quails-requiem

[quails-requiem]

Sink- no, the gig is up.

Or is it?

Requiem's never been much of an actor, not really. They could- but it was just... so much more convenient to reach into the mind and twist. Sharp. Piercing.

Like metal against the mind, impossibly sharp.

...they're bored already.

But it would be... different, they suppose, if they kept going.

I- I don't know! The voice wails. I called out! Nobody could hear me!

I screamed!

I yelled!

But somehow-

Just somehow-

nobody came for me.

It didn't matter. No matter how much I screamed. No matter how much I wailed. Nobody came.

Hah.

Hah!

Why...?

Why does it have to be like this...?

It's a trembling thing, sobbing almost. Choking on laughter that sounds too strained.

Why. Why why why why why why why.

It's interesting, really, to see how far they can go. To see just how many buttons they can push.

It's almost fun.

There is a funeral dirge in Gotham.

It is, as always, a slow tune. Requiem doesn't quite mind.

The city hums a slow buzz, and they let their dirge overpower it.

It's a ringing in the ears.

It's a slow tapping whisper.

Requiem knows that Bernard is rarely alone- but why would that worry them?

They are

of course

not

there.

No, that's not quite true. But they force their will into the collective unconsciousness, twist the strands until there is only one truth- there is nobody there. There's nothing to look at.

Tap. Tap. Tap.

Requiem could, of course, do something blatant.

But causing paranoia and confusion..? ...it's the closest to fun they can get. Perhaps almost satisfaction at a well planned event.

There's a funeral dirge in Gotham- and it's following Bernard wherever he goes.

There's a funeral dirge in Gotham, and it whispers into his mind ear.

Help me! Please...I- can anybody hear me? I'm scared. I- I don't know where my parents are. Please!

( @quails-requiem )

It isn’t surprising to see Bernard with a smile on his face when you first see him; when you first meet him.

No matter how disorderly his life could be, or currently is, that smile was mostly unwavering; his optimism despite the troubling events that surround him bordering on the line of perseverance and ignorance.

Mentally, he knew he wasn’t fooling those close to him. An example being now, where his friend just minutes earlier (worriedly) berated him for not getting enough sleep.

He was tired, exhausted by the danger which plagued him constantly. And who wouldn’t be? Getting kidnapped twice, being forced to be the priest of the cult that mentally and physically scarred you, etc; all he wanted was a break.

(Even though he wasn’t a vigilante, he could honorarily be seen as one due to what he’s been through — he jokes to himself.)

Rarely, though, did that smile slip.

And unfortunately for him, this was one of times.

Hazel eyes glimmer and widen with altruistic concern, and he whips his head around in confusion at the desperate, yet somewhat melodic, plea.

“Huh?! Hello?”

He calls out, much to the bewilderment of his current companion.

‘Did you hear that? I’m not losing it, am I?’

Bernard then silently asks the one whom which he now shares his mind with as his eyes flickered back and forth in a slightly panicked frenzy.

‘I did. It must be the work of something… magic-related. Or otherworldly. Don’t listen to it. I do not trust it.’

He decides to take Talon’s word for now, but his stupidly considerate heart would soon beg to the opposite.

[quails-requiem]

It is easy, perhaps, to fake those cries. (Too easy, perhaps, but they don't realise it.)

( For no matter how in control they believed they were，they still weren't capable of looking back upon themselves in the way that mattered.)

(No, that's not quite right.)

They can sense the wavering.

( You knew, perhaps, once upon a time. )

Hook.

You- you can hear me? I... I've been crying out for so long...

( But you had rid yourself of what you believed worthless far too soon. )

Line.

I called out for help...

but nobody came.

It's quite easy to manipulate the mind when the collective unconsciousness is yours to play with.

They reach out with barely a thought and push there's nothing to be worried about into the mind of the orange eyed person.

They...don't quite care for the other. But it could be entertaining to make the person believe Bernard had simply vanished.

Isn't that reason enough?

There is a funeral dirge in Gotham.

It is, as always, a slow tune. Requiem doesn't quite mind.

The city hums a slow buzz, and they let their dirge overpower it.

It's a ringing in the ears.

It's a slow tapping whisper.

Requiem knows that Bernard is rarely alone- but why would that worry them?

They are

of course

not

there.

No, that's not quite true. But they force their will into the collective unconsciousness, twist the strands until there is only one truth- there is nobody there. There's nothing to look at.

Tap. Tap. Tap.

Requiem could, of course, do something blatant.

But causing paranoia and confusion..? ...it's the closest to fun they can get. Perhaps almost satisfaction at a well planned event.

There's a funeral dirge in Gotham- and it's following Bernard wherever he goes.

There's a funeral dirge in Gotham, and it whispers into his mind ear.

Help me! Please...I- can anybody hear me? I'm scared. I- I don't know where my parents are. Please!

( @quails-requiem )

It isn’t surprising to see Bernard with a smile on his face when you first see him; when you first meet him.

No matter how disorderly his life could be, or currently is, that smile was mostly unwavering; his optimism despite the troubling events that surround him bordering on the line of perseverance and ignorance.

Mentally, he knew he wasn’t fooling those close to him. An example being now, where his friend just minutes earlier (worriedly) berated him for not getting enough sleep.

He was tired, exhausted by the danger which plagued him constantly. And who wouldn’t be? Getting kidnapped twice, being forced to be the priest of the cult that mentally and physically scarred you, etc; all he wanted was a break.

(Even though he wasn’t a vigilante, he could honorarily be seen as one due to what he’s been through — he jokes to himself.)

Rarely, though, did that smile slip.

And unfortunately for him, this was one of times.

Hazel eyes glimmer and widen with altruistic concern, and he whips his head around in confusion at the desperate, yet somewhat melodic, plea.

“Huh?! Hello?”

He calls out, much to the bewilderment of his current companion.

‘Did you hear that? I’m not losing it, am I?’

Bernard then silently asks the one whom which he now shares his mind with as his eyes flickered back and forth in a slightly panicked frenzy.

‘I did. It must be the work of something… magic-related. Or otherworldly. Don’t listen to it. I do not trust it.’

He decides to take Talon’s word for now, but his stupidly considerate heart would soon beg to the opposite.

[quails-requiem]

Please, it wails, all pleading and scared. It rings like a chime, a small child's desperate wailing.

I don't know what to do!

I don't know where to go?

Help me! Someone- anybody-

Is this needed? ...no. They're fully aware of that. The efficient way to do things would be to twist his mind, knock him out, and grab him.

...but there's no fun to be found in that.

Requiem's always played the long game- and an important part of that is... well. Actually playing.

They can taste it, almost. The tiredness in his voice, the ache in his mind. It makes them want to dig their way into his mind and change things up a little.

What? Weren't they doing this for Jacyn...?

...ha. Hah.

Please.

They agreed to help kidnap, yes. But they don't particularly care too much if the child succeeds or fails. Is it odd, perhaps, to consider Jacyn a child when they're no adult themselves?

Perhaps so. But Requiem doesn't care for those little details.

All that matters is having fun.

All that matters...

is finding something actually interesting.

They said they'd kidnap Bernard. They never specified how long they'd take to hand him over.

Please. Why- why can't anybody hear me? I'm right here! This- this isn't funny! Please!

There is a funeral dirge in Gotham.

It is, as always, a slow tune. Requiem doesn't quite mind.

The city hums a slow buzz, and they let their dirge overpower it.

It's a ringing in the ears.

It's a slow tapping whisper.

Requiem knows that Bernard is rarely alone- but why would that worry them?

They are

of course

not

there.

No, that's not quite true. But they force their will into the collective unconsciousness, twist the strands until there is only one truth- there is nobody there. There's nothing to look at.

Tap. Tap. Tap.

Requiem could, of course, do something blatant.

But causing paranoia and confusion..? ...it's the closest to fun they can get. Perhaps almost satisfaction at a well planned event.

There's a funeral dirge in Gotham- and it's following Bernard wherever he goes.

There's a funeral dirge in Gotham, and it whispers into his mind ear.

Help me! Please...I- can anybody hear me? I'm scared. I- I don't know where my parents are. Please!

( @quails-requiem )

It isn’t surprising to see Bernard with a smile on his face when you first see him; when you first meet him.

No matter how disorderly his life could be, or currently is, that smile was mostly unwavering; his optimism despite the troubling events that surround him bordering on the line of perseverance and ignorance.

Mentally, he knew he wasn’t fooling those close to him. An example being now, where his friend just minutes earlier (worriedly) berated him for not getting enough sleep.

He was tired, exhausted by the danger which plagued him constantly. And who wouldn’t be? Getting kidnapped twice, being forced to be the priest of the cult that mentally and physically scarred you, etc; all he wanted was a break.

(Even though he wasn’t a vigilante, he could honorarily be seen as one due to what he’s been through — he jokes to himself.)

Rarely, though, did that smile slip.

And unfortunately for him, this was one of times.

Hazel eyes glimmer and widen with altruistic concern, and he whips his head around in confusion at the desperate, yet somewhat melodic, plea.

“Huh?! Hello?”

He calls out, much to the bewilderment of his current companion.

‘Did you hear that? I’m not losing it, am I?’

Bernard then silently asks the one whom which he now shares his mind with as his eyes flickered back and forth in a slightly panicked frenzy.

‘I did. It must be the work of something… magic-related. Or otherworldly. Don’t listen to it. I do not trust it.’

He decides to take Talon’s word for now, but his stupidly considerate heart would soon beg to the opposite.

[quails-requiem]

OOC: MAMI NO

Is Bernard's mun fine with Benard being kidnapped?

((...i forgot to ask........yea gotta do that))

(( @officialbernarddowd mun i summon you. hello there. are you okay with this?))

[quails-requiem]

(( hi just 2 be clear i was the kidnapping agreement anon so if anyone has any objections to requiem being involved please tell me [since i don't wanna accidentally brute force my characters in there]

IF you guys are agreeable i can send requiem after Bernard?

Is Bernard's mun fine with Benard being kidnapped?

((...i forgot to ask........yea gotta do that))

(( @officialbernarddowd mun i summon you. hello there. are you okay with this?))

[quails-requiem]

Bored again!

[quails-requiem]

ooc art

liar liar pants on fire take the witch and light the pyre liar liar pants on fire the witch escaped you've earned their ire

[quails-requiem]

and i think that if you told me

my words were all but phony

i'd laugh in your face

and eat your skin

[quails-requiem]

ooc: requiemposting,..

they are bright they are shining they are smiles all around until the curtain drops and they are so, so, bored.

they do things because they can. because they have to. because they need to see what happens next.

this isn't about 'right' or 'wrong' it's about what new reactions they can get. they'll save someone because they see that that person will end up interesting. they'll let someone die if they think the death will impact enough people to be entertaining.

corus wayne corvid loves too much. they save everyone, regardless.

quaill's requiem does things purely because they want something to happen. the reason their intro is bright and bubbly is because it's interesting to see how many people they can trick with it!

[quails-requiem]

@songsofbat

[quails-requiem]

-

The body crumples.

The moral compass is dull in their hands.

The body of the child is cold.

Cold, cold, colder than cold.

They ignore it.

Leave it to squirm.

They grip onto the needle.

They release their-

come hang out cause you're outta your mind

The world is scattered emotions. Lingering traces of dust in the air. Corus Corvid traces their hand along familiar brick and hums safety-warmth-protection into it.

Their other hand pressed against their gunshot wounds.

Things that shouldn't exist.

Corus isn't foolish. They know, of course, that they're not bulletproof. That they can't dodge everything.

But they are also aware that that shouldn't have happened.

They weren't visible. Weren't audible. Nobody should have known they were there, because they'd told the world otherwise.

They'd whispered into the web of consciousness that they weren't there. That there was nothing to perceive. It made things easier, after all. Criminals taken down by seemingly nothing.

Corus Wayne does not exist.

But in some flickering moments, Corvus Corvid does not either.

That was one of those moments.

But they got shot.

Twice.

To be shot is one thing. To be shot twice is another.

Because they were looking out the second time.

Because they were searching.

Malice. Anger. Anything- a hint of emotions. Anything that would explain why they were shot at. Who shot at them.

But they got nothing at all.

Shouldn't they be able to know this? Shouldn't they be able to see?

Corus Corvid has never liked guns.

Nobody ever uses a gun for happy reasons, after all.

...some do. Some do. But those are rare, fleeting things that Corus can't quite understand.

Guns are meant to hurt, after all.

Guns are songs of anger and rage, of malicious joy and cruelty, of hope crushed beneath something darker.

So why didn't they sense any of that?

Touching the bullet in their side...they'd felt nothing at all.

Someone being able to see them- not completely out of the question. Someone with mental defences- someone with something like a camera- well. Corvid's whispers of not-existing would be drowned out.

But someone they couldn't detect?

...they didn't like this.

If they thought too much about it, they were worried. If they thought a little more, they were scared.

And being scared is useless here.

Not when whoever shot them was capable of seeing right through them- and hiding away in return. Or at the very least- capable of not letting their emotions leak into the air.

But Corus is very scared anyway.

Isn't that foolish? Isn't that ridiculous?

Thankfully, Corvid is not.

Their golden gaze sweeps over the city, soaring through the world. A bird's eye view- literally. Their heart beats with the bird's, and they let the bird's mind wander with theirs. Just a little.

They don't need to become birdbrained. Literally. Again.

But there is everything-too-little-too-much-nothing-useful so they disconnect to try check with a rat instead.

Or, well, they would, if it wasn't the the immense pain that shoots through their head.

Thankfully, it's not a bullet.

It burns. Clings through their mind an invasive thing almost familiar that taps-taps-taps against their mental shields like a jackhammer.

It is loud, too loud, because people are Loud and Overwhelming and Emotional and they See too much sometimes Hear and Sense too much a trick of the mind and twist of the brain-

but this might be the first time someone's done it on purpose. The first time they've actually been attacked like this.

...they might have preferred the bullet.

Luckily for them, they proceeded to get shot.

...wait, that's not lucky at all, is it?

It's a distraction from the attack on their mind. A worthless, horrid thing.

Just like them. Hah!

...no time for that, now.

An enemy they cannot see.

An enemy they cannot sense.

But they isolated themselves away from civilians for a reason, didn't they?

Gotham is love.

Gotham is fury.

Gotham is survival through it all. Gotham learns. Gotham adapts. And it lives on.

Corus Corvid has always been a survivor.

They press metal claws into the concrete and sing.

It sounds like wailing.

It sounds like sobbing.

Gotham sings back.

The area around them bursts into flame and rage.

And throughout Gotham, a hint of fear and anger juts through the air like electricity.

[quails-requiem]

-

A pity.

Mental energy is wasted on the foolish.

They don't really need a gun for this. Not in here.

But it fits, doesn't it?

Cold metal, unfeeling.

Made to hurt.

Requiem has always loved guns.

Fast. Efficient, if you knew where to aim- and they always did.

It fires.

A dirge rings through the air.

Requiem.

come hang out cause you're outta your mind

The world is scattered emotions. Lingering traces of dust in the air. Corus Corvid traces their hand along familiar brick and hums safety-warmth-protection into it.

Their other hand pressed against their gunshot wounds.

Things that shouldn't exist.

Corus isn't foolish. They know, of course, that they're not bulletproof. That they can't dodge everything.

But they are also aware that that shouldn't have happened.

They weren't visible. Weren't audible. Nobody should have known they were there, because they'd told the world otherwise.

They'd whispered into the web of consciousness that they weren't there. That there was nothing to perceive. It made things easier, after all. Criminals taken down by seemingly nothing.

Corus Wayne does not exist.

But in some flickering moments, Corvus Corvid does not either.

That was one of those moments.

But they got shot.

Twice.

To be shot is one thing. To be shot twice is another.

Because they were looking out the second time.

Because they were searching.

Malice. Anger. Anything- a hint of emotions. Anything that would explain why they were shot at. Who shot at them.

But they got nothing at all.

Shouldn't they be able to know this? Shouldn't they be able to see?

Corus Corvid has never liked guns.

Nobody ever uses a gun for happy reasons, after all.

...some do. Some do. But those are rare, fleeting things that Corus can't quite understand.

Guns are meant to hurt, after all.

Guns are songs of anger and rage, of malicious joy and cruelty, of hope crushed beneath something darker.

So why didn't they sense any of that?

Touching the bullet in their side...they'd felt nothing at all.

Someone being able to see them- not completely out of the question. Someone with mental defences- someone with something like a camera- well. Corvid's whispers of not-existing would be drowned out.

But someone they couldn't detect?

...they didn't like this.

If they thought too much about it, they were worried. If they thought a little more, they were scared.

And being scared is useless here.

Not when whoever shot them was capable of seeing right through them- and hiding away in return. Or at the very least- capable of not letting their emotions leak into the air.

But Corus is very scared anyway.

Isn't that foolish? Isn't that ridiculous?

Thankfully, Corvid is not.

Their golden gaze sweeps over the city, soaring through the world. A bird's eye view- literally. Their heart beats with the bird's, and they let the bird's mind wander with theirs. Just a little.

They don't need to become birdbrained. Literally. Again.

But there is everything-too-little-too-much-nothing-useful so they disconnect to try check with a rat instead.

Or, well, they would, if it wasn't the the immense pain that shoots through their head.

Thankfully, it's not a bullet.

It burns. Clings through their mind an invasive thing almost familiar that taps-taps-taps against their mental shields like a jackhammer.

It is loud, too loud, because people are Loud and Overwhelming and Emotional and they See too much sometimes Hear and Sense too much a trick of the mind and twist of the brain-

but this might be the first time someone's done it on purpose. The first time they've actually been attacked like this.

...they might have preferred the bullet.

Luckily for them, they proceeded to get shot.

...wait, that's not lucky at all, is it?

It's a distraction from the attack on their mind. A worthless, horrid thing.

Just like them. Hah!

...no time for that, now.

An enemy they cannot see.

An enemy they cannot sense.

But they isolated themselves away from civilians for a reason, didn't they?

Gotham is love.

Gotham is fury.

Gotham is survival through it all. Gotham learns. Gotham adapts. And it lives on.

Corus Corvid has always been a survivor.

They press metal claws into the concrete and sing.

It sounds like wailing.

It sounds like sobbing.

Gotham sings back.

The area around them bursts into flame and rage.

And throughout Gotham, a hint of fear and anger juts through the air like electricity.

[quails-requiem]

It doesn't reply- it doesn't have to.

Corvid gets things done, after all. And are they not a Corvid too?

Everything ends up a means to an end.

They see a mindscape oh-so-similiar to their own. A mental world of sprawling stars. Of people placed upon pedestals so high you can't see the top.

But this isn't what they came for.

Quail's Requiem is not a fool. Entering another psychic's mind- even if it is a version of themselves- is a risk.

They stare at the mimicry of Wayne Manor in the distance. ....worthless.

A field. There's a child sleeping in there.

...

Best to let sleeping dogs lie.

They're not meant to be here, after all.

Doubts well from the ground. Not their own. They ignore the purple beasts and move on.

The path is a song.

Songs of a bat.

They don't care much for that, either.

When it comes to that dark haired child... the only way forward is down.

Doubts that cling. Regrets that drop weight. They shoot them all down.

The gun rings hollow in their hand.

The room is a deep, dark thing.

Crosses on the walls.

A bedroom once loved.

This, they recognise. If they think too much, they hate it.

"Hello." They tell the child on the bed. Their smile is saccharine sweetness. "Could you show me what's your hands, please?"

come hang out cause you're outta your mind

The world is scattered emotions. Lingering traces of dust in the air. Corus Corvid traces their hand along familiar brick and hums safety-warmth-protection into it.

Their other hand pressed against their gunshot wounds.

Things that shouldn't exist.

Corus isn't foolish. They know, of course, that they're not bulletproof. That they can't dodge everything.

But they are also aware that that shouldn't have happened.

They weren't visible. Weren't audible. Nobody should have known they were there, because they'd told the world otherwise.

They'd whispered into the web of consciousness that they weren't there. That there was nothing to perceive. It made things easier, after all. Criminals taken down by seemingly nothing.

Corus Wayne does not exist.

But in some flickering moments, Corvus Corvid does not either.

That was one of those moments.

But they got shot.

Twice.

To be shot is one thing. To be shot twice is another.

Because they were looking out the second time.

Because they were searching.

Malice. Anger. Anything- a hint of emotions. Anything that would explain why they were shot at. Who shot at them.

But they got nothing at all.

Shouldn't they be able to know this? Shouldn't they be able to see?

Corus Corvid has never liked guns.

Nobody ever uses a gun for happy reasons, after all.

...some do. Some do. But those are rare, fleeting things that Corus can't quite understand.

Guns are meant to hurt, after all.

Guns are songs of anger and rage, of malicious joy and cruelty, of hope crushed beneath something darker.

So why didn't they sense any of that?

Touching the bullet in their side...they'd felt nothing at all.

Someone being able to see them- not completely out of the question. Someone with mental defences- someone with something like a camera- well. Corvid's whispers of not-existing would be drowned out.

But someone they couldn't detect?

...they didn't like this.

If they thought too much about it, they were worried. If they thought a little more, they were scared.

And being scared is useless here.

Not when whoever shot them was capable of seeing right through them- and hiding away in return. Or at the very least- capable of not letting their emotions leak into the air.

But Corus is very scared anyway.

Isn't that foolish? Isn't that ridiculous?

Thankfully, Corvid is not.

Their golden gaze sweeps over the city, soaring through the world. A bird's eye view- literally. Their heart beats with the bird's, and they let the bird's mind wander with theirs. Just a little.

They don't need to become birdbrained. Literally. Again.

But there is everything-too-little-too-much-nothing-useful so they disconnect to try check with a rat instead.

Or, well, they would, if it wasn't the the immense pain that shoots through their head.

Thankfully, it's not a bullet.

It burns. Clings through their mind an invasive thing almost familiar that taps-taps-taps against their mental shields like a jackhammer.

It is loud, too loud, because people are Loud and Overwhelming and Emotional and they See too much sometimes Hear and Sense too much a trick of the mind and twist of the brain-

but this might be the first time someone's done it on purpose. The first time they've actually been attacked like this.

...they might have preferred the bullet.

Luckily for them, they proceeded to get shot.

...wait, that's not lucky at all, is it?

It's a distraction from the attack on their mind. A worthless, horrid thing.

Just like them. Hah!

...no time for that, now.

An enemy they cannot see.

An enemy they cannot sense.

But they isolated themselves away from civilians for a reason, didn't they?

Gotham is love.

Gotham is fury.

Gotham is survival through it all. Gotham learns. Gotham adapts. And it lives on.

Corus Corvid has always been a survivor.

They press metal claws into the concrete and sing.

It sounds like wailing.

It sounds like sobbing.

Gotham sings back.

The area around them bursts into flame and rage.

And throughout Gotham, a hint of fear and anger juts through the air like electricity.

[quails-requiem]

-

The realisation that dawns is an interesting thing. The way it slowly stretches across the other's features, the way it burns soft against the mind.

"Well?" Quail's Requiem asks.

come hang out cause you're outta your mind

The world is scattered emotions. Lingering traces of dust in the air. Corus Corvid traces their hand along familiar brick and hums safety-warmth-protection into it.

Their other hand pressed against their gunshot wounds.

Things that shouldn't exist.

Corus isn't foolish. They know, of course, that they're not bulletproof. That they can't dodge everything.

But they are also aware that that shouldn't have happened.

They weren't visible. Weren't audible. Nobody should have known they were there, because they'd told the world otherwise.

They'd whispered into the web of consciousness that they weren't there. That there was nothing to perceive. It made things easier, after all. Criminals taken down by seemingly nothing.

Corus Wayne does not exist.

But in some flickering moments, Corvus Corvid does not either.

That was one of those moments.

But they got shot.

Twice.

To be shot is one thing. To be shot twice is another.

Because they were looking out the second time.

Because they were searching.

Malice. Anger. Anything- a hint of emotions. Anything that would explain why they were shot at. Who shot at them.

But they got nothing at all.

Shouldn't they be able to know this? Shouldn't they be able to see?

Corus Corvid has never liked guns.

Nobody ever uses a gun for happy reasons, after all.

...some do. Some do. But those are rare, fleeting things that Corus can't quite understand.

Guns are meant to hurt, after all.

Guns are songs of anger and rage, of malicious joy and cruelty, of hope crushed beneath something darker.

So why didn't they sense any of that?

Touching the bullet in their side...they'd felt nothing at all.

Someone being able to see them- not completely out of the question. Someone with mental defences- someone with something like a camera- well. Corvid's whispers of not-existing would be drowned out.

But someone they couldn't detect?

...they didn't like this.

If they thought too much about it, they were worried. If they thought a little more, they were scared.

And being scared is useless here.

Not when whoever shot them was capable of seeing right through them- and hiding away in return. Or at the very least- capable of not letting their emotions leak into the air.

But Corus is very scared anyway.

Isn't that foolish? Isn't that ridiculous?

Thankfully, Corvid is not.

Their golden gaze sweeps over the city, soaring through the world. A bird's eye view- literally. Their heart beats with the bird's, and they let the bird's mind wander with theirs. Just a little.

They don't need to become birdbrained. Literally. Again.

But there is everything-too-little-too-much-nothing-useful so they disconnect to try check with a rat instead.

Or, well, they would, if it wasn't the the immense pain that shoots through their head.

Thankfully, it's not a bullet.

It burns. Clings through their mind an invasive thing almost familiar that taps-taps-taps against their mental shields like a jackhammer.

It is loud, too loud, because people are Loud and Overwhelming and Emotional and they See too much sometimes Hear and Sense too much a trick of the mind and twist of the brain-

but this might be the first time someone's done it on purpose. The first time they've actually been attacked like this.

...they might have preferred the bullet.

Luckily for them, they proceeded to get shot.

...wait, that's not lucky at all, is it?

It's a distraction from the attack on their mind. A worthless, horrid thing.

Just like them. Hah!

...no time for that, now.

An enemy they cannot see.

An enemy they cannot sense.

But they isolated themselves away from civilians for a reason, didn't they?

Gotham is love.

Gotham is fury.

Gotham is survival through it all. Gotham learns. Gotham adapts. And it lives on.

Corus Corvid has always been a survivor.

They press metal claws into the concrete and sing.

It sounds like wailing.

It sounds like sobbing.

Gotham sings back.

The area around them bursts into flame and rage.

And throughout Gotham, a hint of fear and anger juts through the air like electricity.

[quails-requiem]

-

They could keep it up. But why would they?

The other isn't falling for it. Quite frankly, they weren't expecting them to.

The smile drops off their face. No, not quite. It's a melting thing, a smooth blend back into their usual impassivity.

Requiem looks so much more like Corvid like this.

They don't quite care.

"Isn't it obvious?" They lilt as they press their hand to the other's forehead. "I'm bored."

come hang out cause you're outta your mind

The world is scattered emotions. Lingering traces of dust in the air. Corus Corvid traces their hand along familiar brick and hums safety-warmth-protection into it.

Their other hand pressed against their gunshot wounds.

Things that shouldn't exist.

Corus isn't foolish. They know, of course, that they're not bulletproof. That they can't dodge everything.

But they are also aware that that shouldn't have happened.

They weren't visible. Weren't audible. Nobody should have known they were there, because they'd told the world otherwise.

They'd whispered into the web of consciousness that they weren't there. That there was nothing to perceive. It made things easier, after all. Criminals taken down by seemingly nothing.

Corus Wayne does not exist.

But in some flickering moments, Corvus Corvid does not either.

That was one of those moments.

But they got shot.

Twice.

To be shot is one thing. To be shot twice is another.

Because they were looking out the second time.

Because they were searching.

Malice. Anger. Anything- a hint of emotions. Anything that would explain why they were shot at. Who shot at them.

But they got nothing at all.

Shouldn't they be able to know this? Shouldn't they be able to see?

Corus Corvid has never liked guns.

Nobody ever uses a gun for happy reasons, after all.

...some do. Some do. But those are rare, fleeting things that Corus can't quite understand.

Guns are meant to hurt, after all.

Guns are songs of anger and rage, of malicious joy and cruelty, of hope crushed beneath something darker.

So why didn't they sense any of that?

Touching the bullet in their side...they'd felt nothing at all.

Someone being able to see them- not completely out of the question. Someone with mental defences- someone with something like a camera- well. Corvid's whispers of not-existing would be drowned out.

But someone they couldn't detect?

...they didn't like this.

If they thought too much about it, they were worried. If they thought a little more, they were scared.

And being scared is useless here.

Not when whoever shot them was capable of seeing right through them- and hiding away in return. Or at the very least- capable of not letting their emotions leak into the air.

But Corus is very scared anyway.

Isn't that foolish? Isn't that ridiculous?

Thankfully, Corvid is not.

Their golden gaze sweeps over the city, soaring through the world. A bird's eye view- literally. Their heart beats with the bird's, and they let the bird's mind wander with theirs. Just a little.

They don't need to become birdbrained. Literally. Again.

But there is everything-too-little-too-much-nothing-useful so they disconnect to try check with a rat instead.

Or, well, they would, if it wasn't the the immense pain that shoots through their head.

Thankfully, it's not a bullet.

It burns. Clings through their mind an invasive thing almost familiar that taps-taps-taps against their mental shields like a jackhammer.

It is loud, too loud, because people are Loud and Overwhelming and Emotional and they See too much sometimes Hear and Sense too much a trick of the mind and twist of the brain-

but this might be the first time someone's done it on purpose. The first time they've actually been attacked like this.

...they might have preferred the bullet.

Luckily for them, they proceeded to get shot.

...wait, that's not lucky at all, is it?

It's a distraction from the attack on their mind. A worthless, horrid thing.

Just like them. Hah!

...no time for that, now.

An enemy they cannot see.

An enemy they cannot sense.

But they isolated themselves away from civilians for a reason, didn't they?

Gotham is love.

Gotham is fury.

Gotham is survival through it all. Gotham learns. Gotham adapts. And it lives on.

Corus Corvid has always been a survivor.

They press metal claws into the concrete and sing.

It sounds like wailing.

It sounds like sobbing.

Gotham sings back.

The area around them bursts into flame and rage.

And throughout Gotham, a hint of fear and anger juts through the air like electricity.

[quails-requiem]

-

It staggers, just a little. Flicking into view as rage burns across its vision. The world is red around them, and for a brief, fleeting second, they hate.

They roll their shoulder. Let it click-click-click back into place.

The person before them is fascinating, in a way. Does that make them prideful?

Perhaps.

But why should they care, really?

It lets a smile stretch across its face, soft and kind in all the right ways.

"Hi!" It trills, and it feels a satisfaction at the way the world sings disgust around it. They know just how to say things, just when to say things.

"It's very nice to meet you, Corvid!"

come hang out cause you're outta your mind

The world is scattered emotions. Lingering traces of dust in the air. Corus Corvid traces their hand along familiar brick and hums safety-warmth-protection into it.

Their other hand pressed against their gunshot wounds.

Things that shouldn't exist.

Corus isn't foolish. They know, of course, that they're not bulletproof. That they can't dodge everything.

But they are also aware that that shouldn't have happened.

They weren't visible. Weren't audible. Nobody should have known they were there, because they'd told the world otherwise.

They'd whispered into the web of consciousness that they weren't there. That there was nothing to perceive. It made things easier, after all. Criminals taken down by seemingly nothing.

Corus Wayne does not exist.

But in some flickering moments, Corvus Corvid does not either.

That was one of those moments.

But they got shot.

Twice.

To be shot is one thing. To be shot twice is another.

Because they were looking out the second time.

Because they were searching.

Malice. Anger. Anything- a hint of emotions. Anything that would explain why they were shot at. Who shot at them.

But they got nothing at all.

Shouldn't they be able to know this? Shouldn't they be able to see?

Corus Corvid has never liked guns.

Nobody ever uses a gun for happy reasons, after all.

...some do. Some do. But those are rare, fleeting things that Corus can't quite understand.

Guns are meant to hurt, after all.

Guns are songs of anger and rage, of malicious joy and cruelty, of hope crushed beneath something darker.

So why didn't they sense any of that?

Touching the bullet in their side...they'd felt nothing at all.

Someone being able to see them- not completely out of the question. Someone with mental defences- someone with something like a camera- well. Corvid's whispers of not-existing would be drowned out.

But someone they couldn't detect?

...they didn't like this.

If they thought too much about it, they were worried. If they thought a little more, they were scared.

And being scared is useless here.

Not when whoever shot them was capable of seeing right through them- and hiding away in return. Or at the very least- capable of not letting their emotions leak into the air.

But Corus is very scared anyway.

Isn't that foolish? Isn't that ridiculous?

Thankfully, Corvid is not.

Their golden gaze sweeps over the city, soaring through the world. A bird's eye view- literally. Their heart beats with the bird's, and they let the bird's mind wander with theirs. Just a little.

They don't need to become birdbrained. Literally. Again.

But there is everything-too-little-too-much-nothing-useful so they disconnect to try check with a rat instead.

Or, well, they would, if it wasn't the the immense pain that shoots through their head.

Thankfully, it's not a bullet.

It burns. Clings through their mind an invasive thing almost familiar that taps-taps-taps against their mental shields like a jackhammer.

It is loud, too loud, because people are Loud and Overwhelming and Emotional and they See too much sometimes Hear and Sense too much a trick of the mind and twist of the brain-

but this might be the first time someone's done it on purpose. The first time they've actually been attacked like this.

...they might have preferred the bullet.

Luckily for them, they proceeded to get shot.

...wait, that's not lucky at all, is it?

It's a distraction from the attack on their mind. A worthless, horrid thing.

Just like them. Hah!

...no time for that, now.

An enemy they cannot see.

An enemy they cannot sense.

But they isolated themselves away from civilians for a reason, didn't they?

Gotham is love.

Gotham is fury.

Gotham is survival through it all. Gotham learns. Gotham adapts. And it lives on.

Corus Corvid has always been a survivor.

They press metal claws into the concrete and sing.

It sounds like wailing.

It sounds like sobbing.

Gotham sings back.

The area around them bursts into flame and rage.

And throughout Gotham, a hint of fear and anger juts through the air like electricity.

[quails-requiem]

I wasn't 'mind-controlling' those civilians, I was just subtly changing their mental worlds until they turned into puppets. Hope this helps! :]