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Post by themascura on Jun 25, 2012 23:22:54 GMT -5
The night ached with humidity. Now and then blue-white dry lightening would flicker ominously through clouds the same color as the bricks and concrete. Feather kept her eyes peeled as she walked the narrow, trash-strewn sidewalks of Crime Alley, once known to Gothamites as the Heights. Those days were long gone, though, and a new era had moved into the neighborhood. The heat made the back of her neck sticky, catching hair that strayed from her braid and making constant irritating itches. The thick cotton of her uniform was quickly becoming damp under the arms and at the small of her back.
It was the sort of night that made men and women restless, and brought out the worst in the kind people of Gotham. Thankfully, it also seemed to bring out the city's resident guardian, Batman. "Come on, Bullock..." She hissed beneath her breath, eyes narrowing in annoyance. The detective did not play well with others. Why the chief had assigned her the chore of putting up with him, she would never know. Well, actually, that was a lie. She did know. No one else was willing to put up with his 'doughnut' runs and constant sour mood. That was her reward for not complaining about him more, she supposed. A hot, wet breeze shuddered down the street, sliding across her almond skin. Still, she was beginning to actually miss the bulky presence of the Officer. He seemed to be a good luck charm. Nothing, despite several attempts by noted super-villains, ever seemed to damage Bullock in any permanent way. Besides. It was dangerous to be in Crime Alley alone, cop or not. Gordon would have a fit if he knew she was over a block away from her 'partner.' ----- High above the littered streets, in a room strewn with fluttering newspapers tossed by the wind, a young woman sprawled on an ancient, mildewed mattress. The window, long ago broken, allowed the dank air in. The street light glittered on pieces of broken glass sprinkled among the newspaper and glittered on the girl's piercings. She tossed, the outstretched tips of her fingers brushing the hardwood floor next to the mattress. She dreamed the same dream she had a thousand times before. The hellish glow of a fire, a million embers like eyes, burning into her from all around. The tortured moans of a floor losing it's stability as flames slapped fiendishly at the wood. Frozen, unable to move, she watched as the ground split. She plunged, helpless, into the depths of a scorching eternity. It burned, burned against her skin, in her hair, in her eyes and against her fingers and toes. She screamed, the desperate, agonized scream of the dying.
Around her tormented, sleeping form, the flames of her nightmares slowly bloomed into life, wreathing her sleeping form. This time, in this state, they did her no damage-- but the same could not be said for her surroundings. As the fire grew in intensity the newspapers caught, followed by the dried floors and walls, and eventually the mattress.
Outside, it began to drizzle lazily.
-----
Feather stopped, the acrid scent of burning trash invading her senses. Rubber and wood, and probably some other things mixed in. A noise split the night. The hairs on the back of her neck went up. A chill went down her spine. Her right hand went to her gun as she searched for the source of the scent and sound, or for a trail of smoke.
A halo of fire jettisoned suddenly from a building she had already glanced at. The rain hissed and steamed violently, bits of glass and brick shattered against the ground. Feather yelped a curse and threw herself to the side, ducking into an alley to avoid the deadly onslaught of debris.
She yanked the radio from her belt and yelled her location and the situation into the receiver, poking her head around the corner cautiously. The fire and imploded, but was rapidly lapping at the decrepit walls, eagerly reaching it's fingers for the neighboring building.
She snarled another curse, slapping her radio back into it's holster. In the back of the mind she tried to calculate the odds that the fire was an accident. The location made it seem unlikely. Probably the work of some two-bit jerk villain with nothing better to do than cause mayhem and destruction, and kill a few people in the process.
The lithe cop dashed back out into the street, hopping over pieces of smoldering, hot glass and small piles of charcoal-colored rubble. There could be homeless people crashing in the bottom levels of the building. She needed to get in if she could, find any civilians who might be unaware-- if that was possible-- of the explosion, and get them out.
Immediately.
The heat was already brushing her skin, however, and it was only going to be worse inside of the building. To make matters worse, the internal structure of the building was highly suspect. It could come down at any time... with her inside.
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ritsukaorchid
Sidekick
" Overwhelmed, underwhelmed, why isn't anybody ever just whelmed? "[A1i:1]
Posts: 200
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Post by ritsukaorchid on Jun 27, 2012 8:39:41 GMT -5
I'm giving up; I'm giving up s l o w l y I'm blending in so you don't even k n o w me. Apart from this whole w o r l d that shares my fate. - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - [/b]ichard Grayson was tired. His limbs were heavy, his chest tight. Was he sick? He didn't care to think about it. It wouldn't stop him, only annoy, and so he pushed the idea away. Outside, the weather was dreary, sucking on the last of his energy like some hypnotic beam; he was unable to turn away, and yet had little left to give. It drizzled. There was mist everywhere. The rolling gray clouds reflected in his deep blue eyes, the color casting over his face and making him appear pale. There was something amiss, something he should have known, but instead ignored. He didn't have the energy. Or... did he? He wouldn't know, he hadn't moved in hours. Lifting his arm, the creak of his joints was almost comical. He chuckled darkly as he came alive, stretching his arms over his head, arching his back as he groaned. What a day to space out. After acing the physical exams today, Richard had come home to this. An empty house. Alfred had served him dinner and gone off some place. Bruce was nowhere to be found. I mean, it was usually like this, the weather just made him realize how echoing and dark it was here when there were no parties to sneak into; no guests to spy on. All the same, Richard usually went to training when he was alone, and studying after. But he hadn't felt like himself. And so, he was sitting in one of the guest rooms across the hall from Bruce's study, one of the only rooms with an adjacent balcony, arms around his knees, staring blankly out into the woods. Well, he had been, anyway. Now that he moved he found an energy he had missed before. It was slight, but it was there, all the same. He moved his legs to reach out, feet bumping the glass sliding door to the balcony, and lay back on the plush carpet, staring at the door upside-down. It dizzied him, moving after being still for so long. Oh, well. He squinted at the ajar door. Bruce was most likely off surveying different sectors of the city. Today was an odd day - Gotham had many - and Bruce itched to get into uniform on days like today, as criminals, he knew, itched to get out their knives and see a leap in their confidence for the same reason. It was never-ending, a hero's work, but Richard was never informed of Batman's departure unless it was an emergency. Bruce had slacked in his apprenticeship lately and it annoyed the boy. If he was going to be a hero, he needed routine, memorizing well-used paths, and methods. But no. Here he was, bones aching, and alone, in the gray of the evening. Richard rose from the carpet and felt the chill of the air conditioning pierce his legs and arms. He shivered, drawing into himself. If he was feeling like this, cold wasn't the best idea for him. He glanced out the large floor-ceiling window before him. It was a warm rain outside - he felt it in the touch of the glass pane - and if Bruce was out there, maybe he needed some assistance. He was fit enough for scouting. Padding across the carpet, he glided out the door and shut it firmly behind him, vanishing into his room like the Bat himself. Moments later, he was walking down the steps descending into the bat cave. The lights were alive all around, surprising him. He thought Alfred had gone off property - but no, the old man was sitting at the computer typing away; for Bruce, no doubt. Richard stopped by his side for a moment, the glow of the computer screen bringing out the purple smudges under his curious eyes. "Researching, Alfred?" He questioned. The old man's hands faltered, but he fixed his mistakes and continued typing away. "Radioactive materials we've come into contact with over the years. Just re-cataloging, updating the entries with recent experimentations and breakthroughs at scientific labs universally." He explained. Pausing, he turned to look at the boy who was now examining the substance on-screen. "You look unwell, Master Richard. Are you sure you should be about at this hour?""It's hardly late. Besides, I'm fine," Richard replied smoothly, "has Bruce any recent need of this information, or is it just routine?" Alfred considered him a moment. When Richard finally tore his eyes from the screen to meet his gaze, the old man appeared to be looking right through him. He held his breath for a moment before turning away, heading towards the suiting chamber. "I'll be joining him out in the city soon; I'm sure Gotham could use an extra hand at any time, especially on a night like tonight."Nodding, the butler watched him go. "Of course, Master Richard." He turned back to his screen only after the boy had disappeared, sighing softly. Then, raising his voice, "Master Bruce has required me to complete these actions under no specific orders; he just told me to clean up the data bases. His rounds tonight are strictly routine.""Good," came the reply, "I hate radioactive waste. Bad for the environment, bad for criminals, bad for heroes. Bad for everybody." He muttered, emerging from the chamber fully suited up. "He didn't take a vehicle, so I'm assuming he's rounding all the sectors tonight?" Robin questioned, pulling on his gloves. He was grateful for the mask. It made him seem more menacing, without his baby blue eyes on display for the world. I swear he felt so childish sometimes; he didn't dislike his appearance, just wished he was more... sharp. More intimidating, like Bruce was. "Correct, Master Richard. He seemed very edgy when he left. These nights don't bode well with him."Robin went to the table and restocked his suit with the supplies there; smoke bombs, grappling hook wire, etc. He clicked them into his belt and hopped on his motorcycle. "These nights don't bode well for peace, Alfred. That's all there is to it." He pulled on his helmet and revved his cycle to life. Alfred pressed a button on the computer and the dock doors opened steadily. As the young master peeled away into the night, tail lights like streaks of neon blood in the rain, the old man turned to watch the doors close behind him, fingers poised hesitantly over his entry. The roar of the motorbike faded into the distance. He turned back to the screen when all was quiet once more, and wondered just how the hearts of heroes were made; created, formed, born from the souls of the very plain people they save every night. To citizen's avail, but for what cost? [/ul][/ul][/ul][/ul][/ul] - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - I know to live you must g i v e your life away.
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Post by themascura on Jul 2, 2012 16:43:32 GMT -5
She woke to the sound of her own screams, bouncing eerily off the flames, echoing around her like a whirlpool. Her eyes, blue like the over-cast sky, snapped open, the sound sticking weirdly in her throat. For a disorienting moment she thought she was underwater, and the flames above her were the lights on the surface. She flailed blindly, succeeding only in throwing herself off of the burning mattress.
She hit the floor hard, snapping herself back into reality. It felt like a cold stone wall at about a hundred miles an hour, directly into her stomach.
"Oh crap." She yelped in alarm, clawing her way to her feet. It happened again! Why couldn't the stupid nightmare come when she was sleeping in a concrete warehouse? Why'd it have to strike in the most flammable place possible?! It was too far gone to put out now, and considering the condition of the place it probably would take down it's neighbors too. She needed to find a way to put it out. Maybe she could pop one of the old water mains-
The scream echoed around the room again. April froze, going unnaturally still in the midst of the flames. That wasn't her scream. She turned slowly, her heart constricting. Was someone else in the building? Had she just accidentally killed someone with a bad dream?
As she turned, a movement in the flame caught her eye. For a moment she thought a particularly large pile of newspaper had caught on fire, but then it lifted it's head and looked at her with eyes like opals. It screamed, the noise falling to a more musical note as it moved, approaching her slowly.
"Whaaaaaatttt the hell is that?" She bit the piercing in her lower lip and took a step away. It looked like a turkey. Well, no, that was uncharitable. It looked like a peacock. You know, a flaming, iris-less peacock.
------
Feather was almost to the door when she heard the first scream. Her worst nightmare come true. Someone was trapped in a burning building that was ready to come down at any minute. There was no way the fire department would get here in time, and the chances of her getting up those blackened concrete stairs before the whole thing came down on her head were slim.
Still, she couldn't wait outside, knowing that somewhere up there some terrified person was surrounded by black smoke and scorching flame, desperate to be rescued and doomed to die without help, most likely alone.
As she raced up the stairs, taking them two at a time, ancient scrawled graffiti blurring into wordless warnings, she couldn't help but think of her little sister at home, probably watching a movie instead of working on her homework. Hopefully the college fund she had set up would be enough to get her through the few more months until she was eighteen. She could emancipate instead of going into the foster system. If she kept her grades up she might even be able to get a scholarship.
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domofudge
Sidekick
Official Giver of Happy Birthdays
Aster-tastic![A1i:7]
Posts: 177
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Post by domofudge on Jul 3, 2012 17:07:00 GMT -5
Tick. Tick. Tick. Tick. Blue eyes fixated onto the clean-cut, plain clock, hanging precariously on the cracked wall. It had been about a month since adolescent heroes Jolt and Shockwave had moved here. Both of them were used to moving between tiny apartments and aged condos across the world, and routine did not take long to settle. Shockwave kept his eyes fixated on the thin hand of the circle above him, his head supported by his elbow as he laid restlessly on the tattered mattress of his room. Tick. Tick. Tick. Jolt was sitting cross legged on the other mattress about three feet away, probably playing spaceship cruiser games on his laptop instead of finishing the essay that was due tomorrow. After a rough week of Czarnians, confidential supply deliveries, dragons and finding time for homework, the two of them were put off duty for a while. It was nice being able to help the same company his father worked for, but Shockwave couldn’t help but feel utterly unaccomplished. The whole world seemed to be against him and his younger twin, even people he thought were on the same side. As the moon left soft, yet shattered beams through the window, he closed his eyes. Why wasn’t he satisfied? “Or rather,” he thought, “why haven’t we truly saved anyone yet?” The whole idea of saving people in need was the only reason he had agreed to becoming a hero with his younger brother to begin with. Yet with his brother’s recent actions of dark rebellion, he wasn’t sure he could do it anymore. He wanted to rest. Yet here he was, unable to sleep. He turned onto his side, facing his brother, asking, “Do you want to patrol?” The other teen raised an eyebrow, a grin creeping onto his face. “You know, that’s hella funny comin’ from you, bro. Mean seriously, you were the one who agreed to go on leave in the first place. S’kinda late.” Usually in such a case it was Shockwave, telling his brother that rest and succeeding in school was more worth a few hours of excitement during the wee hours before dusk. The thought of possibly being able to go on as many adventures as he liked excited the younger twin. “I can handle a few hours less sleep,” Shockwave muttered in response, the bed below him creaking as he sat upright. He glanced out of the window, wondering if they would even be able to help anyone on a night that seemed so clear. So silent. So clean. Then he remembered they were in Gotham city. The answer was “duh”. “Alright, Mister-suddenly-not-a-prude. Get on your gear.” Putting on familiar suits of blue, and carefully opening the window, the boys prepared to go on a night's partol. The brisk, cold air, cut at their faces, the smell of dew heavy in the atmosphere. Yet somehow, the usual scent of the thick, night air seemed off. It was like an unusual spark in dead circuitry, or the slightest scratch in a window. Something lingered in the air with the discreet scent of smoke, distant yet prominent all the same. The twins looked at each other, eyes both filled with the same curiousity and drive to move toward it. Perhaps it was a spark, a small, yet unnatural light, distant amoung the glowing city windows of the city. A light that burned a little too brightly. "A fire," the elder boy whispered, brushing a lock of dark brown out of the way of his goggles.
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Post by doppleganger119 on Jul 9, 2012 20:07:59 GMT -5
Smoke-
-happened to be a lot different from fire, even if they were of the same roots and family.
Fire would destroy from the outside, tearing at your flesh and advancing through your body's natural protection. While smoke, smoke would choke you from the inside, starting as an uncomfortable, irritating feeling, until you realized you were suffocating.
The shrouded figure dropped down from the opened, definitely oversized vent gate, cursing as the ground hit his leg with a fresh punch of pain. He steadily kneeled, leaning in a corner against the peeling plaster walls, impatiently holding his palm to his wound, adding more and more pressure to the deep, wet cut. Blood was crawling down his leg and spilling onto the floor, though the count of crimson drops decreased- he could feel the gap in his thigh crack and dry under the padding on his fingers.
With the pain now all but gone, he steadily rose to stand. Mentally he remarked to himself that it had healed faster than usual.
The fogginess and ache inside his mind refused to similarly disappear, and he sighed, mentally and physically exhausted from the night's previous encounters. He took a quick glance at his surroundings, and sure that no-one was here with him, he settled back down on the now very inviting creaky floorboards, and slouched in a spot where the wood was somewhat steady.
He woke to an acidic, burnt smell that spiked his nostrils, and he stirred drowsily, his head eventually bobbing back down to unconsciousness.
The small explosions in his pockets were the things that woke him up, as he jumped up, alert, as his pockets caught alight and the hot flames trailed up his arms. He hissed as it ate at the barely, but now exposed skin of his arms, and he swatted at the source of his sudden ignition and his beloved, custom-designed lighters clattered on the floor, setting the dry textured floor boards ablaze.
Lars could feel the uncomfortable sensation now scratching at his throat, it was getting stronger as he coughed the thick black foam, and he groped for the window lever, jerking it repetitively as he struggled to hold his breath.
His view of the room blurred, his vision becoming hazy and unfocused as he tried to escape the churning cage of gas.
Lars gripped the upper-hand of the window slide, pulling himself up off the floor and shoving his chest out into the open night air. His stomach was balanced on the cracked wood windowsill, the pressure laboring his already short gasps of oxygen.
With a final shove he sprung himself out of the combusting room- and grunted as he tumbled down the rocky jagged bricks, finally landing in a not-so-graceful heap onto of a crumbling gargoyle.
Kneeling, Lars used his position to push himself back up to stand, staring blankly ahead as he confusedly made out the basic structure of the carved hunk of rock he was currently situated on. He wished that he had dramatically crashed right through the sculpture, instead of it staying intact as it had. He sighed, and shifted his weight onto his left foot.
A huge chunk of stone fell, with smaller, tiny stones crumbling after it. It looked like someone had just taken a bite of the frozen bird-looking-thing. Lars panicked when he realized that a shouting person and what looked like a homeless man were standing in DIRECT LINE of the slow-motion dropping debris. It was still so close to him so that he was able to quickly jerk it to the side using mental force, and it smashed onto the ground a meter away from the original target. Panicked, he forcefully shoved open a gritty window, and clambered in through the squeezed gap.
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Post by themascura on Jul 27, 2012 13:35:02 GMT -5
Feather was on the third floor when she heard the sound of glass shattering. The smoke was thick here. Her eyes were watering, nose running. Ash had already coated her skin, turning it a gritty gray-brown, out of which her copper-penny brown eyes stared brilliantly.
"Police! Is anyone in there?" She shouted loudly toward the end of the hallway, keeping both feet on the stairwell. With luck, it would be someone coherent and sane enough to allow her to help them get out of the burning building. There was no answer, but she thought she heard someone moving around inside one of the rooms.
"The exit is this way!" She edged carefully off of the concrete landing, testing her weight on the old floorboards as she went. There was always the chance the door was locked, trapping someone inside. Her skin crawled when she thought of the sort of death that would be, trapped inside of a locked room in a building going up like a matchstick. She shook the thought aside and narrowed her eyes, one hand on her gun.
"I'm here to help!" She shouted as she neared the end of the hallway. She tried to keep her mind off of what would happen to her, and everyone else in the building, if help didn't arrive soon. Her radio crackled softly on her belt, the muted cries of dispatchers shouting from one side of the city to another, ambulances and fire trucks racing headlong toward the fire.
------
"What are you?" April hissed softly. The eyes that watched her swam with myriad of colors, blue and purple, green and red and gold, like all the treasures of the known world melted into two perfect gems, imbued with life. It spread it's wings, wreathed with flame and hopped shortly at her. The long, decorative feathers of it's tail fanned at her.
To hell with this! She didn't have time to stand toe-to-toe with a bird! The whole building was on fire! April snorted impatiently and moved to run around the bird, heading for the door. The bird hissed, and a gout of flame shot past her, cracking the boards at her feet. April danced backward away from the new pot-hole and stared incredulously at the bird.
"What's your deal?!" She shouted angrily at the bird, temper rising with impatience and fear. The bird twisted it's head, watching her as she began to loose her temper.
"Get out of the way!" The girl stamped one of her tennis shoes at the creature, waving both arms. It jerked it's head at her, razor beak menacing her flesh.
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