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OOC. I’ve been feeling really bleh lately on this blog, BUT I just redid my theme and I’m gonna get started on replies !! At the very latest I’ll do them saturday/sunday because work has been so annoying and tiring.

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OOC PSA. so I’m out of town and actually at d/sney for the first time EVER and it’s so freaking cool already, but I had a 11 hour bus ride then gift exchanges and dinner and walking around AND basically i was planning on replies but I am the sleep instead. I’ll be around soon, I’ll try to get around to it in the next few days

xoxo gossip nee

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MEDIA.

  IT TOOK TWO TO TANGO, and Sweeney was proving himself to be a most unwilling dancer. PUT ON YOUR FUCKING RED SHOES: there was a saxophone and a bass to lay down a melody, a HOOK for every dolt to feed the EAR WORM that lurked in the bar. He wouldn’t fucking sway, he wouldn’t fucking dance – expression twisted; that DEAD-EYED look vanishing as he PAINTED AN OVERTURE upon his face. Contempt. Rage. Real and raw emotions he’d covered with a mask: Sweeney’d been TALKING TO A FACELESS MAN until now, a hollow man, a shell of a man. WE NEVER LOST CONTROL: We were the world / the flow / the product. Beneath the neon lights, Bowie looked like HELL: the thin white duke in the bathroom had taken its toll and left him STRUNG out.    “I know you.” So sure of himself; he parroted; nails tapping against the sticky, lacquered wood of the counter that had seen too many Belfast bar fights. “You think he owes you a FIGHT. Maybe you think you owe a fight. Either way, you’re both looking for some fucking skulls to crush. You understand why World and I do not want this. Needless bloodshed that could be avoided with an UPGRADE: you have no purpose now, Sweeney. You’ll have that again, and MORE if you sign on.”    FOR IN TRUTH, IT’S THE BEGINNING OF NOTHING. Sharp as a double edged sword, twice as deadly. How did it feel to merely EXIST? To get by on scraps of belief brought on by fucking cereal and Disney films. Clap if you fucking believe in faeries that GLOW ! Nails dug into wood. Dragged. Gouges were left in his wake; patience wearing thin. No, he won’t dirty his suit: won’t have the Children do his fighting for him. REBEL, REBEL: he won’t rise to the sidhe’s bait. Not here. Not yet. It’s a STRANGE FASCINATION: it’s the fucking third cosmopolitan he’s ordered talking; downing it in another gulp like a man dying of thirst.    His smile was HOLLOW: it had worked on countless fans; studio big Whigs. But not Sweeney: he was only good at acting if the audience BELIEVED in him. This one did not. IS IT ANY WONDER YOU ARE TOO COOL TO FOOL ?    “You’ve helped to create a fucking powder keg I’ve got to diffuse, Sweeney. Shut up, sit down: drink and fucking FORGET all you’ve done in the old and new world. DON’T LET ME HEAR YOU SAYIN’ LIFE’S TAKING YOU NOWHERE – It fucking isn’t, Sweeney. We’re fucking it, babe. You understand?” A deep breath: his nostrils flared and his eyes BURNED. Music shifted; STATIC underneath it all. A bad signal. “FREEDOM: THE LESSON WE MUST LEARN: We’ve given them purpose again. A chance to be as they were. You sit here in this bar, you rot. You wait for a man who doesn’t give a fuck about you. YOU SAY YOU FIND IT HARD TO LEAD THE LIFE YOU ONCE KNEW – There’s no going back. Only EVOLVING. Wednesday will kill you. You will be forgotten; maybe come back as Lucky if I have my way. Would you like that?”

  Eyes narrowed: steely BULLETS that zoned in to their mark. Every old fuck and their mother thought they could hide from him: thought they could simply press a button and be rid of the World’s right hand man. As if his eyes weren’t everywhere: as though his voice had not touched everyone somewhere, somehow. YOU CAN’T IGNORE THE MEDIA. Vinyl platforms hit the hardwood: the chair grating and squeaking as he pushed it back; leaned until he was face to face with the drunk son of a bitch who acted like he had a CHOICE.   “I have made it.” A murmur; he’s uncomfortably close; can smell the cheap shit on Sweeney’s breath from here. “You’re a COWARD, Mad Sweeney.” 

     IT WAS A SILENT CHASM that exposed itself to Sweeney. A silent terrible thing breaking wide open and breathing hard breaths into the world. In a moment Media was ALIVE --- dazzling technicolor come to life in 3D  not the flat one dimensional STANDEE that’d been before him. And Sweeney thought, for a moment, terribly ---  f i n a l l y. Now this was a fight, this got the blood pumping something he could sink his fucking teeth into.

The false-faced God spoke with the same full bodied ARROGANCE that spoke of not believing in a higher power. Not, in part because they WERE the higher power --- BELIEVED with all their might that they truly were the superior one. And belief, even the belief of a God was a heady, powerful thing when it was wont to be. Enough so that they could speak in damnable circles around him, spitting words like bullets. Pinhole moles carved entry wounds into constellations. 

THE PITCH WAS A TECHNICOLOR NIGHTMARE. a laugh riot of pointed words striking at the soft points, an aching red heart burned by gold and buried in the cool earth. Words of power were thrown out like blunt instruments and Sweeney’s smile was ALMOST the curve of a splash of blood. 

                                                         PURPOSE.

What good was a purpose to a man who’d cast his aside ? CURSED, Mad Sweeney was, and damn it all whatever the fucking saint had laid on his brow it’d done more than it said. More than Sweeney could have FATHOMED. 

He’d been a king, he’d been in love with the green of his land and the people who’d claimed it. He’d been a king with gold and armies and a family to protect ---- enemies to fight. He’d held the gift of the sun in his hands and lived a life so long it seemed that the shadow on his sundial would never move. Mad Sweeney had no use for purpose, he was outdated, obsolete --- that didn’t mean he couldn’t still take the job he was given. 

No love for this land --- no respect for Grimnir, but he has the bloodrage of a battle. The pounding war drum of a heart, the grit teeth, jaws locked like the wolf Fenrir. He has his humor. His raucous CRACKED, mad and moody and violent laughter. 

His voice was a whisper --- thick and almost sweet. 

“    ATTABOY -----   BABE.    ”

Sweeney surged forward, buzz sliding away against the tide of LIQUID fire in his veins, adrenaline burning it out of his system so quickly it was a wonder he wasn’t letting off steam. No thought, no planning, THE POWER AND PURITY OF INTENTION. There’s blood in his mind, behind his eyes and in the snarl of his teeth. There was a WAR to be fought and Sweeney wanted it to begin now, in this bar at the end of the world, with his rage and his beer and the pain of his skull --- more heat than sting. 

He was red, alcohol, exertion and the flush of blood to the surface of pale skin, his grin was the edge of a coin --- the feeling of a decision freshly made. His stool had toppled over when he’d stood, long legs swallowing up space, forcing him to tower over most. He was intent, single minded in a way that spoke of screaming hunted rabbits and the foxes that came to feast.

“ Go on then ! You bloody cunt. The PARASITE of America ! Purposeless ! I may lack purpose but it’s a far cry better than you --- lacking a REAL name, lacking an identity. B A B E.  Who are you ? Everyone or NO ONE ? Show GRIMNIR your power, the power of so-called GODS who haven’t heard even a WHISPER of a fucking prayer to their names. “ 

He’s a snarl, one long roiling thing, angry dogs finally unleashed tearing through his chest to snap at his vocal cords, running, chasing out of his mouth. 

                 MAD SWEENEY LIVES UP TO HIS NAME TONIGHT

“  You peddle glamoured garbage and say Grimnir offers nothing  ----  a war was promised and a WAR IS COMING, whether i live to see it or not. You name me COWARD. You ?  “

He felt the starburst of pain in knuckles already hardened to rage, toughened by fighting, he had never, as he could recall, punched the glamour of a dead man in the face until now.

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HARRY.

    – Harry was Fonding™.

His smile at MJ as she posed and asserted her benevolence was soft and warm, heating his heart and making his diaphragm flip flop in his tummy like a French squid hoisted up by the line onto a pier, wheezing its last breaths and squirming about on the tarred wooden slabs. In a good way, though.

    “– Alright,” he raised a shoulder, utterly indulgent and Soft. He retrieved the tokens and gestured at the arcade in general. “– Take your pick. The arcade’s your fuckin’ oyster and all that crap.”

       MJ always felt a small thrill of pride at being able to make Harry smile a REAL smile. MJ, aspiring actress that she was, felt like she could probably teach a course on Harry’s smiles and all the different, colorful, occasionally COMPLICATED meanings ascribed to them. This is the one she liked to think of as Hers. She’d never seen him smile like that at anyone else, maybe Peter, she wasn’t sure. 

She scoffed and punched his arm lightly “the whole world’s my friggin oyster Harry, the arcade is just our one stop shop for tacky neon, sticky floors and me kicking your ass at ---” she dragged him to the nearest, brightest machine without a line, directing him to it with a flourish “whatever this is” she squinted. “Kung Fu Panda  --- apparently.”

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WINN SCHOTT

“Somewhere between a little and a lot, probably?” It takes him a second to realize that she’s making fun of him (approximately as long as it takes for her to get to the next sentence), and he points at her in an ‘I see what you’re doing’ way. “I’ll trade you, Hancock for Hancock.” He didn’t know why he’d just called it that. “You know, John, not… Well, American Revolution. Not Will Smith.” His already overeager hands mime signing something and Winn urges himself to just… stop. Anytime would be good. Preferably now. Thankfully Zatanna derails his mental train, otherwise it would have just kept speeding along uninhibited to his doom. “I’m sure you’re not shitty,” he argues, figuring that even number two in Vegas was still better off than… any other magician he hadn’t heard of. “I can’t confirm, but I am denying.” Worrying for a second that he’s made her uncomfortable, Winn’s relieved at the clarification. “You and pretty much everyone else when she’s not around.”

The one second of reprieve from being a train headed for a cliff is so short-lived. “I wasn’t- I mean I didn’t mean to,” he lowers his voice a little, concerned for the first time since their conversation had started that his coworkers might be able to like… hear them, “objectify you. I just thought… you were… a deity?” Oy.

“Truly, that’s a great estimate.” Her eyebrows shot up and her smile wouldn’t seem to leave, it was like every time she thought she’d slipped he caught her, mainly by cushioning her fall when he hit the floor first. “Oh good, I don’t know if I can trade in anything but the founding father kind. If you sell it on eBay, I want you to know I’ll be a little bit grumpy.” Zatanna hadn’t been fishing for compliments, she just figured she could use a bit more work, and if she were being honest she didn’t have the heart for fishing, or hunting for that matter, no patience, and well, the fact that she was a vegetarian sort of gave away her opinions on animal cruelty. “your denial is all well and good, but it’s just a river in Egypt.” She laughed at his words, a helpless noise that escaped her in a rush of breath, that curved her shoulders in and forced that incorrigible smile to spread wide again, she felt warm. Or at least her cheeks did, it was possible she was blushing. This wasn’t the first time she’d been called a deity but it was the first time she thought someone had meant it sincerely.  

“I’m no deity, no worries here, if I was a god I think I’d be a happy one, or I’d try to be, goddess of the happiest memory you have. That’s a bit specific isn’t it?”

He’s awkward and eager and he just gave her a compliment so sincere she’s almost sure he didn’t mean for it to come out of his mouth at all and she doesn’t know what to do. It feels like the ball is in her court but honestly she doesn’t know if they’re playing catch or baseball and he’s got to run a bit more before he gets to where he needs to be. 

He should run a few more laps. It’s possible she knows nothing about baseball.

“you hallucinate a lot ?? Or are there just gods ad goddesses walking around National City ??”

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WINN SCHOTT.

“I’ve shaken what I would say is a significant number of hands in my life and it’s like, people have this stigma about guys in I.T. about how we’re not tough and don’t have good handshakes or whatever. But I mean if you think about that, it’s an erroneous stereotype because we’re literally using our hands all day typing. So they’re strong.” Okay he probably did not need to go on a rant about handshakes but here they were and he couldn’t really take it back now so forward was the only way to go. The nervous energy propels his hand behind his head to sort of fluff his hair at the back. “Yeah, I know, you hold like, records.” There’s a full beat before he remembers to tack on, “Right?” Because he’s not like. A fan. Like he’s not not a fan but right now it sounds like he’s a fan and like he isn’t. He just knows stuff. About things. Yikes.

He lowers his voice, turning a little so his body is angled away from Cat’s office. “It’s nice to meet you too. But maybe we don’t, um, mention that? Like maybe that little slip could stay between us?”

Zatanna’s smile was an amused tilt to her lips as she raised a single black brow, “oh, really ? and just what would you consider to be a significant number of hands ? I need to know if I’m talking to a hand shaking celebrity. I might need your autograph.” She glanced at his hands with a stifled grin, struggling to be deadpan. “Really, I’m very impressed with your strong hands.” She should take that back...She’s not taking that back.   “Records...yeah. Records. Not like my friend though, I can’t get out of a straight jacket upside down held by chain in like, eight seconds, he’s got me beat by six and it’s killing me, really, so much. I don’t know how he does it ! He’s killing me, Vegas #2 act right here. Number two because I’m shitty.”    Zatanna shut her mouth with something that was almost a snap.    “Can---Can we rewind back to the speech about your hands ? That felt safer. Not that I don’t feel safe...I’m really glad Cat isn’t here --- I mean Ms. Grant.”

Zatanna smiled at him, off centered and awkward and every bit like the girl who’d worn braces from age twelve to fifteen and who’s braces had subsequently blinded paparazzi for years.    “Can we go back to when I was walking through the doors and you thought I was hot, and your friend left you to the wolves ? That was a good time.”

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STEPHEN STRANGE.

Maybe it was too many incidents with being manhandled in his work - too often by tentacles but that was a different matter - but getting handcuffed and heaved in the clink was one of his least favorite life experiences. It wasn’t necessarily worse than dying. He’d been there and done that too. But it was its own version of hell, especially when whoever did the handcuffing and incarcerating were clever about it. He had only a vague sense of how long he’d been holed up down in the basement cell they’d been keeping him in given there were no windows. The brick and mortar walls were old and didn’t display any signs of updating, so he knew at least that whoever had gotten the drop on him weren’t necessarily a part of a better-funded organization that could afford more modern holding cells.

More disturbing than them not being the best-funded kidnappers, however, was the strength of their magical wards. There weren’t many cells on Earth that could keep a lid on him, but this one, with the help of the beset silver manacles they’d kept him tied up with, had been doing a frighteningly good job. He didn’t like to think that meant they knew who he was or what he was capable of, and he liked even less to mull over the fact that no one who knew who he was knew where he was or would care to look for him.

He’d been trying to push the limits of the manacles and the room’s wards when the door was burst in, flying off its wrought iron hinges and onto the floor. Though the room wasn’t large, he’d still been standing far enough away that he hadn’t been at risk for ending up underneath it. Having dealt with little more light than a fading bare bulb had allowed, he put a hand up against the glare of the light from the hallway as his eyes adjusted. “Please tell me you’re the cavalry.”

( @messwrites )

     Zatanna wasn’t too good with the swooping in to save someone thing , (okay, that was a lie) she was great at it ( but only if there was magic involved) there was no magic involved this time. At least, none of hers. Which, was sort of the whole point with Zatanna, sure, she could hold her own in a fight, and she was damn good at it, but she wasn’t called the princess of punches. Zatanna Zatara was the Mistress of Magic, and without that she was kind of just a bad fishnet kink waiting to happen.

    Of course. That was without the idea of explosives. Se wasn’t Captain America here to storm the place, knock out the guards and break the cell down, she wasn’t the Hulk or Thor, she couldn’t rip it apart with her bare hands, She couldn’t figure out the code to the lock pad or even rewire it, she could however, get her hands on some explosives. 

   A creepy cult was kidnapping magic users and locking them in cuffs ? That was a job she wasn’t saying ‘no’ to, no matter how bad the pay was. 

“I’m really glad the door didn’t hit you, mainly because you’re not on your way out just yet, and because that’s an awful saying. I don’t know about cavalry, don’t exactly have the horses for it but --- let’s get you the fuck out of here.”

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FRANK CASTLE. 

Frank presses the keys of the car into her hands after he remote unlocks it,  blood smeared all over his fingers and body because it’s pouring down from a spot in his bicep that he hadn’t seen until just now.  He’s a little woozy,  too,  lightheaded from the blood in his mouth,  the blood pouring from his thigh and his arm and the ringing in his ears.  Group could only do so much for him — he still has that same stubborn streak,  the drive to do everything by himself with no help even if it’s a detriment to him and hell,  he could use Claire Temple’s help with his bum arm and leg and the fact that he’s bleeding absolutely everywhere,  enough to leave a trail of blood in his wake. 

When she starts talking to him,  he bites back the urge to let lead eyelids shut,  as much as he wants them to,  fights to keep most of his body weight off Claire even with his shitty leg and arm and how everything feels fuzzy.  The pain’s different — he can deal with the pain,  can always deal with the pain of it by escaping,  however briefly,  in the recess of his own mind with whatever it has to offer.  It’s always been that way. 

But he doesn’t retreat there,  not yet.  

“Not that I know of,  ma’am,”  Frank answers dutifully,  opens up the passenger door to climb up inside,  loud grunts escaping from the exertion of it all,  safety clicked on the gun before he sets it in the back.   “I ain’t drivin’,  I ain’t drivin’.   You don’t look too good yourself,  though,   Claire.” 

Now doesn’t seem like the time to keep up formalities,  so he doesn’t.  His gaze flicks to her leg,  bleeding everywhere too,  and the two of them are just a mess,  aren’t they?  He feels even worse for her getting in the crossfire of the Kitchen Irish’s crusade for vengeance on him for wiping them all out a year or so prior.  “No offense.  Your leg looks painful.  I can take a look at it,  when this shit’s all over.”

He pulls his phone from his inner pocket with his good arm,  types in the address and sets it on the spot on the dashboard,  Bluetooth playing the directions over the speakers.  

“Did I mention I’m sorry?”  it’s sheepish,  a stab at very dry and probably unfunny humor.  “For uh,  getting you involved.”

          --- her sigh is one part relief, three parts surprise. 

it’s a half understood cocktail of emotions at the idea that she received less talk-back from Frank Castle: the Punisher than she did from any of her other so-called ‘charges.’ her fingers scrabble over the blood covered keys and she’s silently grateful for the way cars unlock with a muted click and a small flash of light, no horns to announce their location or the way they’re all but hobbling away from the debris....not that the blood trail wasn’t enough of a dead giveaway. She told herself it wouldn’t matter as soon as they were out of there. As soon as the place was a shadow in her rearview that blood trail wouldn’t be doing much more than pooling in the floor boards. She hoped, with a distance sort of thought, half fuzzy , that he had a good cleaner for this sort of thing. 

      “lemon juice and ginger ale.”      she circled around the front of the car, hand trailing across the hood for support before she’s climbed into the driver side, seat belt buckling with a click.    “for the bloodstains I mean, though I guess you’re going to be ditching this thing anyway.”    the engine comes on with a click and a dull roar, she’s just grateful it doesn’t sound like a woodchipper raring to life like she’d feared. she knew it was a hit and run but the paranoia seemed justified.   “you probably already know how to get rid of blood stains anyway.”   she’s driving before she even really knows where she needs to go, talking because she knows that her voice, rough with pain and just this side of kind might be what he needs to stay awake and out of a coma. 

the Punisher knows her name. The Punisher knows her first name. She’s on first-name basis with the Punisher. How, exactly did this become her life ?

     “let’s worry about you first, alright ? after that ? i’m all yours, Frank.”     she followed the directions, smiled, small and mostly to herself at frank --- being Frank. bluetooth and google maps. average. ordinary. everyday. she huffed a laugh. yeah, this was her life.  “the leg isn’t the worst and it’s not the last either. You don’t have to, y’know, apologize. It’s not your fault, not really, I got dragged into this when I found a vigilante bleeding in my dumpster. after that ? it was all me. I just keep finding things like this, people like you, i’m basically a magnet and i’m not going to let anyone die on my watch, okay ? i took an oath, as far as i’m concerned you don’t need to apologize, but since you already did ? apology accepted.”

    she pulled to a stop at the address, already mentally cataloging what household supplies she could use if he didn’t have a fully stocked first aid kit. the idea of him not having a kit was marginal, the idea of his kit being fully stocked ? the idea seemed impossible. he was human, armor aside.    “you ready for this big guy ?”

( @warjournaling )

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WINN SCHOTT.

The click click of heels is now coming towards them and if there was an emergency panic button Winn would totally press it. Probably better that there isn’t one because he can’t be tempted to press it. But mentally he’s slamming that eject button and getting himself out of this situation. James is leaning against his desk looking all casual and like a GQ model and Winn is… Winn. And Zatanna Zatara is headed towards them. Like at them. To them. And then oh god she’s there and she’s saying things.

James is shaking her hand. Like right in front of him. “James Olsen. My friend,” he gestures at Winn who’s sitting in his chair smiling up at her- or at least he thinks he’s smiling, it’s difficult for him to tell right now currently- “was just asking about you.” Wow. Way to throw him under the bus. It wasn’t bad enough that Winn was a hobbit existing next to Viggo Mortensen- not even Aragorn, just Viggo in all his rugged glory- but James had to go and draw attention to him.

Winn stands up and smooths his tie again and he’s definitely smiling now because holy celebrity, Batman! “Hi. Yes. Winn Schott.” There’s a beat where he shakes Zatanna’s hand and vows silently to never wash that hand again before he remembers she mentioned an interview. He glances over at James, eyebrows asking if he knows anything about that, but James holds both hands up, palms-out, in the smoothest beginning to an exit Winn has possibly ever seen. “I’m going to let Winn help you out with that.” Great. Cool. He was alone- sort of- with one of the best performers he’d ever heard of. But like also he fought threats to the planet Earth with a secret government organization as a side-gig so maybe he’d be fine.

“So is- uh-is your appointment with Cat? I mean, Ms. Grant?”

Wow. Firm handshake, James Olsen had a firm handshake, and whoa -- what a good friend Zatanna’s own friends had literally pulled a How I Met Your Mother and just up and abandoned her. She needed new friends. Not that she had that many and whoa, okay, confidence boost, not the pity party train leaving the station with a passenger of one. 

She grinned at the handshake,    “you have no idea how many people go all limp wristed on me, I think someone actually turned my hand once. I was honestly afraid he was going to try to kiss it or something. If I can escape handcuffs I think I can take one measly handshake.”    she paused, heard her own voice betraying her by saying words and hurriedly back peddled.   “which I know I can do for my act ! I’m an escape aritst ! I’m not just like, running from the police. I mean --- you have a nice handshake  ?“

     She was a disaster. And James was backing out in one of the smoothest moves she’d ever seen, she should grab the desk, what if she slipped on how smooth that was. 

      “Nice to meet you Winn ! And , uh, whoa, you call her Cat ? And you’re still alive ? You’re not like, secretly undead or something, right ? I thought saying just her first name was enough for her to sicc wild dogs on you.”

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STEPHEN STRANGE.

For being someone so well-versed in the mystical arts, I have the shittiest luck of any human being I have ever met. Because leave it to me to go down the rabbit hole through dimensions and wind up in the 21st Century version of the Court of the Borgias.

Still, he did have to be grateful, as she said, that she had found him first. He had no inkling what he would have done if he’d been faced with the likes of criminals she talked about… save for the man-eating alligator… man. He probably would have been a bit shocked just on principle, but giant lizard men were relatively plebeian for him given he’d been molested by Shuma Gorath multiple times and even gotten poisoned with demonic bacon by the daughter of Satan. Giant scaly things were like comparing Harryhausen works to Weta.

He blinked slowly, still trying to process how a mortal man in a bat suit surprised him more than a giant lizard creature. “Okay I could handle the Godzilla wannabe but you lost me at the bat man who may be human but dresses like a bat to fight crime?” He shook his head. Magic users being reclusive and singular was at least a relative constant, though he was perturbed at the idea that there was no overarching structure for magical beings in this plane of existence. It sounded… chaotic. But then again, that also seemed to be par for the course for the world that contained Gotham.

Snapping his fingers, the candles blew out and all of his meager materials levitated themselves and compressed into the small leather satchel he’d picked up at a thrift store he’d rifled through earlier. “I’d say it’s sad to be leaving home but… with the prospect of having a man eating gator-man as a next door neighbor, I can’t say I’m as fond of the place as I was five minutes ago,” he said with a smile. He focused his energies for a moment, battening down on his fear and pulling his magic inward, resurrecting the shields that had been shattered from his fall through the dimensions. “And I would say I’m just a New Yorker, but I don’t know if New York exists in this dimension, so that might not mean anything. Damn shame if it doesn’t - the food is fantastic.”

     June chuckled even as she rolled her eyes and lifted her hands in the approximation of ears, index fingers pointed to the sky as her hands pressed to either side of her head. She wrinkled her nose and pitched her voice as low as she could manage.     “I’m the goddamn batman ! ” She dropped her hands with a one shouldered shrug as if to say ‘what can you do ?’   “For the record ? He’s surprisingly effective, and horrifying, he’s like Gotham’s own avenging...gargoyle. I feel like there’s a few too many broken bones to qualify him as an angel, but the crime rate is looking....less horrible.”   June had her fair share of run-ins with the at, though it was more fair to say that Enchantress had. 

June bit her lip at the thought of Enchantress, a realization dawned on her as she watched him and his small show of magic, nothing so fantastic that a small breeze couldn’t have just as easily accomplished it as well, but -- magic nonetheless. 

       “Crocodile.”     the correction came easily, no thought to it before she paused to smile,      “Waylon’s all croc, it’s sort of his supervillain alter ego. Killer Croc doesn’t make sense if he’s a gator.”      The sudden decompression of magical energy felt akin to an airplane stabilizing after take off, it almost made her ears pop, she blinked, once, hard, against the discomfort. 

   “We’re practically a hop and a kip from New York, rest assured, I’ve had real New York pizza and ---”    she shrugged the memory tinging her voice with amusement   “I’ve even had four AM china town drunk food.”   it’d been fresh off the success of a dig, she’d uncovered new intact clay pots, not exciting for some, but to an archaeologist it may well have been gold.

June moved to lead him out of the labyrinth that was Gotham’s sewer system, counter intuitive if she’d ever seen it, and finally allowed herself to ask what she’d been stewing over. Enchantress was from a different dimension, and well --- so was he.    “do you have a lot of experience with different dimensions ? You’re handling this a loot better than I would have. There’s a lot of magic here. Enough to drown in if you wanted to, we have, something like rules, I’m just ---”   what ? wondering if an ancient Mesopotamian goddess had escaped and if she had a penchant for possession ?    “I guess I’m curious.” 

[messwrites]

Does anyone else just get super happy when they see your partners response to the thread?? Like you just fell so giddy and excited because their writing is just amazing and you’re just so happy because your muse gets to interact with theirs and you just freak out because holy shit this is so cool and this thread is just amazing

Because I do, like almost 99% of the time I’m roleplaying with someone

[messwrites]

WINN SCHOTT.

It’s sandwich time. Winn’s got the sandwich halfway to his mouth, an unnecessarily tall sub loaded with golden pepperoncinis, some of which are dangling precariously out the other end. But he stops. The action figures on his desk, with their big eyes and large heads, are watching him. They’ve been participants in enough mid-morning desk battles that he’s good to just let them live their lives alongside him but now he feels… judged. Lowering the sandwich, he reaches over to turn them around. Better. 

Satisfied, he resets the sandwich’s course. 

This time it gets all the way to the target- his open mouth- before it comes to a screeching halt again. He never even sinks his teeth into the bread, distracted by the veritable goddess who’s just walked out of the elevator onto their floor. 

He forgets about the sandwich entirely, but not before setting it back down on the desk. 

“Are you seeing this?” It’s a whisper to the Stormtrooper, who only moments ago he’d turned to survey the office. The ‘trooper is as silent as he usually is, and Winn’s busy dusting crumbs off his shirt and tie and trying to make sure said tie doesn’t look like he let it sit crumpled in a chair all night even though he had. (Thankfully it’s woven and the wrinkles come out when he smooths it down his front). 

James chooses this moment to ask him a question and Winn nearly jumps out of his skin. “How do you do that?” His hand is clutched over his chest as he turns a little in his chair so James can see how close he came to having a heart attack. It’s written all over his face. “Look, nevermind. Do you see-” He makes the smallest gesture he can at the space the woman was occupying only moments ago, “-Who is that?” It’s almost a hiss, because they’re in an office made up of a bunch of half-cubicles, not at a football stadium. “Is that who I think it is?”

“Zatanna Zatara?” James offers too loudly in his stupidly beautiful baritone and Winn considers that hell might be a place on Earth and it’s his desk right now. 

@messwrites

Zatanna knew, objectively knew that she had a interview Catco. It wasn’t like the last time she’d had an interview there she’d still been rocking her disastrous mid-length perm and thought that hot pink lipstick was going to be her brand. Zatannna had made a lot of mistakes in her life, she could admit it, or, she could admit it in the sweet privacy of her head at least.

She’d been all set to swoop into this office dressed to the nines in heels that could kill with hair that looked like it was too scared to do so much as move one iota of an inch out of place. Which, she succeeded in if the looks she got were any judge, she hadn’t counted on the lack of sleep, first from anxiety over the chance to show Cat freaking Grant that she wasn’t that same kid as before, and half because, oh did she mention that she’d been called in the middle of the night to deal with a freaking haunting at three freaking AM. It made sense, y’know, the witching hour. haha, what a riot, except Zatannna was about to freaking riot in the privacy of her skull because ha, ha-ha, Cat Grant !!

Her internal core meltdown which was seriously about to include def-con sirens and probably some red lights flashing for mood, was luckily interrupted by someone all but yelling her name. She knew that sound well, it was something people had done to her, though, having it done at her was a surprise. 

Success in the looking killer department. At least there was that. 

“Hey !!”    It was enthusiastic, maybe a little too enthusiastic, whatever she felt great all of a sudden, confidence boost hell-o.   “Pretty sure I heard my name, either that or someone was just asked what noise a bee makes. Zatanna Zatara ??”   she put her hand out to shake,    “almost positive I have an interview scheduled today.”

[messwrites]

ALEX DANVERS.

Alex’s first instinct upon waking up is to reach for her gun. There’s the initial uncertainty upon waking, the not knowing where she is, the fact it takes her a few moments to remember what happened; and then there’s the desire to reach for a weapon. There isn’t one within reach though. The gun, along with most of her tactical gear, has been taken away, leaving her in socks, black combat pants and a simple undershirt.

Her body aches, but probably not as badly as it should. She feels the tight grip of the bandages around her ribs and on her arm. Someone patched her up, and Alex doesn’t have to look very far to work out who it was. Wonder Woman. The name comes back to her. She looks different without the armor, still powerful and strong, but less like an alien goddess and more like your regular, tall, insanely attractive human woman.

In spite of her initial instinct to reach for her weapon, Alex doesn’t feel threatened. The room she’s in feels like a makeshift infirmary, kind of like the one they have at the DEO, but not quite as technically advanced. It feels very much like a one-woman operation. That makes sense. Most aliens can’t exactly go sign up to work for a government agency just like that, and most of them don’t want to.

“Hey,” Alex groans, trying to sit up and then thinking better of it when she feels the sharp pain in her side. Okay, it’s not life-threatening, but it’s definitely going to be sore for a while. “Where are we?” she asks, and then the more pressing question hits her mind, sending a chill down her spine. “My agents… did they make it?”

Diana didn’t register the other waking at first, hours of silent vigil had her dropping her guard, the fact that she didn’t view the other as a threat warring even with the book she held in a loose grip. She turned to the agent in the bed beside her, all of her attention focused back on her, cataloging with her eyes the mental state of who had accidentally become her patient. 

She seemed clear headed at least, no glaze to her eyes, a clear speaking voice and seemingly a recollection of what had happened, Diana shot her voice toward soothing, clear and confident as she addressed her. 

“No casualties or serious injuries were mentioned in any news outlets.” she smiled, lips curved up in what she meant to be compassion and not pity. “they seemed fine when I left them, strong pulses and no terribly mortal injuries.”

The Agent seemed to be taking this in stride, she was strong, mentally if not physically as well and Diana felt a sort of kinship with her, obviously a fighter herself she didn’t feel comfortable asking her to bend her rules. Though if she wanted to remain as hidden as she was, she’d have to. 

“Let me know if you need anything, food, water, a change of clothes...I’d prefer if you didn’t tell the FBI about me.” she didn’t want to threaten her, though she leveled her with an almost severe look. “I doubt you’d find a way to while you’re here.”

[messwrites]

[messwrites]

MEDIA.

  “YOU MAKE NO effort to hide yourself. Of course we know you. Of course World knows you.” A threat lingered behind speech: dark and heavy and thick as the BASS that hummed behind him; THE RETURN OF THE WHITE DUKE in his poly-blend suits and his powders and creams. “YOU DRINK TO THE MEN WHO PROTECT YOU: Wednesday remains evasive. You do not. Tell me, Mad Sweeney; why look for a fight when we do not want one?” Incorrect. The war had already started. Strange deaths made STRANGE FICTION: why not add an archaic king to the mix?    Wiry fingers wrapped around the stem of a dirty martini glass: drained it of the NEON cosmopolitan and left fucking LIP GLOSS on the rim. The ‘clink’ was dull ( FAME PUTS YOU WHERE THINGS ARE HOLLOW ! ); head tilted in interest. “I COULD MAKE IT ALL WORTHWHILE AS A ROCK AND ROLL STAR for you. Whatever you need, honey. We can provide. I can provide.” Amiable. Slick and smooth as OIL: he’s been in the back hyping himself up with a little white line: THROWING DARTS once more. “We can get your kind the RESPECT you once had. Make you feared again: feature films, fuzzy sightings that appear on the news: BRANDING AND REBRANDING. Let us help. We want to help.” WOULDN’T YOU LIKE TO BE A REGULAR SUPERSTAR?     On edge, the facade threatened to slip: STARMAN had gone back to live LIFE ON MARS. Try as he could, he could only pretend for so long. His patience was THIN ICE: cracking as Sweeney continued to press. Keep going: the waters were DARK AND DEEP; suffocating. 

  “Wednesday will discard you once your uses have run out. You will be less than NOTHING without him. You know this.” TURN AND FACE THE STRANGE: turn and face the NEW WORLD ORDER with the face of it before him: GLEAMING and smooth; crafted of pixels and RGB lights. “Will you FADE, Mad Sweeney? There’s no GLORY in that.” Better to go out in BLOOD than to be forgotten; then again, that would take the utter obliteration of Lucky fucking Charms. Fat chance: kids loved sugar. “WE CAN GIVE YOU GLORY. We can give you gore. We can give you a fight, if you’re looking for it. But not here. Not with me.” The suit was a BURRETTI: vintage and pressed and clean: he’d not get blood on it tonight. Not here, not now.    Lips quirked: smile tight and thin and HARSH: there’s teeth there; waiting to BITE. “Oh, YOU PRETTY THING. You’re scraps either way; for the crows, for the wolves: for WORLD when this is finished if you remain as Wednesday’s man.” Eyes narrowed: SNAKELIKE and cold at his cheap party trick. PYRITE: legends remained true. “If a prospector bit that, they’d call it false. You’re only as rich as you pretend to be, Mad Sweeney. You’ve no hand left to play.” 

          THEY’RE RUNNING IN CIRCLES. they forget who it is they’re looking to BUY. under the hills is a place even GODS fear to tread. know the POWER of the good folk, and know that they are not always so good. there to help you one day and hurt the next. DEMANDS pressed with violence, a knife’s edge of divine ICHOR wasn’t enough to sway the folk. the one named, deity was a shuddering flickering nightmare, hazy and INDISTINCT  between the layers of make up and shellac, the funeral pall of the lights washing out the man and the suits. sweeney knew SPECTRES and mists, knew concealing fog and wandering blind.

Mad Sweeney of the Tuatha Dé Danann did not need to attempt to hide.

     WORLD. to sweeney, in his bar at the END of the world, half tipsy on shite beer and half high on the adrenaline of a BATTLE of words. what did he matter to the cursed king. he KNEW him. he scoffed before exposing the long lean line of his BARED throat --- a dare --- as he drank the last of his bottle. 

“you know me.”   it’s hard edged, sharp, like a line of broken glass, like the chemical drip of cocaine.   “you know why I want a WAR you don’t ?? ”    his teeth shined dull in the light, the reflection of the warm bar lights shone as blood before it faded, merely light again.   “you know me don’t you ?? you SHOULD know.”

     he didn’t bother to BITE back the harsh laugh that escaped him, harsh like  a crow’s caw. a REBRANDING, skin burnt off and stamped over, sleek, fake new skin to cover the SCARS, shiny like the cover of magazines. fear no fall. no brawl. no scars. his tongue flicked out, licked the taste of cheap beer from the corner of his mouth, RAN over the sharp line of his teeth. 

“what I need. what do you know of my needs, eh ?? Boyo. I drink vile fuckin’ dirty mead and I’m WEDNESDAY’S. I belong to the bloody day of the week, that’s more then what you can offer me, eh ?? Me.”     because sweeney knows what he’d CEASE to be if he ever took their deal, thicker, blacker, more vile and choking sweet than any honeyed mead he’d ever had to swallow for wednesday, he’d surely CHOKE on their hand fed lies. a spoon full of sugar makes the MEDICINE go down all right.     “a fat lot of good your happy little placebo pill does for you lot. for the bloody NEW gods that follow you. they forget they were free once too ?? better to chafe under a stern hand then bleed under some chains, yeah ??”

    the thing is, they mean to lay him bare, STRIP him of his defenses and his loyalties, but they must not know him. must not know him at all. he was a king once, aye it’s true. a king. a bird. he flew stark raving mad from the battle field, and it’s a TRUTH of him. cursed to wander the earth NAKED, flying to the spear that would END him, because, see now. sweeney has been laid bare since then, no thought, no feeling, no word, not completely TRANSPARENT on his face. and HONEST MAN made of a warrior, a liar, a con man. no wonder he’d always been in need of LUCK. 

“PRETEND is all the gods have, you lot of con men, fake it until you make it. enough people BELIEVE and it doesn’t matter if it’d been one big lie at the beginning does it ?? SELL yourself some where else. this RELIC is changing the channel.”

[messwrites]

GRANTAIRE.

A nod, a salute, and off Grantaire was to his bedroom, convinced that he would easily find a book that could hardly even be called literature, as Bahorel had just implied. He had read more horrible novels than he could count, and every single one of them had been painful and hilarious alike. After a few minutes, he returned to the living room with two books, smirking.

“It’s your pick still. Shitty young people novel with the most fucked up teenager relationship ever or historically accurate and yet horribly written mystery novel.”

Bahorel made himself comfortable in his wait, stretched himself out over the length of the couch and left space only for Grantaire. He was not adverse to being used as a pillow and as it were, he’d always been one of the most affectionate of their friends, willing to press a kiss to a forehead or pet through another’s hair. He grinned at the other’s return. 

“Hmmmm, you might as well ask me whether to die in fire or frost. Tell me about the shitty teenagers.”

[messwrites]

KARA DANVERS

Giving in to her tendency toward the dramatic, Kara presses both hands over her heart and gives Lena her best schmoopy eyes. “Aw, honey, that’s so sweet.” It’s said around a smile, all too easy to be playful when Lena was meeting her halfway. Which was most of the time, even if sometimes it took a little more wheedling.

The sudden flip of her stomach could be the elevator beginning its decent, or it could be how carefree Lena seems in this moment. Lena’s laugh is good. It makes Kara feel the way saving the world makes her feel. Like if she did nothing else her whole life except make Lena laugh, that’d be grand. But she’ll settle for as often as possible in between bouts of superheroing. “For shore,” she manages, an agreement and a pun all in one.

Above and beyond? That is kind of Kara’s thing. Could she honestly say she treated Lena the same as her other friends? James, maybe. But she’d wanted to kiss James. Could she honestly say she hadn’t thought about kissing Lena?

That thought had no place in their elevator.

“Best friends, if you need a qualifier. Your Kara, if you want to get really specific.” After all, it wasn’t like Lena could walk into Costco and pick up any old Kara. At least, Kara hoped not. She loops her arm through Lena’s, a perfect fit, and begins to direct their continuing adventure towards the door. “I’ve got you.”

Kara looked at her, eyebrows drawn and eyes almost shining out of her face, the amusement an false affection only half the truth because even Lena, half starved for approval and genuine care could tell that Kara’s eyes were always affectionate when they looked at her. If she ever doubted Kara’s friendship and caring she need only look into the blonde assistant's eyes. They were, after all, windows to the soul. 

“Oh you know me, Sugar Lips. Anything for you.” it was surprisingly easy to match Kara, word for word, dramatization for dramatization, and it was a truth almost universally forgotten that Lena Luthor spent more time making herself and her image palatable for societal --- and often time layman consumption that she was relieved when she was met on her own level, where ever that may be, by anyone without the stiff arm of competition to sour it. “oh, come on Kara, that was awful. Terrible even. A travesty.”

Lena’s smile was a wide stretch of lipstick covered lips, genuine “or if I want to be extremely specific, my best friend Kara.” she ignored the way her stomach tightened at the mention of Kara being hers, pushed it out of her mind with a viciousness reserved usually for her brothers many, many life sentences. Her heels clicked and she let herself be steered, guided, something she generally abstained from, hated with a fierceness. 

“yeah, you you do.” 

it was stiff, too heavy for the moment and in the interest of it not falling flat to the floor the moment it left her lips she smiled, shook her head minutely, enough for her hair to shift as if in a breeze. 

“I mean, today’s your day afterall, you saved me from my brain melting.”