"Miss Polly had a dolly, sick-sick-sick, call for the doctor, quick-quick-quick." Jervis mumbled, his hands twisting against the floor, tracing doodles in the dust. "Wednesday's child, full of woe..."
Batman walked away, frustrated. Jervis mumbled his rhymes until he could no longer hear the boots on Arkham stone.
"Jack Sprat could eat no fat, Joan could eat no lean, and so between them both you see...they wipe this city clean..."

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