capeandcowl2020 | Open Post 002

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Open Post 002

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Back in the City, like many others, although he had no idea of it. The once Mayor was back on his old stomping grounds, with purpose of course. Purpose spurred, or maybe inspired, by someone who had often nudged him in the right direction so long ago. Paranoia made him fear, paranoia made him lock himself away, and how safe had it kept him?

It had led to an assassination attempt. By the very same man, no less, but Edward was...a special case, to Mitchell. It was dependency, in a way, a social fondness that he'd never been able to shake. Maybe it was because he'd thrown himself into everything, against his nature, or maybe Mitchell was a closet Gotham rogue fan.

He'd never thanked him, of course, for nudging him back this way. Not that it was something to thank for yet. He had barely begun, but the call for words was too enticing to resist.

One of the real reasons he was here, other than to make connections, and get his face out there. Oh, he likely would have come anyway, but this time was chosen not by him.

But he waited, for the person he needed to see. Hands in pockets, head down, but Edward knew his face. He still didn't know how he knew, but he knew.

It's not the City, that Sherlock finds himself in, so to speak. Just outside it, actually. He rarely stepped into the City, features that stood out, movements that revealed him to be import simply by existing.

Ah, but the Shade loved the world. He walked and stepped where he wished, and stood in crowds all over the world, with little trouble, or little question of his identity. The issue was that he didn't trust the City, after discovering with a few close scrapes that perhaps the enforcement would be able to stop him.

He traveled, walking shadows and listening where he could. People didn't look for imports so much outside of the City. This was where they were thought to congregate, and many did.

Today, it was New Jersey, the scene where they had first met a haunting specter, much like the clocktower that loomed above. The Shade stepped out of the shadows, darkness clinging and dripping off of him in ways that it had only suggested before. He spent much of his time walking in the shadows, and it was having an effect. He was starting to forget that he was human again.

"Mr. Trevelyan, was it?" his voice, even, sounded different. Oh, not in timbre, or tone, but in accent, years without speaking wiping away the years of removing inflection and tone. He sounded more authentic to his time, even as he tipped his hat.

Edited 2013-03-04 20:03 (UTC)

[ Was he a fucking idiot? Mitchell maybe could have done something, anything to get them someplace the cameras didn't look, if he hadn't revealed himself to be an import so blatantly. He could feel the hairs at the back of his neck itching, tingling, reminding him that they were being watched. Well, not they. He was being fucking watched.

Always.

He grunted in surprise, affecting wide eyes and a cautious stare. ]

I'm fine, thanks for the assist.

[ He was hovering, already backing up, though. He couldn't, wouldn't stay in this spot. He was going to be caught, if he weren't careful. He'd already straightened, a few inches higher than he ever was, thanks to the heels of his shoes. They had been constructed just to make another detail off. The more that he wasn't like Mitchell Hundred, the better. He was thankful for it now.

His eyes blinked. Still without inflection, a softer voice, familiar only to those who'd spoken with Adrian Maskin, he grimaced. ]

You alright?

A little? [ He asked it with a wry twist to his voice, eyebrows lifting, but he holds his hands to the guy's shoulders, trying to keep him grounded in reality, just in case he decided that maybe looking like he was crazy was the last straw.

There were a lot of reasons to be upset with the world, to be discouraged with how things were.

He was of the school of keep on fighting, but he knew he was a rare breed. He fought because that's all he knew how to do, but he fought in his own way. This world had become more home to him than his world, and while, eventually, he would prefer to return home to do what needed to be done, he had this home to fix first. ]

Come on, pal. You look like you drank a few too many fifths, what's going on?

[ His eyebrows quirked at Bradbury, questioning Nelson's actions more than his question. He didn't hear anything wrong, so he wasn't about to go charging into the kitchen like a hyper-perceptive human being. No need to leave anyone with questions about why Maskin seemed just a bit too much like he could hear something others couldn't.

He'd gotten damn good at faking that. ]

Just yell if you need some help. [ He raised his voice for Nelson's benefit, before leaning against the small table with the liquor, finally setting his glass down, and crossing his arms. What the hell kind of a question had he been asked before Nelson interjected? He felt on the spotlight, like Bradbury was hunting for something. Even if he didn't realize what it was.

It left him cautious. ]

Because we don't know anything about you guys, that's why. If we understood imports, maybe this wouldn't have happened. [ He paused, still holding his hands where they were. It was a Maskin pose, something he'd taken on as a part of his old identity, where Mitchell Hundred may have gestured wildly, Maskin was reserved. ]

I don't know about you, but gross breaches of civil rights aren't something I can stand by and let happen, even if it doesn't effect me.

[Vladimir coos in appreciation, nipping Rose's finger affectionately. The note is scrawled in black pen, a familiar orange feather taped as a signature.]

cancel your plans tonight loser we're going shopping

[The crow tilts its head at Rose expectantly.]

Edited 2013-03-04 21:07 (UTC)

[ she grabs nepeta by the wrist and pulls her into the next alley, telling her colleague that she's a friend. it's a bit of running from there, the jammers are active in this area, and she needs to find a window between their range to open a portal from. everything is usually planned so specifically and it's all gone wrong tonight. improvising can take so much work, too many factors to consider. ]

[Davesprite had been about to take off when he spots the blonde in the allyway, blinking curiously and narrowing his eyes behind his shades. She looked familiar, but faces changed over the years and he didn't want to make a wrong call and be caught by such a silly mistake. There was nothing about her that really screamed "import", and so he had no reason to make assumptions.

Vladirmir lands on his shoulder as he climbs up on the railing of the fire escape to observe her. Even if she hears him and looks up, she can't reach him at this height without being an import, he thinks. If she has one of those depowering guns, he can timeshift quickly enough to dodge at least one shot as long as he's prepared.

Just in case, he's careful to keep his shades over his eyes to hide their pigment.]

I'm fine.

[ He wasn't. Not really. But the guy didn't need to know that, and -- shit, what the fuck was he doing? Couldn't he have left well enough alone? He could feel the blood trickling down his arm, soaking into his jacket sleeve and trickling to his fingers, but only just. Good sign, he figured. If there was any nerve damage, at least it wasn't so bad that he'd lost all feeling in his arm.

The other guy seemed his height, or maybe that was just because he walked with more of a stoop now, hunched in over himself like he was trying to hide. Hiding was a good idea, actually, adrenaline making his heart beat triple time as he glanced around the alley. So far, no sign of anyone else, but that didn't necessarily mean anyone wasn't coming.

Not even twenty-four hours in the City and already he was fucking it up. Some things never changed. ]

Get outta here. [ He hissed it out between gritted teeth, hand coming up to clamp over his injured arm, stop the bleeding. What he needed to do was fine somewhere away from here to really sit down and assess the damage. ]

And if you really wanna thank me, forget you ever saw me, all right? [ He was taking a step back, two, farther into the shadows of the alley, swallowing convulsively as the adrenaline left his body shaking. ]

[ It wasn't obvious, how much he'd started to relax against the couch, letting the flow of the conversation carry him, until the shattering of glass broke the conversation and his head snapped up, tension crackling through him like electricity through a live wire. ]

Just don't burn down the place.

[ That was for Nelson's benefit, though his eyes didn't leave Maskin's face, watching him speak. The slight frown furrowing his brow might have been faint concern, or maybe having to concentrate past the soft fog the medication cast over everything. Finally, he snorted, leaning back against the couch and tipping his head back against the couch, shutting his eyes. The years had faded it to little more than a thin, silvery line, but there was still a scar on his chin that cut through the stubble, and he lifted his good hand to rub at it with a finger as his mouth crooked into wry, tired smile. ]

Yeah, well. Hopefully a bestselling author has better luck convincing America's middle class to give a shit than -- [ My boss, he almost said, but choked on the words before they could even get out, swallowing reflexively before he fought it down. ]

Who knows? Maybe you can be the hero we needed all along.

[James would have done the same in Silva's shoes. It's that agent training coming into play, combined with mass amounts of common sense and a need for survival. The fake death was a nice touch. His own decisions hadn't been entirely different, but there'd been the added help of a magical girlfriend who could constantly teleport and disguise the both of them. Even then, James and Zee had hidden away, just like Silva, keeping a low profile and watching closely at the ebb and flow of resistance fighters and the opposition, while doing their best to reach out a silent hand of support to those that needed it.

But support like that needed more than just a helping hand. It needed fake documents, information gained and numerous other activities that weren't entirely legal, especially in today's climate. Sometimes laws had to be broken for the greater good, Bond knew that better than anyone. He even understood it enough to swallow his own pride and seek out allies where he might not have before.

Allies like Silva. Or Tiago. Or Xolotl. Or whatever the fuck he was calling himself these days.

James knew the sort of things his old 'enemy' was capable of. Knew perfectly well how good he was at computers, at watching, at planning. It's the sort of knowledge and expertise that James really could do with having under his belt as an extra contact to turn to when he needs. The past had to be forgotten, what had happened before was another world, literally. Now it was just 'us' and 'them', ImPorts against the world. They had to stick together.

It had been tough to track him down. Near impossible. But James had his ways, much like Tiago had his ways. Eventually it came down to years of searching and a little bit of luck that brought James his success, arranging it all so nicely to have Zee teleport him from afar.

And here he was, in some underground lair that brings back memories from so so long ago, back in England, back in his home world, except this isn't Churchill's old bunker and it's not full of MI6. The surroundings don't surprise him though, all wires and electrics, so typically predictable considering the online movements of this Xolotl. It's hard to expect what else he'll find though, beyond that figure glued to the selection of monitors. A lot has changed since these two last met, and yet James remains a constant as is so often the case. He's not changed, not really. Perhaps a little more rugged around the edges, a few more creases between his brow, greying temples and days of unshaven scruff at his chin that signals he's been a little too busy to consider shaving, but all that is physical and the course of aging. He doesn't bother with the suits much any more either, sticking to a nicely fitted pair of jeans, a t-shirt, and a black bomber jacket, all of which keep him comfortable and are just that little bit easier to manoeuvre in should this meeting go sour.]

Xolotl? Seems rather fitting, all things considered. [His voice cuts through the dim lighting, a little gruffer but just as unenthusiastic as always.]

Have a little faith in me, would you? I do know how to use an oven.

[ He raised his voice again, dropping a dish towel on the mess to tend to as the meat cooked with only slight frustration at himself. As Nelson managed finally, with some difficulty, to heat the stove burners, and put some chicken and beef -- he didn't have enough of either for three -- on a pan, he wandered toward to the door to ask if either man had a preference toward how their meat was cooked. He didn't quite make it to opening the door, though; once he was close enough, he caught a few threads of their conversation and opted instead to put his ear closer to the door in mild curiosity. Even know, talk of heroes always caught his interest. ]

It had taken more than two years for most of Steve's hair to grow back, though nowhere near as wild and thick as it had been before. He had found it startling and strange how incredibly disturbed he had become when it was gone, how much of an identifier it had become. Now with it back, it seemed to dull the impact of his captive years; he was one pill bottle rattle shy of being able to put it utterly out of his mind for a day.

He wasn't going to get far from the effects of that time, certainly, and his dependency on certain elements of that hateful government had ensured a number of poor decisions made – made and in dire need of atonement. Hence why things seldom went off a hundred percent when certain persons were present at that stadium or its adjacent offices.

Not that Steve the janitor and all-around fix-it man had anything to do about it or anything. He just had the keys to every room and facility – no big deal.

Besides, when he wasn't cleaning toilets or replacing lightbulbs, Steve was often home at a dingy apartment complex, reading manuals or scrawling out another recalled memory of his life in the Wilherser System. It'd make a great book, he thinks, if only doing so wouldn't draw too much unwanted attention to himself. He'd had quite enough of that.

Perhaps, though, if he were to spy a familiar name in the news or on the agendas he spied in executive offices, he'd have one more chance to atone for those awful, selfish mistakes he'd made.

[There's a change in the air, some subtle shift. But reaching out his mild empathic touch yielded nothing. Which didn't mean much of anything, what with all of the people who could block him. He feigned not knowing any better for a moment. If it was a potential ally, then there was little to fear. If it was someone less friendly, well, he has his abilities and his ways. Or maybe he'd take it as a sign that it's finally time to go.

The voice doesn't take him by surprise. He's been expecting James for a long, long time, and finally hearing him, here, makes his shoulders sag, like letting go of a breath he started holding years ago.

None of his security measures were tripped. It means Zatanna helped. It's good to know those two are still together, and he leans back in his seat as he turns to face his guest.]

That was the point. At least I didn't call myself something like 007.

Blue, Soldier Blue, and Someone traveled together, but not always at the same time. Sometimes, Blue opened his eyes first and began to scour the area for lost friends. He was calmer, then, more careful and aware of the circumstances, hazy though they remained. But it wouldn't take long for Soldier Blue to surface and send him away, away and out of sight no matter the cost of detection; he wouldn't know any better.

Someone would cause a scene, would be certain to draw dangerous attention and make his situation more dire than the moment before. It wasn't his fault; he didn't know where he was, who he was, or why he was anywhere at all. Those hazy figments in his mind made no sense until one or the other reclaimed control, and then only for brief moments in time. Or, maybe, days. He wouldn't remember well enough to be sure.

Open fields of wheat or dense subway tunnels...they would flash before his eyes, almost unreal for the moment it took to settle.

Sometimes, one of them would call out, casting caution aside and taking the leap of fath: Somewhere, there had to be somebody who could hear and know.

Where are you? How can I find you?

There was not a whole lot of places someone with rocks for skin aside from...well, remote wilderness or maybe a colony of blind people not prone to handshakes or high-fives. Zelgadis' options had slimmed rather drastically once the shit really hit the fan...not that he was completely devastated (or surprised).

It figured.

Well, it didn't keep him from getting by. He was used to being estranged – hell, he did the estranging on purpose before all this. Magic was handy, as was that whole can't-feel-the-elements, body-made-of-rock thing.

Yeah. He was getting by.

And he had someone to find.

Throughout the day, if she were paying attention to the smaller details -- a flurry of movement here, a shadow out of place there, a silhouette that appears far too often and disappears far too quickly -- she might be aware of the fact that she is being followed. It might even be familiar, if she could recall something similar, several years ago, and bother to connect the two.

Whether she pays attention to these nuances or not, though, later that night -- once she's home and the day is done, sometime in the early hours of the morning -- there is something absolutely familiar about the shape that breaches the locks on her living room window with practiced ease; the way they maneuver their way through the darkness of the apartment suggests that they have been here before, perhaps frequently.

Karkat Vantas hesitates with his hand on a door frame; the one leading out of the living room, into the hallway, where just up ahead he knows her bedroom is located. It's two years since he was last here, two years since he last saw her, and to have her so close after he had expected never to lay eyes on her again lends a surreal quality to the situation. Barely anything has changed over the past two years. It's almost as if his capture had never happened, as if he had never broken his promise to always come back. Well, he was mending that promise tonight, wasn't he?

None of that ensured she would react to him the way she had a sweep ago. He wouldn't blame her if she'd moved on, forgotten him -- he'd be happy for her, once he'd stopped hurting. If he ever stopped hurting. He was never the right choice for her. He always disappeared. He always left. She deserved something stable, someone better. He wouldn't fault her if she told him to leave, but he needs to see her. His heart thumps against his ribcage with such painful intensity that he wonders if it isn't trying to burst out.

"Ruka?" his voice is rough, hoarse from disuse. Words are unfamiliar on his tongue after so long spent in silence. "Ruka, are you awake?"

"I smell a rat."

The warehouse was dingy, nearly without light – not that it mattered. Not to Slo-bo, anyway. Everything was without light for him.

"A rat in a suit."

He remained stretched out where he was, hidden, letting his voice ring out and bounce off the walls whichever way it chose. The interloper was hardly a concern, really, but it was rather annoying to be interrupted. And without explosions, at that. Frag, if you're gonna bother a guy, make it count, right?

"Wrong address. Beat it."

[From above, it's understandable. She'd imagine that people look much the same when only the top of their heads can be seen. But, as of yet, she doesn't realize she's being watched, too puzzled by the dropped wallet. It's definitely the same one the bird took, but why is it here?

It's a bird. She has to look up. So she does, long hair falling over her shoulders as she shifts.

And now he's impossible to miss, crouched on the railing like that. She wants to believe that it's Davesprite--with the aviators and the bird, it's so unlikely that it isn't. But suspicion had been beaten into her from such a young age, and it shows in her blue eyes. Her small mouth stays shut, and one hand holds the wallet as the other remains conspicuously out of her coat pocket. If he's even half as skeptical as he used to be, he'd move at the first sight of danger. She would, too.

But she's not close to being as fast as he is, and she certainly doesn't have the advantage height-wise. So all she does is stand there, watching. Her wings, bound to her back, try to shift beneath her jacket, but it's no more than a slight, odd twitch to the untrained eye.]

Edited 2013-03-05 00:10 (UTC)

I'm rather glad you didn't. [But then again, there's still 007 being thrown around in internet handles across the world, thanks to the die hard fans, although that's thankfully less so these days since the disappearance of canon.]

I like what you've done with the place.

[Said with the smallest of head tilts towards one of the server stacks, a comment more to cover for the fact he's here and has no idea what to say beyond snarky remarks. But then again, that's pretty normal for James.

He does, at least, take the time to observe the other, hands in his jacket pockets as he furrows his brow, taking in the new look. Older, definitely, but hell, the lack of bleach works rather well.]

The furthest she gets in reading the upside-down note is "stop," and then the cover closes. Her gut twists, but she ignores it, as she does most emotions related to pain and regret. The smile on her face isn't entirely insincere when she looks back up to "Penny."

The longer she looks at the prosperous authoress, the more clearly Rose Lalonde emerges. Any sort of overt familiarity might not be a good idea, but she can't help but roll her eyes at the mention of her clothing. She favors jackets and long-sleeved shirts nowadays, jeans and comfortable boots. Modest, inconspicuous. All the better for her chosen profession.

Nill reaches up to touch her own hair before nodding towards Ms. Trate. You look different too, she wants to say. But, of course, she can't. And she's holding up the line, she feels, so she reaches for the book, if Rose will give it to her.

Home sweet home.

[He understands. James was never one to have more than snarky quips, not big on talking, and there's so much ground to cover between them that it seems better to instead say nothing at all and pretend it hasn't been so long. His eyebrows give a slow raise at Bond taking him in, and he spreads his hands.]

Are you surprised to see me, or did you know exactly who was behind the name? I realize I must look quite different now. Getting back to my roots, in a way.

[Had he sensed danger, he might have moved. But Nill was never someone who struck him as "dangerous", even after he had seen her kung fu moves in the flesh. The height helps, and she'll enjoy a nice long staring match with him before the corner of his mouth quirks upwards slightly.

Nill. He hadn't seen that face in years, and hadn't thought that he would see it again after she had managed to ferry herself out of the City. After all, who would come back to a place like this, with its current state?

He takes a moment to glance out toward the street to make sure she wasn't followed and to make sure nobody was paying attention. Afterwards, he turns to Vladimir and pulls out a piece of scrap paper to write on, scribbling a quick note before tying it to his leg. The crow takes off, pen in hand, and swoops down to land in front of the blonde. On it, a simple "hey" in black ink.]

I had my suspicions.

[More than just suspicions. He'd have been surprised if it wasn't Silva sitting before him, best not to make assumptions though. He had to see for himself. It's a strangely comforting sight to have some reminder of home still around, no matter what memories the other brings up (memories which have long since been buried), but home isn't something Bond invests much thought into these days. He's got everything he needs and wants, something as close to a family as he'll ever get, with nothing remotely similar waiting for him back at their home world.]

Old age rather suits you.

Do you think? Grey can be so regal in some ways. As I'm sure you must be told many times by your wife.

[Things that weren't missed: wedding band. Magic is a way Bond could have gotten in without detection, and, well, he can put two and two together. She wouldn't be the kind to be taken out so easily. Also not missed are the greys in Bond's hair, but natural blonds do have it easier.

He stands, beckons James closer. No need to be shy. He even gives a small laugh--nothing manic and patronizing as it used to be. Honest, with a somewhat wrinkled and dimpled grin to go along.]

Have you come to finally kill me once and for all, Mister Bond, or have you come to seek out my particular set of skills?

Edited 2013-03-05 01:02 (UTC)

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Page 7 of 35

Open Post 002

OKAY NOW THAT I'M NOT EXHAUSTED!!!

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open.

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open.

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idk sometime in like 2022

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