I’ve got something in mind but it’s focused on playing with some Gotham rogues rather than being a Batman sheet concept in itself. If there’s other interest in Batman I have a workable concept for Bat-fam members that I can accomplish the same thing with, but if there’s no Batman at all I can think about taking up the cowl.
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Watch out.
The gap in the door... it's a separate reality.
The only me is me.
Are you sure the only you is you?
The gap in the door... it's a separate reality.
The only me is me.
Are you sure the only you is you?
DON'T TOUCH THAT DIAL NOW, WE'RE JUST GETTING STARTED
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Deadman
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Daimon Helstrom
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Pandora
BPRD Daryl the Wendigo
Suicide Squad
Punisher origin w/ Matt Murdock
Jonah Hex revenant
Eve Coffin
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Wonder Woman, God-Butcher
Danielle Ketch, Spirit of Vengeance
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S.T.A.K.E.
LOCATION. New York City - Marquee Skydeck
014. The Afterparty
INTERACTIONS . N/A
Ephraim’s head swam in the beer and cocktails he’d consumed over the course of the evening, the bright overhead lights of the venue cutting cleanly through the drunken haze. The preceding events were a bit fuzzy, but as far as he understood, it had all been standard fare for a high-scale NYE party: free-flowing rivers of booze, fancy nibbles and appetisers endlessly walking the floor, loud music and strobe lighting, pills and powders passed and shared; and then shortly after the midnight countdown and Ephraim’s inelegant denial of some girl who’d tried to pull the mask up and fish for a kiss, some blonde had stumbled to the bathroom and come straight back out to deliver an almighty piercing scream that utterly interrupted everything.
After that it all got very boring and restrictive very quickly, and not for the first time in the last hour Ephraim cursed at himself that he’d not had the good sense to escape with the initial rush of people fleeing the fallout. Now he was sat at the bar, mask once again pushed up to his nose and nursing a bottle of beer that had been refused to him until he’d slapped a crisp Benjamin on the countertop. The music was off, the lights were on, and all that was left to listen to were the not-so-subtle whispers of speculation and rumours now circulating the club. In some hidden suite he was sure Tremayne was working feverishly with multiple PR experts to arrange some manner of damage control; no doubt, right this moment, discrediting stories were being spun up, ways to distance the magnate from the events of his own party, but Ephraim suspected it would be for naught; regardless what the papers and press said, the people who would suspect his involvement would always do so, if not for any greater reason than just wanting something to dislike the man for. He wondered how many of them here would be subject to the same schadenfreude-laced accusations.
"Mr. Rifo?"
Ephraim turned on his stool to the speaker, a uniformed officer with not enough grime on her pant cuffs and too much starch in the points of her cap. She was fresh and she looked it, and Ephraim knew everyone here was going to run her around in circles before they gave up anything even minutely incriminating. He wondered why she'd been the one sent to question, instead of the rugged-looking detective he'd seen pass through. The obviousness of her inexperience was unwittingly worn on her sleeve, and it wrapped back around to being brazen enough to be suspicious. Or maybe the coke was just making him paranoid.
"Yes?" He answered, after too long a pause. She rested her hands on her belt and regarded him with healthy scepticism.
"I'm Officer Jones. We're collecting everybody's statement - gathering a full picture of tonight's timeline. It shouldn't take long. Then you're free to go."
"Am I currently being detained?" Ephraim asked, deliberately hostile just for the thrill of it. He was immediately put off by this officer, the too-sharp creases in her shirt, the well-polished shine of her boots. He didn't like being subject to questions while holding powder and he didn't like being implicated in a mur-
What makes you think it was murder? A slimy voice said, peeled off from some nasty little surface in the depths of his morbid curiosity.
Nothing. Just parroting the gossip.
The slime oozed away with throaty chuckle, and he returned to the officer.
"No, Mr. Rifo, but we're relying on everybody's cooperation to get as full a picture as we can. Everything helps, no matter how miniscule or mundane it may seem." She said it with a practiced restraint, but the tiny nostril flare had been unmistakable to Ephraim. He smirked a small smirk, turning back to the bar and bringing his drink back to his lips to disguise it.
"Sure."
"Do you mind removing your mask?"
"I do. It stays on."
"With respect, Mr. Rifo, I need to be able to recognise who I've spoken to if I need to speak to them again. You could be anybody underneath there."
"That's rather the point, Jones. You can try a warrant if you're passionate about it." He said, side-eying her. They shared a momentary stand-off; Jones was growing ever-more aggravated with this perfect asshole of a celebrity with every fresh word out of his mouth. She sighed, relenting, and instead pulled out a notepad and pen, poised to transcribe.
"Can I just take your name, first of all?"
"Bobby Rifo." He answered, not looking at her.
"Your actual name, Mr. Rifo, in case your testimony becomes crucial to the case and ultimately in court."
Ephraim whirled on her.
"In court? Who're you charging? Belvedere Vodka?"
"We're just covering our bases, Mr. Rifo. There's a proper process to everything."
He snickered. "You're not having my name. Better tabloids have tried and the Strokes put it best: 'New York City Cops, they ain't so smart.'"
"Are you being deliberately obstructive, Mr. Rifo? We can take your statement at the station if you'd prefer."
At this, Rifo laughed, a loud and obnoxious guffaw that put heat in Jones' cheeks and made some steal glances across the venue.
"How about you take it from my lawyers instead, if you want to play hardball in your pressed slacks and shiny badge? Christ, the babysitter fall asleep? That how you manage to wander out? Where do you think you are? Who do you think you're talking to?"
A coked-up ego dressed in leather and lycra, Jones thought, but instead put on a tight-lipped smile and wrote 'Bobby Rifo' in tidy script across the top of her notebook.
"We appreciate this is a delicate situation, Mr. Rifo, and that nobody wants to be here." She put a gloved hand to her pocket, pulling the recorder she'd fished from Josie's clutch in the bathroom. Rifo's eyes widened when he saw it, recognition blossoming across his face; Officer Callie Jones couldn't see his eyes, but she wasn't so green as to not notice the brief moment of slack-jawed shock as his mouth hung open, beer stalling mid-air halfway back to his lips. She wasted no time, pressing the 'Play' button with a firm click; even against the background noise of the ongoing festivities, Rifo's voice was unmistakeable.
"-because they're jealous I can do it and they can't. There's your quote."
"But I understand you spoke to the victim tonight, and we need to make sure we've got as much information as possible."
And there it was: the silver bullet. She'd saved it, a trump card hidden up her sleeve. Ephraim was incensed; it was hardly enough to implicate him in whatever proceedings were being investigated, but it linked him inexorably to the events of the evening. God, what were the odds the fucking reporter had to punch it tonight?
"Alright, fine, whatever." He said, grumpy in resignation. Callie suppressed a smirk of her own.
"We just need to know the extent of your interaction with the deceased earlier this evening and whether you saw or spoke to her at any other points during the night prior to her death." She said simply, pen poised at the ready. She thought of the recorder, and how useful one of her own might be at this present moment. Instead, she scribbled as Rifo spoke to his bottle.
"I didn't see her at all until she cornered me outside after my set. That was gone...at least gone ten, but there was still plenty of night left after our little run-in."
"And what were the details of your conversation with the deceased?"
"Come on, you've got half of it on that dinky little thing," he said, waving a hand toward the recorder that had been slipped back into Callie's pocket, "and the other half was just boring needling."
"Needling?" Jones asked, prodding for more. Rifo rolled his eyes.
"Needling. Like you - what's my name, what's under the mask, who am I really. Tabloid stuff. Boring. She got as far with it as you did. Then she started recording, I gave her her 'quote', and then I ditched her. Didn't see her again the whole night."
Rifo stopped talking and Callie stilled her pen. When after a few seconds he'd still not spoken, she drew a line beneath his summary of events.
"Thank you for your cooperation, Mr. Rifo." She said, to which Ephraim gave no response whatsoever. "If you don't mind providing a contact number or address in case we need to speak to you again-"
Rifo pushed a card along the bar without a word. On it was emblazoned the name 'FELIX MENDEZ', and beneath that, 'AGENT', and beneath that, a phone number.
"If you want to reach me, you go through Felix. Otherwise, you'll need a subpoena, and I'd like to see you make that happen."
Jones took the card, and didn't press the issue. It would do, and for as much a turd as this man was, she didn't like him for any kind of involvement anyway.
"Thank you, Mr. Rifo. Have a great rest of your night. Happy New Year."
Callie Jones walked away, preparing for several more conversations exactly as unpleasant as that one had been. Rifo didn't move, sipping on his drink, and wondering how long he should leave it before he called Gordon.
After that it all got very boring and restrictive very quickly, and not for the first time in the last hour Ephraim cursed at himself that he’d not had the good sense to escape with the initial rush of people fleeing the fallout. Now he was sat at the bar, mask once again pushed up to his nose and nursing a bottle of beer that had been refused to him until he’d slapped a crisp Benjamin on the countertop. The music was off, the lights were on, and all that was left to listen to were the not-so-subtle whispers of speculation and rumours now circulating the club. In some hidden suite he was sure Tremayne was working feverishly with multiple PR experts to arrange some manner of damage control; no doubt, right this moment, discrediting stories were being spun up, ways to distance the magnate from the events of his own party, but Ephraim suspected it would be for naught; regardless what the papers and press said, the people who would suspect his involvement would always do so, if not for any greater reason than just wanting something to dislike the man for. He wondered how many of them here would be subject to the same schadenfreude-laced accusations.
"Mr. Rifo?"
Ephraim turned on his stool to the speaker, a uniformed officer with not enough grime on her pant cuffs and too much starch in the points of her cap. She was fresh and she looked it, and Ephraim knew everyone here was going to run her around in circles before they gave up anything even minutely incriminating. He wondered why she'd been the one sent to question, instead of the rugged-looking detective he'd seen pass through. The obviousness of her inexperience was unwittingly worn on her sleeve, and it wrapped back around to being brazen enough to be suspicious. Or maybe the coke was just making him paranoid.
"Yes?" He answered, after too long a pause. She rested her hands on her belt and regarded him with healthy scepticism.
"I'm Officer Jones. We're collecting everybody's statement - gathering a full picture of tonight's timeline. It shouldn't take long. Then you're free to go."
"Am I currently being detained?" Ephraim asked, deliberately hostile just for the thrill of it. He was immediately put off by this officer, the too-sharp creases in her shirt, the well-polished shine of her boots. He didn't like being subject to questions while holding powder and he didn't like being implicated in a mur-
What makes you think it was murder? A slimy voice said, peeled off from some nasty little surface in the depths of his morbid curiosity.
Nothing. Just parroting the gossip.
The slime oozed away with throaty chuckle, and he returned to the officer.
"No, Mr. Rifo, but we're relying on everybody's cooperation to get as full a picture as we can. Everything helps, no matter how miniscule or mundane it may seem." She said it with a practiced restraint, but the tiny nostril flare had been unmistakable to Ephraim. He smirked a small smirk, turning back to the bar and bringing his drink back to his lips to disguise it.
"Sure."
"Do you mind removing your mask?"
"I do. It stays on."
"With respect, Mr. Rifo, I need to be able to recognise who I've spoken to if I need to speak to them again. You could be anybody underneath there."
"That's rather the point, Jones. You can try a warrant if you're passionate about it." He said, side-eying her. They shared a momentary stand-off; Jones was growing ever-more aggravated with this perfect asshole of a celebrity with every fresh word out of his mouth. She sighed, relenting, and instead pulled out a notepad and pen, poised to transcribe.
"Can I just take your name, first of all?"
"Bobby Rifo." He answered, not looking at her.
"Your actual name, Mr. Rifo, in case your testimony becomes crucial to the case and ultimately in court."
Ephraim whirled on her.
"In court? Who're you charging? Belvedere Vodka?"
"We're just covering our bases, Mr. Rifo. There's a proper process to everything."
He snickered. "You're not having my name. Better tabloids have tried and the Strokes put it best: 'New York City Cops, they ain't so smart.'"
"Are you being deliberately obstructive, Mr. Rifo? We can take your statement at the station if you'd prefer."
At this, Rifo laughed, a loud and obnoxious guffaw that put heat in Jones' cheeks and made some steal glances across the venue.
"How about you take it from my lawyers instead, if you want to play hardball in your pressed slacks and shiny badge? Christ, the babysitter fall asleep? That how you manage to wander out? Where do you think you are? Who do you think you're talking to?"
A coked-up ego dressed in leather and lycra, Jones thought, but instead put on a tight-lipped smile and wrote 'Bobby Rifo' in tidy script across the top of her notebook.
"We appreciate this is a delicate situation, Mr. Rifo, and that nobody wants to be here." She put a gloved hand to her pocket, pulling the recorder she'd fished from Josie's clutch in the bathroom. Rifo's eyes widened when he saw it, recognition blossoming across his face; Officer Callie Jones couldn't see his eyes, but she wasn't so green as to not notice the brief moment of slack-jawed shock as his mouth hung open, beer stalling mid-air halfway back to his lips. She wasted no time, pressing the 'Play' button with a firm click; even against the background noise of the ongoing festivities, Rifo's voice was unmistakeable.
"-because they're jealous I can do it and they can't. There's your quote."
"But I understand you spoke to the victim tonight, and we need to make sure we've got as much information as possible."
And there it was: the silver bullet. She'd saved it, a trump card hidden up her sleeve. Ephraim was incensed; it was hardly enough to implicate him in whatever proceedings were being investigated, but it linked him inexorably to the events of the evening. God, what were the odds the fucking reporter had to punch it tonight?
"Alright, fine, whatever." He said, grumpy in resignation. Callie suppressed a smirk of her own.
"We just need to know the extent of your interaction with the deceased earlier this evening and whether you saw or spoke to her at any other points during the night prior to her death." She said simply, pen poised at the ready. She thought of the recorder, and how useful one of her own might be at this present moment. Instead, she scribbled as Rifo spoke to his bottle.
"I didn't see her at all until she cornered me outside after my set. That was gone...at least gone ten, but there was still plenty of night left after our little run-in."
"And what were the details of your conversation with the deceased?"
"Come on, you've got half of it on that dinky little thing," he said, waving a hand toward the recorder that had been slipped back into Callie's pocket, "and the other half was just boring needling."
"Needling?" Jones asked, prodding for more. Rifo rolled his eyes.
"Needling. Like you - what's my name, what's under the mask, who am I really. Tabloid stuff. Boring. She got as far with it as you did. Then she started recording, I gave her her 'quote', and then I ditched her. Didn't see her again the whole night."
Rifo stopped talking and Callie stilled her pen. When after a few seconds he'd still not spoken, she drew a line beneath his summary of events.
"Thank you for your cooperation, Mr. Rifo." She said, to which Ephraim gave no response whatsoever. "If you don't mind providing a contact number or address in case we need to speak to you again-"
Rifo pushed a card along the bar without a word. On it was emblazoned the name 'FELIX MENDEZ', and beneath that, 'AGENT', and beneath that, a phone number.
"If you want to reach me, you go through Felix. Otherwise, you'll need a subpoena, and I'd like to see you make that happen."
Jones took the card, and didn't press the issue. It would do, and for as much a turd as this man was, she didn't like him for any kind of involvement anyway.
"Thank you, Mr. Rifo. Have a great rest of your night. Happy New Year."
Callie Jones walked away, preparing for several more conversations exactly as unpleasant as that one had been. Rifo didn't move, sipping on his drink, and wondering how long he should leave it before he called Gordon.
LOCATION. New York City - Marquee Skydeck
013. The Death Of The Party
INTERACTIONS . N/A
Josie massaged her temples standing in front of the mirror in the lady's bathroom; the sink counter extended from one wall to the other and sat below one long unbroken reflective surface. In here, the lights were dimmed, the music was muffled, and the water that poured from the faucet once the tap was turned was pleasantly chilled and, somehow, Josie suspected with a mental roll of the eyes, filtered. She drank better water from the bathroom sink than she bought at the corner shop. And yet, despite these comforts, her headache persisted, and she couldn't be sure whether it was the frenetic mood out there in the venue or the several aggravating conversations she'd had over the course of the evening that could be held responsible. Either way, she felt undeniably done for the evening; she'd pushed her luck, and the more people she'd spoken to the more people had spoken about her in turn, until security had to notice, and notice well; she'd felt eyes on her back as she'd slipped into the toilets minutes ago, deciding that now was the time to retrieve her bag and leave.
All she wanted now was a brisk walk home, some handful of blocks from here nestled in Hell's Kitchen, and to stop by a bodega on the way - should one be open - to fetch a bottle of Pinotage. Maybe even some crackers to go with that half-block of stilton still in her fridge from Christmas. The dog would be waiting up, and ideally she'd get in before he tore up a pair of shoes in response to the fireworks. Beyond the bathroom door, the music cut in and out as the DJ prepared for the midnight countdown, and if there was ever a time, it was now. With midnight so close, no one was left in here, all guests ensuring they were out on the dancefloor for the big moment, presumably searching for their partner or suitably attractive stranger to plant a big one on when the clock struck twelve. God, what she wouldn't give to see a choice few attendees turn back into a withered old pumpkin instead. She chuckled to herself, amused at her own pettiness.
She looked up, setting her glass on the side of the sink and staring at the slightly-askew ceiling tile that hid her stowed bag. Outside, the music dipped low, and the countdown started in earnest.
Josie stepped up onto the sink counter, stretching her hands up to push the ceiling tile aside and fetch her bag.
Josie didn't hear the bathroom door open behind her, but the swell of music through the briefly-open doorway made her pause in her retrieval, and she turned her head to see who'd come in.
Josie felt a rough hand grip her fiercely around the ankle and yank; she tumbled from the sinks, pulled sharply down and cracking her forehead on the stone counter as she fell.
Blood cascaded down Josie's face from the newly-split skin just below her scalp; her glasses had been sat beside the basin and now skated across the bathroom floor far out of reach. Josie's vision was blurred twice over, and her head ringing and woozy from the blow regardless.
Josie fumbled for something, anything, any kind of purchase on the counter or the floor or even her attacker; something to grasp and wrench herself up on, even in her dazed state. In response, the attacker slapped her hand back before putting a foot against her elbow and leaning a knee across her chest.
There was a faint rustling as Josie's attacker fetched something from their pocket, the slightest tapping sound of a fingernail on metal, and then Josie felt something sharp slide into her arm and a chilling liquid pushed into her veins.
Josie's attacker stood up, watching Josie struggle as the chemical took hold. Her movements, vague attempts at writhing defence, slowed, and what few words she was managing became slurred.
Josie vomited, but she couldn't move from where she lay on her back on the cold bathroom floor, blood still seeping from her forehead and matting her hair together in a growing puddle. She aspirated, spluttering but unable to stop.
Josie died. Her killer peered closer for a few seconds, verifying the death; once satisfied, they stood back up. They fetched Josie's glasses, placing them near enough the body as if they'd simply fallen from her face. The glass of water Josie had brought into the bathroom with her was filled, spilled, filled again, and then tossed to the ground to shatter on the floor next to Josie's corpse. A bottle of vodka, empty save for a few gulps at the bottom, met a similar fate. For good measure, the killer undid the straps on one of Josie's shoes, and snapped the heel.
To the rank amateur, it looked like Josie had slipped on a spilled drink and cracked her head on the bathroom sink before succumbing to alcohol poisoning and asphyxiating on her own aspirated vomit. The killer left the bathroom, and slunk, invisible, back amongst the revellers.
Detective First Grade John Carnaby stepped into the elevator from the ground floor lobby of the NYC Edge at 12:43am, and silently wished himself a 'Happy fuckin' New Year' as he leant against the back wall of the mechanical cell, gesturing with a hand that didn't leave his coat pocket for the waiting officer to hit the button for the Skydeck floor. He sighed and drew a hand up to his face to rub his eyes as the doors slid closed and the lift began its steady ascent, trying to rub the tiredness from his eyes. He'd need a coffee. How come he always got stuck with the shit shifts?
"What've we got?" He said, his tone weary and brusque and inviting only the absolute necessities in answer. The officer in the elevator with him cleared her throat before responding.
"Single deceased female, estimated age late-twenties, found on the floor of the women's bathroom shortly after midnight. On first survey no clear evidence of foul-play; looks like a case of 'partied-too-hard'. Coroner's not yet on-scene, though."
"Mmhmm. How far out are they?"
"The on-call forensic supervisor's been notified; they said 'about twenty minutes'..." she checked her watch. "Twelve minutes ago."
"Hm. Who called them?"
"Uh, I did, sir. As officer-on-scene."
"You got here first?"
"Yes, sir. It's my beat, sir. I was a block out when dispatch radioed."
"New Year's Eve patrol - how'd you get to be as lucky as me?"
The officer gave a small smile. "I'm still my precinct's rookie, sir. I technically pass probation next month. Hopefully, ha-ha." She chuckled awkwardly.
Det. Carnaby raised an eyebrow. He didn't laugh. "Where the bloody hell is your partner?"
She looked sheepish. "Getting coffee. He said this would be 'good practice'."
The elevator swam in stony silence as it finished its rise and Det. Carnaby did not respond. The doors finally opened, and John stepped forward. He put a hand against the door, beckoning the officer out with him.
"He can deliver the joe and then I'm dismissing him from the scene. He should know better than to leave you in charge - no offense meant of course, Officer...?"
"Callie Jones, sir."
"You're with me, Jones. And tomorrow we can have a friendly chat with your station sergeant."
Callie smiled. "Yes, sir." She answered, and then followed John out of the elevator.
"What a mess." Carnaby said, surveying the scene with a weary gaze. The body was splayed out on her back, limbs askew, vomit crusting over down the side of her face and blood congealing on the bathroom floor.
"Body was found a couple minutes after midnight. A..." Callie checked her notebook, "Charlotte Blair, came in just after the countdown to 'freshen up', and found the body. Apparently she screamed loud enough to be heard over the music, which the DJ cut off, and then when staff went in and they saw the body, we got the call pretty soon after."
The ground was slick, and Callie picked her way carefully past him to pick up the discarded clutch from where it had fallen from the sink to the floor. She held it in a gloved hand, pulling the purse open and peeking inside.
"Lipstick, cash, aspirin, credit card...ah." She pulled out a small plastic card and held it beneath the light for a closer look. "Driver's licence. Josie Tatl. Hell's Kitchen address. Not far from home."
Carnaby tapped a knuckle to the bridge of his nose. "Tatl...Tatl...I recognize that name." He pulled out his phone, pulling one glove off to press his thumb to the small button beneath the screen and unlock it with his print. Opening Safari, he quickly tapped 'Josie Tattle' into the search-bar and hit enter. After a short pause, results flooded the screen, and he looked up just as Jones pulled a small recorder out of the clutch and hit 'play'.
"Josie Tatl, Tatl-Tales. Do you mind if I ask you a few questions?"
Callie hit 'stop'. The detective and the officer shared a long, jaded look with each other, and then Carnaby sighed.
"How many guests are still here?"
"Less than half, easily."
"Motherfucker. No one else leaves without giving a full statement and contact details. I want this whole bathroom dusted and swabbed, I want blood taken from the body for BAC and a full tox screen, and I want the guest list checked against whoever's still here and then we go looking for the people who left."
"Sir?" Jones replied, her tone saying it all: it looked so cut-and-dry, a slip-and-fall with a side-order of too-much-booze. Carnaby's measures seemed a bit...heavy-handed?
"A reporter just died with no witnesses at the most high-profile party this side of the millennium. The press is going to have a fucking field day - and we need to get our hens in order before inviting in the foxes."
"Yes sir. I'll get on it. We'll need some additional officers to get through the statements..."
Carnaby just looked at her, stone-faced. "It's New Year's Eve in Manhattan, Jones. We won't get it. Just do the best you can."
Callie's turn to sigh, though she steeled herself and set her jaw in prep. "Yes, sir. I best get started," she said, conceding before exiting the bathroom to wade back out amongst the increasingly-impatient rabble.
All she wanted now was a brisk walk home, some handful of blocks from here nestled in Hell's Kitchen, and to stop by a bodega on the way - should one be open - to fetch a bottle of Pinotage. Maybe even some crackers to go with that half-block of stilton still in her fridge from Christmas. The dog would be waiting up, and ideally she'd get in before he tore up a pair of shoes in response to the fireworks. Beyond the bathroom door, the music cut in and out as the DJ prepared for the midnight countdown, and if there was ever a time, it was now. With midnight so close, no one was left in here, all guests ensuring they were out on the dancefloor for the big moment, presumably searching for their partner or suitably attractive stranger to plant a big one on when the clock struck twelve. God, what she wouldn't give to see a choice few attendees turn back into a withered old pumpkin instead. She chuckled to herself, amused at her own pettiness.
She looked up, setting her glass on the side of the sink and staring at the slightly-askew ceiling tile that hid her stowed bag. Outside, the music dipped low, and the countdown started in earnest.
𝟭𝟬!
Josie stepped up onto the sink counter, stretching her hands up to push the ceiling tile aside and fetch her bag.
𝟵!
Josie didn't hear the bathroom door open behind her, but the swell of music through the briefly-open doorway made her pause in her retrieval, and she turned her head to see who'd come in.
𝟴!
Josie felt a rough hand grip her fiercely around the ankle and yank; she tumbled from the sinks, pulled sharply down and cracking her forehead on the stone counter as she fell.
𝟳!
Blood cascaded down Josie's face from the newly-split skin just below her scalp; her glasses had been sat beside the basin and now skated across the bathroom floor far out of reach. Josie's vision was blurred twice over, and her head ringing and woozy from the blow regardless.
𝟲!
Josie fumbled for something, anything, any kind of purchase on the counter or the floor or even her attacker; something to grasp and wrench herself up on, even in her dazed state. In response, the attacker slapped her hand back before putting a foot against her elbow and leaning a knee across her chest.
𝟱!
There was a faint rustling as Josie's attacker fetched something from their pocket, the slightest tapping sound of a fingernail on metal, and then Josie felt something sharp slide into her arm and a chilling liquid pushed into her veins.
𝟰!
Josie's attacker stood up, watching Josie struggle as the chemical took hold. Her movements, vague attempts at writhing defence, slowed, and what few words she was managing became slurred.
𝟯!
Josie vomited, but she couldn't move from where she lay on her back on the cold bathroom floor, blood still seeping from her forehead and matting her hair together in a growing puddle. She aspirated, spluttering but unable to stop.
𝟮!
Josie died. Her killer peered closer for a few seconds, verifying the death; once satisfied, they stood back up. They fetched Josie's glasses, placing them near enough the body as if they'd simply fallen from her face. The glass of water Josie had brought into the bathroom with her was filled, spilled, filled again, and then tossed to the ground to shatter on the floor next to Josie's corpse. A bottle of vodka, empty save for a few gulps at the bottom, met a similar fate. For good measure, the killer undid the straps on one of Josie's shoes, and snapped the heel.
𝟭!
To the rank amateur, it looked like Josie had slipped on a spilled drink and cracked her head on the bathroom sink before succumbing to alcohol poisoning and asphyxiating on her own aspirated vomit. The killer left the bathroom, and slunk, invisible, back amongst the revellers.
𝙃𝙖𝙥𝙥𝙮 𝙉𝙚𝙬 𝙔𝙚𝙖𝙧!
Detective First Grade John Carnaby stepped into the elevator from the ground floor lobby of the NYC Edge at 12:43am, and silently wished himself a 'Happy fuckin' New Year' as he leant against the back wall of the mechanical cell, gesturing with a hand that didn't leave his coat pocket for the waiting officer to hit the button for the Skydeck floor. He sighed and drew a hand up to his face to rub his eyes as the doors slid closed and the lift began its steady ascent, trying to rub the tiredness from his eyes. He'd need a coffee. How come he always got stuck with the shit shifts?
"What've we got?" He said, his tone weary and brusque and inviting only the absolute necessities in answer. The officer in the elevator with him cleared her throat before responding.
"Single deceased female, estimated age late-twenties, found on the floor of the women's bathroom shortly after midnight. On first survey no clear evidence of foul-play; looks like a case of 'partied-too-hard'. Coroner's not yet on-scene, though."
"Mmhmm. How far out are they?"
"The on-call forensic supervisor's been notified; they said 'about twenty minutes'..." she checked her watch. "Twelve minutes ago."
"Hm. Who called them?"
"Uh, I did, sir. As officer-on-scene."
"You got here first?"
"Yes, sir. It's my beat, sir. I was a block out when dispatch radioed."
"New Year's Eve patrol - how'd you get to be as lucky as me?"
The officer gave a small smile. "I'm still my precinct's rookie, sir. I technically pass probation next month. Hopefully, ha-ha." She chuckled awkwardly.
Det. Carnaby raised an eyebrow. He didn't laugh. "Where the bloody hell is your partner?"
She looked sheepish. "Getting coffee. He said this would be 'good practice'."
The elevator swam in stony silence as it finished its rise and Det. Carnaby did not respond. The doors finally opened, and John stepped forward. He put a hand against the door, beckoning the officer out with him.
"He can deliver the joe and then I'm dismissing him from the scene. He should know better than to leave you in charge - no offense meant of course, Officer...?"
"Callie Jones, sir."
"You're with me, Jones. And tomorrow we can have a friendly chat with your station sergeant."
Callie smiled. "Yes, sir." She answered, and then followed John out of the elevator.
- - -
"What a mess." Carnaby said, surveying the scene with a weary gaze. The body was splayed out on her back, limbs askew, vomit crusting over down the side of her face and blood congealing on the bathroom floor.
"Body was found a couple minutes after midnight. A..." Callie checked her notebook, "Charlotte Blair, came in just after the countdown to 'freshen up', and found the body. Apparently she screamed loud enough to be heard over the music, which the DJ cut off, and then when staff went in and they saw the body, we got the call pretty soon after."
The ground was slick, and Callie picked her way carefully past him to pick up the discarded clutch from where it had fallen from the sink to the floor. She held it in a gloved hand, pulling the purse open and peeking inside.
"Lipstick, cash, aspirin, credit card...ah." She pulled out a small plastic card and held it beneath the light for a closer look. "Driver's licence. Josie Tatl. Hell's Kitchen address. Not far from home."
Carnaby tapped a knuckle to the bridge of his nose. "Tatl...Tatl...I recognize that name." He pulled out his phone, pulling one glove off to press his thumb to the small button beneath the screen and unlock it with his print. Opening Safari, he quickly tapped 'Josie Tattle' into the search-bar and hit enter. After a short pause, results flooded the screen, and he looked up just as Jones pulled a small recorder out of the clutch and hit 'play'.
"Josie Tatl, Tatl-Tales. Do you mind if I ask you a few questions?"
Callie hit 'stop'. The detective and the officer shared a long, jaded look with each other, and then Carnaby sighed.
"How many guests are still here?"
"Less than half, easily."
"Motherfucker. No one else leaves without giving a full statement and contact details. I want this whole bathroom dusted and swabbed, I want blood taken from the body for BAC and a full tox screen, and I want the guest list checked against whoever's still here and then we go looking for the people who left."
"Sir?" Jones replied, her tone saying it all: it looked so cut-and-dry, a slip-and-fall with a side-order of too-much-booze. Carnaby's measures seemed a bit...heavy-handed?
"A reporter just died with no witnesses at the most high-profile party this side of the millennium. The press is going to have a fucking field day - and we need to get our hens in order before inviting in the foxes."
"Yes sir. I'll get on it. We'll need some additional officers to get through the statements..."
Carnaby just looked at her, stone-faced. "It's New Year's Eve in Manhattan, Jones. We won't get it. Just do the best you can."
Callie's turn to sigh, though she steeled herself and set her jaw in prep. "Yes, sir. I best get started," she said, conceding before exiting the bathroom to wade back out amongst the increasingly-impatient rabble.
AAAAH everyone's on the board and everyone's bringing pure fire I love it thanks so much everybody! Now I'm going to kill Josie!
Aaah incredible stuff! Everyone's posts have been amazing so far!
The murder is locked and loaded but we have a few characters yet to land on the board; I don't want to name names as I'm sure they know who they are - ideally we'll have everyone introduced by the end of this weekend and we can kick things off on Monday!
The murder is locked and loaded but we have a few characters yet to land on the board; I don't want to name names as I'm sure they know who they are - ideally we'll have everyone introduced by the end of this weekend and we can kick things off on Monday!
I am currently intending to give everybody some room to breathe, introduce their characters and find their voices, enjoy the party, maybe interact with Josie and each other a little bit before I drop the murder - but if there's anyone just waiting to get into the meat of it that's fine too.
Not me having anxiety because I think my writting is mediocre and you all have great posts thus far 😅
There's only room for one mediocre writer in this RP.
And that's me.
Self-deprecation?
Xandrya be like
Drury Walker, ex-convict - a muscle jobber put away after a gig got raided by Batman. ‘Reformed’ and hired after release by a corrupt Gotham businessman as security detail. Businessman ultimately exposed by Batman too, though nothing able to incriminate Walker. Press ran stories bringing up Walker’s time spent and making allegations that he must have been in on it or even ringleading it, but without evidence Walker was successfully able to bring libel suits against them and score payouts settled out of court before disappearing, presumably ‘retiring’ with his money.
What he was actually doing was turning himself into a Batman For Criminals, using his background and skills as muscle-for-hire and protective detail to market himself as premium heavy for tough jobs. He gets hired on a couple watch-jobs and then lands a small gig as top muscle on a heist for a mid-level mob boss hoping the planned score will put him on a Falcone/Maroni playing field.
Can either have:
job going well even with an appearance from [batfam member], but mockery over his chosen attire and tools and crafted persona causing Walker to snap, subdue the jobbers he was on the heist with, and take the score entirely for himself
OR
have the job go okay until the appearance of [batfam member], where Walker is somehow the only guy left standing and manages to escape with the heist’s score while realizing he’s still outclassed.
Either way Walker’s now sitting on the score plus cash plus the new enmity of the mob boss who hired him plus the batfam are now aware of him, and realizes he’ll be blacklisted from Gotham’s criminal underworld - so it’s time to start building his own crew and organization and creating the jobs, not just getting hired for them.
What he was actually doing was turning himself into a Batman For Criminals, using his background and skills as muscle-for-hire and protective detail to market himself as premium heavy for tough jobs. He gets hired on a couple watch-jobs and then lands a small gig as top muscle on a heist for a mid-level mob boss hoping the planned score will put him on a Falcone/Maroni playing field.
Can either have:
job going well even with an appearance from [batfam member], but mockery over his chosen attire and tools and crafted persona causing Walker to snap, subdue the jobbers he was on the heist with, and take the score entirely for himself
OR
have the job go okay until the appearance of [batfam member], where Walker is somehow the only guy left standing and manages to escape with the heist’s score while realizing he’s still outclassed.
Either way Walker’s now sitting on the score plus cash plus the new enmity of the mob boss who hired him plus the batfam are now aware of him, and realizes he’ll be blacklisted from Gotham’s criminal underworld - so it’s time to start building his own crew and organization and creating the jobs, not just getting hired for them.
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