capeandcowl2020 | Open Post 001

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Open Post 001

• Step one: start a thread in this post!
• Step two: specify who the thread is for (or open) in this post!
• Step three: make people reply to this post!
• AND THAT'S THE WAY YOU DO IT.

And don't forget, there's still the ooc discussion post! And nothing needs to be contained to this post! Create new logs to your heart's content! This AU is yours, so have at it!

musebox • rules • character list

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Norman Osborn didn't mind his job. It lacked freedom, of course, this whole damn place was an oppressive force that strangled the freedom and independence from its inhabitants, but he was ever an opportunist. He had spent the last several years climbing the ranks of the Secret Police rather than rotting in prison with his powers suppressed by his nanite technology or getting executed, and the freedom that granted him was a freedom Norman enjoyed. Not only was he a high-ranking, decorated officer that had full authority to hunt, detain, and arrest refugees and Resistance forces, but he got away with quite a bit more than that, too. The screams of tortured inmates' echoed in his mind, fugitives pleading as they died, and it brought a smile to his face. He gave no mercy to those he caught, and used his authority in fullest, because in doing so he knew he would rise even further to true freedom. There was no chance of failure, no chance of backfire. His mind surged with anger, with bloodthirsty pleasure, and most importantly, optimism. He had risen up from lower than this. He could, and would, always do it again.

Those sorts of odds, Norman relied on. He wore the blood of anyone he detained as a warning to the Resistance and anyone else who might defy him; not the Registration initiative only, but him, personally. Shoot first, detain later. Many never made it all the way to prison.

Years ago, Norman might have leashed that part of him. Some cards you didn't show. Time and prison had convinced him -- no, these can be things you wear with pride. The voice in his head quieted whenever he thought so, whenever he reminded himself that anyone could call a man a monster, but he was still a man, and not just any man -- he was Norman Osborn, cunning, resourceful, invincible -- and that silence was worth more than any other freedom he could be offered.

Edward was haunted. Since his failed assassination attempt of Mitchell Hundred, since the subsequent torture (a rightful punishment, he was told, he remembered, his thoughts remembered for him) at the totalitarian Katurian’s hand, Edward Nygma had been a man haunted by phantoms. He couldn’t deny this, as he walked the pocketmarked City streets, with his eyes downward. He wasn’t haunted by the ghostly undead, no, but by something more lethal and immortal to him: an idea. Two ideas. A series of thoughts that whispered like smoke seduction, teasing the reality he knew.

Katurian was wrong, they said, lipless smirks.

Katurian doesn’t love you. Katurian wants to destroy you.

About the man that Eddie had been violently forced to recognize as his savior over the past year, this thoughtcrime was unspeakable. The daily torture, the brainwashing that Katurian had woven through his brain like one of those macabre stories, that had sunk so deeply into his consciousness. It drowned him. The electricity the shocked down his spine, the water plugging his eyes and ear and nose and mouth. The beatings, the blades, the implements shoved into him, that tried to erase Felicia from his mind. He stopped to lean against a wall, breathing hard.

Next block was a resistance stronghold. He would make it.

What seemed like another man’s life (a year ago), Edward Nygma was an element of the resistance. A spymaster. He networked intelligence, enlightening the coalition (to even their more radial, terrorist tactic factions) with information. Facts. Truth. It was Norman Osborn who had captured him, and given him to Katurian. A year ago. He’s done what Katurian has told him to do since then.

Sometimes.

He had the key to the stronghold, which looked to be a decrepit building born from decay. Inside was a paradox, sleek and clean, the intelligence hub of Edward’s operations, and all his inner network knew where to meet him. Inside he would meet his spies, one by one. He had sent out the invitations, the calls. He wanted to reconnect.

But maybe not for the reasons Katurian had wanted him to reconnect. The thoughtcrime sneered again, in his mind.

It had been five years since the Sentry died. It was a night of fire, of darkness, of death, of trauma and seemingly endless terror that had suddenly flickered out like an extinguished candle, the battle ended. It had been six months since John V. Williams, the homeless art peddler, had turned up in Central Park, doing sketched portraits for food. His long blonde hair framed a gaunt, stubbled face with striking but tired blue eyes, his body was tall and fit in a way that implied he had been strong once before his muscles had withered.

John didn't remember much. He didn't really remember his name, but that was how he introduced himself; it came from a memory somewhere. John Victor Williams, 35 or 36 and probably unmarried, because he had no wedding ring. He had no reason to register, because he couldn't be an Import; he waved to families that walked by and offered free portraits to ones with children. He never really charged, anyway; "If you insist, I'd prefer a sandwich to money," he would say. He didn't want the temptation to spend it on alcohol, because even without his memory he could feel the burning desire of snuffed addiction in the back of his mind.

When he had no customers, sometimes he would draw a woman -- always the same woman -- or he'd cover the paper with graphite and erase a small circle, a single beam of light in a world of darkness.

In the beginning, Maxwell "Electro" Dillon had always put himself toward the front-lines; he wanted to be a known face of the Resistance, this scar across his face signifying more than just pain. "This is oppression!" He'd yell, "This is fascism! Send a message, for Christ's sake! Stand up for yourself, City, don't let them take your power away!" He had had to change strategies, of course, once rioting became scarcer and torture and arrest became standard operating, but he continued to make his presence known. Power to the People, he painted on buildings, he burnt them down, he knocked out their power. It didn't always stay out for long, but it was a message that he wasn't helpless; that none of them were helpless. He stayed in empty subway cars, or occupied ones if options were slim.

He was afraid. He never admitted it, never let it show in his face or his voice, but he was afraid. This was never what he had wanted to become, or wanted to stand for. Electro knew he may have become a face for something, however minor, but he was not as big as his voice would make him seem. He wanted importance, he wanted recognition, but he was not a selfless man. He was waiting for the day his cowardice and greed would grow stronger than his need to be heard, taking the lead so he wouldn't be caught.

It hadn't yet, anyway.

It felt like years; but could it have been? David Clinton didn't know. He had no way to know. However long it had been, here was he, still imprisoned, his time equipment confiscated. They allowed him other tools, allowed him to build them weapons and repair their clocks, but they never let him set them. He just fixed them, he wasn't allowed to know the time. He wasn't allowed. It was terribly, terribly unjust. He couldn't imagine a single thing he had done to deserve this fate, in particular.

Years, perhaps. Perhaps years he had been here. Sometimes he heard about familiar names on the radio that played faintly from the other room, and sometimes he hoped. He would be remembered, perhaps, even rescued. He shouldn't be here at all -- no, not at all. He wasn't from this time period, and he worried about the affect his very presence there had.

"Terribly, terribly unfair," he whispered to himself, "Just dreadful, here. Absolutely dreadful. Enid, my dear, perhaps you were right all along. Only a loser would wind up in this predicament, wouldn't he? Any day now. Any day, certainly."

He waited, talking to himself in hopes that one day someone would invade the facility, that they'd hear him and let him out. It hadn't happened so far.

Solitude made the years pass much more slowly. The Mirror Lands didn't exist in the City, but what Evan McCulloch dubbed "Mirror Hallways" did; enter one mirror, have a pathway between it and another, lined with the "windows" of other surfaces. It was pitiable compared to what he was used to, but sufficient, and it quickly became not just where he slept but where he lived, 24/7. For years he stayed in there alone with only his thoughts, an occasional Mirror clone to hold conversation with, and enough Scotch and cocaine to keep him company and keep his thoughts far, far away, peering through the windows as briefly as he could so he was never spotted, at least for not more than a second. Sometimes he lingered for longer, not deliberately but because sometimes he hung there in the moment, senses dulled.

"Aye it's gone right to Hell out there, hasnae it? Aye your mum, it's cozy here. Ya cannae call me a feartie-cat when it's pure survival, awright -- naw, away and raffle yourself ya tool, I dinna have time for your mince and greetin' now-- they're fine, see..."

He talked to himself, or muttered, constantly to fill the silence. It was habit now, his mind naturally filling in the other parts to conversation. Though what he saw most of was his own reflected face, what he watched for most consistently through his "windows" were glimpses of the other Rogues; he wanted to make sure they were alive, but he didn't want them seeing him. He had built a safehouse years ago underground with no doors or windows -- just a single mirror in the corner -- that he had never offered any of them. But he would, if they needed it. That's what he told himself. But they were alive. So was he. His hair was grayer, his hands always shook, his sense of time passing was not what it should have been. He didn't even want the drugs or the alcohol, he realized the sadness there, but in the end he came back to them always. Wonderland was so much nicer than what reality offered.

The last several years had given Jessica a newfound appreciation for having a normal life. Not that taking off her clothes for money was exactly normal, but it did afford her the ability to care for her daughter and grant her a comfortable, if somewhat modest lifestyle. Jaime never wanted for anything, and Jessica never put herself at serious risk in order to provide. And that was what mattered most.

Jaime had saved her mother in a way. Temptation was everywhere in the Miami heat. It would have been so easy to fall under the spell of a man or a drug or money. But Jessica was under her daughter's spell entirely. It was a position she'd never ever thought she'd find herself in, loving another human being so completely that she'd do absolutely anything for her, even spend her nights in a seedy strip club, bilking idiots out of their money.

Of course, that was before Laura arrived to take them out of South Florida and onto a new adventure. Five months on the road with a mutant assassin for hire and a five year old certainly put things into perspective, and when Laura's work brought her back to the City, Jessica decided it was high time she put down some roots in the place where it all began. An apartment in Brooklyn was obtained and Jaime was enrolled in the neighborhood public school. Laura came and went on her missions, leaving enough cash that Jessica wouldn't need to work to maintain their lifestyle-- especially not in a topless bar.

Sure, somedays she was worried about her cover being blown. But the City was as big and bustling as it ever was, and she hadn't spotted a single familiar face in the two months she'd been back. It had been six years, after all. What were to odds of her running into anyone who would recognize her.

Captain Isabela, self-proclaimed terror of the seas, could be found at her burlesque joint. The Siren's Call III had been seen drifting somewhere along the Jersey shore, but still, no one could find hide nor hair of where it was docked.

Nor could anyone find the pirate wench as she took her usual, hidden route to the City, pockets heavy with coin from trading stolen resources she nicked from company and government ships. It was all very black-market-y and unsavoury, but Isabela enjoyed these dealings very much so. Just like the good old days. Shame Hawke couldn't be around to see Isabela re-make a name for herself.

She probably would have been disappointed in her anyway, Isabela had a good habit of disappointing those she admired.

In any case, her and Cross had made sure the burlesque club was kept from the government's watchful eye; it was a place where the trusted imPorted and trusted non-imPorted could mingle, have a good time, and enjoy a good show and a strong drink. The women were handpicked both based on looks, and how well they could keep a secret, same with the bartenders and servers (though there was more variety regarding gender, attractive men with nice arms and a handsome face, equally pretty women, and some who found themselves in the middle of masculinity and femininity).

She still hadn't developed a taste for pants, even after all these years, though her outfit had gone through vague changes over time, and though she were a few years older she still looked relatively the same. The years of salt and sun actually did this woman good, even if she had a few new scars. She was as healthy as a horse and for whatever reason, never came down with any sort of ailment.

She still attributed it to sheer luck.

Isabela was making her rounds at the club however, drink in hand. She was checking to make sure everything was in tip-top shape, flirting with customers and workers alike, and seeing if any familiar faces had decided to show.

Len rarely wore the costume anymore, it was a dead giveaway. Imports wore costumes, normal people wore clothes. It was ratty and old, stained and torn and never fixed because this universe didn't have a Gambi, and no Rogue wore a costume that wasn't made by Gambi.

The recognition was why he pulled it on now, and for all its age, its wear, its tear - putting it on made Len feel like Captain Cold again. The droop that had started to plague his posture started to straighten, as the feeling made him feel like standing taller. He was a Rogue, and that meant dealing with things.

He wasn't sure where to start looking for the Rogues, most of them. Mirror Master was both the hardest and the easiest - how do you find a man in a mirror?

Cold found a nice deserted parking lot, and pointed his finger. His gun had been long since destroyed, but the Porter granted powers replicated it nicely. He starte shooting ice everywhere, not caring whether or not it resembled a real room, making as many reflective surfaces as possible, in all different sizes and shapes.

"Mirror Master." It came out rougher, quieter than he intended.

He spoke again, raising his voice, trying to get back that old command. "Mirror Master, you there?"

"I NEVER WANTED IT TO BE THIS WAY, YOU KNOW."

Sometimes, in the dead of night, Mitchell Hundred, when he was in the silent dark of his cabin, could actually speak candidly. Adrian Maskin was a front, and since the attempt from Edward, he pulled everything. No media appearances, no radio. No nothing. No net interviews. He had internet, of course, but that's because the area was wired for it, but he wasn't paying for it, he didn't have to. He just commanded it, of the machines, and the data opened and flowed.

He tried to remain untraceable. His old mansion, it was already on the market. He was here. He'd never left much of a trace, anyway. He'd cleared out what he could, burned the rest. Adrian Maskin had to be a ghost. He had to vanish.

So he did. Mitchell had gotten surgery again. He'd had to. People were looking for Adrian Maskin, not the man who looked somewhat like the ex-Mayor of the City, minus the eyes and the hair, and the odd scars. The only thing of Maskin left were his books, and he would not stop with the writing. Mitchell didn't like being threatened, he didn't abide by assassination attempts. He was used to this, although this is the first one he'd felt honest to god fucking fear for his life.

And in the woods of New York, the state, he tried his goddamned best to write, and not think about the attempt on his life. He thought about his enemies, Edward now among them, in the ranks with Pherson, was he even around anymore? He didn't know. He was glad he didn't know.

He dictated to the lone machine from his past sometimes. Cut off from the rest of the network, it had taken the role of his jetpack, and the old communicator from days long gone sat in the middle of his living room, silent, as if he were waiting for the old network to be reactivated.

Edited 2012-05-19 17:55 (UTC)

It was boring, slow in the secluded location. Nothing to pass the time, only silence. He wasn't even allowed a radio anymore, they didn't bother giving him books. He used to enjoy the silence. He could sit for hours in his penthouse, hours, and just work, interfacing with seven different things and not feel the strain. But he couldn't do that anymore. The locks on his brain, if he tried to remove them, he would die. Instantly. They were clamped in, and he couldn't take chances with his life, not when the consequences would hardly be to his liking.

Ghost had come by, once, and offered to kill him. Out of mercy. Carol had been bringing him pictures of Clint and Bobbi's kids. He was missing things, he was offered a mercy death. It was all he could do not to accept the offer.

Tony Stark rarely gave up, but he was on the edge of things. Teetering over the edge. But information, even fragments, was enough to get him going. Enough to motivate him to look further.

He had an idea, but he didn't know if it would work. He'd been here for years. He needed out.

Edited 2012-05-19 18:45 (UTC)

It wasn't the Iceberg Lounge. Under "new management", of course, it had needed a different name. It spoke not just of a change in ownership, but also the 'disgust' for the import who'd run the place. Now he had something entirely innocuous, unimportant, boring. But the change had done wonders for the suspicious police who'd wondered why Cobblepot would just give up, and leave.

They'd looked, but he was smarter. Far smarter. They were practically simpletons, but they just didn't know how this worked. He was from Gotham, he'd outsmarted Batman! If anyone could make it, it would be him.

He had meetings arranged, but they had to be done carefully. Those who did get them were fortunate, lucky souls.

But they met Cobblepot, they had a free, very expensive drink, maybe a smoke, if they wished. He was nothing but a gentleman.

The deals were all some people had, after all.

Xanatos had given any concept of morality up long ago, as he heard the screams of the imprisoned imports. That could have been him. That wasn't going to be him. He was going to make sure of it. So, he sold his soul to the government. He had risen up through the ranks of the Secret Police and, after one failed attempt at double-crossing, had put a lid on his treacherous ways. Mostly. He still concocted elaborate plans in his head, plans that he knew he would never implement.

Besides, he actually enjoyed this. He still could build. After all, the government always wanted better prisons. He finally had his exosuit and was constantly tweaking and adjusting it, making it better for combat, better to catch rogue imports. And Khisanth...she was something else. He idly looked back on his past sometimes, trying to befriend the gargoyles, and that made him laugh. She was so much better than anything he had seen back home. She was stronger, more powerful and, unlike Goliath, actually got along with him.

He was older now, gray creeping into his beard and ponytail. He still tried to keep in top physical condition but he had noticed he was getting slower, that his reflexes had dulled slightly. Oh well. All the more incentive to work harder. Besides, the exosuit would fix some of the defencies.

He visited the prisons now and then, partly to talk with the prisoners and partly just to remind himself that those people could have been him. He made the right choice.

The City. Damian wasn’t sure what continued to draw him back here—no, wait, that wasn’t right. He knew exactly, but didn’t want to admit it. Life hadn’t been easy for the past decade, and that had created fissures between him and the people he had grown up with, and perhaps cared for. But even as he sunk further and further into the persona of the Bat, he couldn’t forget them. At least not entirely. So he returned here, every winter.

He always told himself he wouldn’t approach, that he would observe from a distance. But even now he was horrendous as keeping his cool. And also his distance.

So when the City is visited by Damian Wayne, it was something like the place’s worst-kept secret. Certainly, there were some who knew how to find him, or some he’d seek out.

It wasn't a competition. Isabela was not a business woman in the slightest unless the dealings were made in a dark shady place and the goods were stolen and uncouth.

Which is why she actually somewhat admired Cobblepot's take on this whole crackdown business. She caught word of him from her own dealings in the black market, and knew that while on the outside his old lounge was under new management, she knew that deep underground that wasn't the case.

How? Well, she just so happened to have found the secluded little office after she spent a few weeks frequenting the place vaguely undercover. She was a criminal herself, she knew the ins and outs of shadily running a business after taking up her own with the burlesque club. At first, it had been just to see where the other people frequented when they weren't at her club, but then it evolved into something a bit more...familiar. Poking and prodding when security wasn't looking, disappearing into the shadows under a cloak of cover. Seeing who really was behind this place.

One could say her interest was piqued when she heard who the former owner was. Some of her weapons for her crew, after all, did come from him through roundabout dealings.

So why not thank the man? By entering his office unannounced of course but hey, she was a woman of style.

"Nice place you got here."

It took a couple of weeks for the birds he sent out to find Hundred, and a couple more for the birds to return with directions. in the end it was Pherson's parrot that found the man - no matter how much he disguised himself, how hard he hid, that parrot would recognize that voice anywhere.

Pherson had no car, of course. He travelled by foot, by moose, by horse. Another couple of weeks went by, but he was patient. He had waited so long already, listening for word.

Now, after all these years, maybe his brother would finally hear reason.

He had long since forgiven Mitchell for his murder (at some point he had been ported out, and lived in his home world for just enough seconds to die), or at least, the time had made the sting ease again. He had lived so long without hearing the invaders. So long since he'd spoken to another human.

Pherson did not hate Mitchell Hundred, but he was drawn to the man, regardless of time and space, regardless of context. They were brothers, in powers and in homeworld, now and forever.

A simple knock at the cabin door seemed so anti-climatic.

One, two, three.

He was running, running fast into the woods and as far as possible. Like nothing could stop him, and in a way, nothing really could stop him. Not the authorities who'd long gave up on trying to catch up with him and certainly not the blood running down his face. Eventually he had to stop, to catch his breath and to scout his surroundings for the people after him.

Clear. Quentin checked his surroundings again. Clear- wait. There was something close by, something mechanical. It even seemed... oddly familiar. With caution, he stalked the trail of thought until he was at the door of a house. It had to be who he thought, it just had to be or else he was risking to come here for nothing. 'Honestly Quentin, it could be a trap.'

Casting doubt aside, Quentin knocked on the door softly. Knock, knock, knock. A pause, there was no sense in knocking urgently, it could scare away the person... but after a thoughtful pause he knocked again.

Knock, knock, knock.

The City had not be kind to itself--rather, the government had really fucked it up. Going back was basically the last thing Rikku wanted to do, but word about her friends, people she loved, being hurt and tortured and spirited away had reached her, and she had needed to go back. To check up, to see if there was anything she could do. Because even after 1.3 kids, she wasn't going to just sit by and do nothing. Santo had understood, of course. He'd promised to take good care of Chavvi as long as she took care of herself and baby number two.

It had taken her two weeks of staking out Tony's house-arrest house for her to figure out a way in.

Dressed in all black, hair stuffed up in a beanie hat, he'd crawled up the side of the building, through an air vent, and dropped down into his bathroom (after making sure he wasn't there, of course). She didn't know what was keeping him from leaving--a few guards shouldn't be enough. But that was one of the billion things she planned to ask.

Rikku pulled off her hat, gently patted her belly (not quite showing yet, but she would any week now), and stuck her head out the bathroom door, with a loud whisper.

"Tony?"

It was getting cold in the City.

Not really Autumn, but not yet Winter, the City was stuck in-between seasons; and, some might think, in-between times. Reports from the Resistance were good: they were making progress, things would get better soon. But the average import had yet to see the results. Nill knew how rough it could be. She had been lucky so far with her orphanage. Because she took in import and native children alike, she was usually left alone.

But there was always the occasional troublemaker, as evidenced by the threats spray-painted into the orphanage's lawn that morning.

She had taken care of it before the children had woken up, of course. Cut the grass, painted over the remaining insults in greenish-brown. But the years had made Nill just a little bit colder, a little harder. She wouldn't be sleeping that night. She'd be up, Heine's gun in her lap along with a book, sky blue eyes glancing up now and then from the pages, shifting in the armchair in which she was seated. She wore a camisole, her wings (still small, but proportional), free from the confines of the jackets she usually wore.

There was no guarantee that a foe (or friend) would stop by that night. But waiting was something at which she had always excelled.

It was almost cruel how kind the years had been to Gemma's appearance. She looked just like her mother: all fiery red hair and upturned green eyes. If she had been in her world, and Mother still alive, the two would have been almost indistinguishable. When Father had called her "Virginia," he hadn't been that far off. Because she was just like her mother: vain, fearful, headstrong. It was uncanny.

She'd been kicked out of her first London flat after a burst of magic had shattered all the mirrors and windows.

But things had settled down, for the most part. She was welcomed at the library, accepted. Nobody asked what happened when she disappeared for days on end. Nobody questioned her when she simply walked out of work in the middle of the day. She thought they feared her; it seemed like an acceptable assumption. She feared herself sometimes, so she couldn't blame them.

The days dragged and spend by. Some days she would wake up, and she'd be in the City, in her old townhouse, still immaculate because of the lingering magic in its sturdy walls. Others, she'd open her eyes in the middle of London. But he never found herself in Bombay, never home. But that was okay. She didn't want to go home. Because how could she even live there now? Her memories had all but faded. She couldn't even picture Tom's face, or Kartik's, or Felicity's or Ann's anymore. Only Mother's, each night before she went to sleep.

It was a mystery where she would wake up, but one thing was always the same when she did: she would get up, dress, and leave whichever house she was in. And her day would be spent wandering, wondering what to do, how she had gotten there, how she was to get back to one place or another. Some days she got along just fine, recognizing friends, saying hello, acting normal. But those days only lasted so long.

Nobody knocked. Nobody knew where he was. He'd been certain, careful in his work. He'd had to be. If anyone found him, they'd either been stalking him by satellite, or they had alternate means. Someone, an old ally, should have been able to pass within a mile, and never know how close they'd been. He was paranoid. Too paranoid. It was probably just a hiker. Someone who'd gotten lost out in the woods. Was there a storm coming? Maybe some idiot kid had gotten separated from their group.

He moved silently, trying not to alert the other person that someone was home. Maybe if they thought he was out, they would go away. Or they might break in. The place was obviously wired for power, although the lines were underground. There were telltale signs. He peeked through a peephole after tip-toeing up to the door, careful and quiet.

And motherfucker.

Oh no. No, no. He stepped back, his foot falling heavily. It didn't matter that he was older, oh fuck no. He knew as soon as he knew he would be recognized even without his tell-tale scars. Even with the contacts. Even with the dyed and shorter hair. It was blonde now. He looked his age, in that respect, but his face was too smooth, too few lines to be the fifty year old man they'd be looking for. Even if he felt his age. He stepped beck from the door, fumbling, hands searching. He needed a gun. Where had he put that gun? He tried to listen for it, but it had been ten years since he'd seen hide or hair of Pherson, and the shock of his archnemesis was enough to make him sick.

He didn't say anything. He didn't acknowledge that he was out there. He kept looking through drawers, listening, before his hands closed around the black metal. He hadn't kept one of his own guns around in years. Too easy to figure out who he was. It was just a Beretta, but they shot bullets well enough.

For Helena, winter was marked by her brother's return to the City and his sudden presence in their lives again, just as the thaw meant he would disappear again. It was something she'd become accustomed to, something she'd silently counted on once the weather began to turn cold and the leaves began to fall from the trees. And, in some ways, she was now accustomed to actually considering Damian her brother, though he continued to confuse and frustrate her half of the time. She was sure she'd never understand him the way she understood Dick. Perhaps Damian could say the same of her.

Now the temperature had dropped again, signaling that Damian would return, if he was still alive. There really wasn't an if; Helena knew he was equipped to survive and handle anything that was thrown his way. Still, something about his departure still left her feeling angry and unsettled, and she worried for him in spite of everything that had ever happened between them. He was still her brother, whether he wanted that role or not. Part of her would always be worried for him, just as part of him would be angry at him for leaving all together and another part would love him unconditionally.

As it was now, she set about making silent preparations for him. She was never sure just when he would arrive, only that he would, and that when he did he'd probably want a nice, welcoming bed waiting for him. This was something she did for him out of habit now, without Dick knowing, without telling Liam.

Damian had a place. All he had to do now was come and claim it.

He didn't get visitors. He didn't want visitors. It was a) difficult to write with people around, and b) a fucking bad idea, especially when there were import visitors. The few he saw, James and Zatanna came quietly, silently, and vanished the same way. Teleportation, or spy skills, either one was nearly unbeatable.

But the knock was hard to miss, and a check of the door, moving silently filled him with pause. Familiar, maybe. At least a little bit familiar. He wasn't sure who. He cracked the door, it strained at the chain, it wouldn't open any further, he didn't peek through, they couldn't see his face.

"The fuck are you?"

It had been almost two months now since Max Gibson was last back in the City. One mission out of it had turned into another, her time perpetually not her own but given over wholly to the resistance.

She always would come back in the end, though. It was, after all, her base of operations and the center of the Import community still, though she barely considered herself part of that community anymore.

And this time there was more than one thing calling her back. Things were converging, to some extent, and after a few messages she'd received she'd decided she wanted her feet on the ground in the middle of it, ready to go whenever and wherever she was needed. So she'd wrapped up an intel jack and caught a flight to a smaller, less guarded New York airport before taking the train into the City.

It was a fair day when she stepped off the train, tugging her baseball cap down closer over her head. Black haired, average height, average weight, unobtrusive and middle class clothing, a first glance at her was likely to be the only one. She was insignificant, precisely how she liked it, and she took a deep breath of City air and sighed it out.

There were destinations in mind. A Resistance stronghold, for a debrief on her work. Ghost's latest bolthole, to put her bags down and see him, though that one would wait a little longer until she had time to steel herself against the inevitable sorrow of seeing him as he was now. It never got easier. The grocery store for food, a pool for a swim - it had been a long trip away. Messages had been sent out to a few of her contacts to inform them of her arrival. If anyone needed her they'd reach her. Sooner or later she would need to go visit Dick and Terry before they heard she was here and tried to track her down.

Home is where the heart is. Her mouth shaped the words almost absentmindedly as she walked, mocking but still half sincere.

The walls of Julian's cell were covered not with paper and dates, but with simple scratch marks. With no windows, the lights on and off at hours at a time, Julian had no way of knowing what day it was.

A scratch for every day he calculated had passed. He tried, he really did. He listened carefully to what people said, if one of the guards wished another a Merry Christmas. He listened for the change in shifts, the casual banter. But clues were so few.

Sometimes he counted, seconds to minutes, minutes to hours, trying to count out a day - but he was only human. The utter crushing feeling when he lost count wasn't worth the attempt, but he would keep trying anyway.

With his powers suppressed he couldn't summon monsters, or even feel the urge to summon them. He didn't want to use them to destroy anything. He no longer wanted to commit crimes. He just wanted to know the date.

He begged for the date. Hour after hour, year after year.

The guards were told not to tell him it, and after every denial he slid to the floor and curled into a ball and counted the seconds.

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