#and them he comes to the warehouse expecting puzzle death and they are all singing happy birthday to you

[just-an-enby-lemon]

Not only Bruce HAS to let Ed win in whatever the unhinged thing he is doing today but he HAS to appear and give Riddler some genuine attention even if what Ed wants today is an inofensive board game night and also he needs to bring cake cause he is the bilionaire (and no arresting the other Rogues either, unless they are the Joker). It's baby girl birthday and he gets to annoy the Bat. You go Eddie.

[qqueenofhades]

Ok you. How about this: Lucy discovers some totally adorable and endearing quirk or fact about Flynn, and he makes her swear to tell no one (aka Wyatt and Rufus) on pain of death. Which, in Lucy's case, is more like having to endure the death glare from Flynn 24/7. Like she's scared of those repercussions. Heh.

(tagging @sweetestinthegale for reasons. ahem.)

Lucy has noticed that at times – usually when he thinks there’s absolutely no one listening – Garcia Flynn has a tendency to hum.

Not just any songs either, but ABBA songs. As in cheesy Swedish seventies pop, until you have to wonder if this hardened, dangerous, dark general disaster of a man secretly sings “Gimme Gimme Gimme a Man After Midnight” to himself in the shower. It doesn’t happen often, he always catches himself if anyone walks anywhere nearby, and he doesn’t even sound that happy to be doing it; he’s not humming because he enjoys the music or he’s in a good mood (heaven forbid Flynn be in a good mood), but almost because he’s forgotten to be quite as angry for a moment. It’s… she doesn’t know. Wistful, almost. Some small bit of the man he used to be.

Lucy doesn’t say anything to him, as she feels he’d probably stop if he knew he was being overheard. They have enough on their plate trying to gel as a team of four anyway, so remarking on his song choices seems oddly too personal. But one day, hoping to get the message across without being too obvious, she puts on the “Classic Pop” station on their Spotify. And sure enough, a few moments later, “Dancing Queen” comes on.

She’d almost thought this might make Flynn crack a smile, even inadvertently, but in fact it has the exact opposite reaction. He freezes up like a deer in the headlights, stares at it, then bolts. Lucy and Rufus look at each other in confusion and consternation, and Rufus says, “What? I know he hates everything, but really, ABBA? That much?”

“No,” Wyatt says quietly. “Hang on.”

Lucy and Rufus are puzzled, but Wyatt heads out, following Flynn across the warehouse to where he’s leaning on the wall behind a stack of crates, breathing deeply and pressing his hands to his face as if he’s barely gotten away from a swarm of killer bees. He doesn’t appear to notice Wyatt is there, and when he does, shoots a stare at him inviting him to remove himself post-haste. “Go back to the others, why don’t you?”

“Hey.” Wyatt remains where he is. “That song.”

Flynn flinches, almost imperceptibly. Rubs his face again, voice rough. “What about it?”

“Jess – Jessica’s favorite song.” Wyatt’s own voice wavers slightly, but he catches it. “It was – I always teased her about it – it was The Scientist by Coldplay. Nobody ever said it was easy, nobody ever said it would be this hard. Cheesy, whatever. She loved it. It was – it was the last thing we played at her funeral. It…” He pauses. “The first time I heard it in public after that, I did the exact same thing you just did. So. Was that it?”

Flynn’s eyes smoke holes through him, as if he doesn’t want to answer, wants to reproach Wyatt for this presumption, but also can’t deny it. After a moment he says, “I used to dance with my dau – with Iris. Around our living room, to that. Put her on my feet and hold her hands. And yes. The last time I heard it was after I’d just put her coffin in the ground.” He stops. “The word is pallbearers. That means there should be more than one. More than one person to carry it. I didn’t need any other help. I carried it by myself. It was small enough that I could.”

Wyatt flinches. “I…” He knows Flynn doesn’t want to hear it, but he says it anyway. “I’m sorry.”

Flynn shrugs, clearly regretting his momentary lapse in composure. “I just wasn’t expecting it. That’s all.”

“Hey,” Wyatt says. “I’ll go tell them to turn it off.”

“No.” It surprises both of them and Flynn bites his lip, but can’t take it back. “No,” he says again. “Leave it on.”

[houseofcrimerp-blog]

« THE UNFAITHFUL »        ❝ I AM MY HEAD, AS MUCH AS I AM MY HEART ❞

LAST NAME, FIRST NAME: Born: Sokolov, Ekaterina. Raised Petrovic, Ophelia AGE: 22. HOUSE OF CHOICE/INDIVIDUAL ACTIVITY: Death (not by choice??) OCCUPATION AND/OR LEVEL: bartender, level one FACE CLAIM: Danielle Campbell NATIONALITY: Russian Romanian. ETHNICITY: Caucasian.

CONNECTIONS:

The Brother: Her brother was lost to her long ago, Ophelia told he died in the fire that took her home. But he is alive, and  the family Ophelia so often longed for may be right where she least expected him to be.

The Attachment: Ophelia met him when all she craved was an escape from her home life, meeting him and growing attached to his easy smile and caring nature. She considered him a friend and thought he felt the same until he vanished one day, nothing to leave behind but her broken trust and heart.

The Enticement: there is something to be said, about the pull of danger. Her whole life has been spent on the precipice of more, of falling into the rabbit hole of darkness that her loved ones revel in. Evie’s tales have their pull to day the least and while she’s resisted up until now, but who’s to say danger doesn’t have its perks?

PERSONALITY: 

Ophelia is a good soul, surrounded by cruel people who through the years have taken a toll on her bright but battered soul. She is kindness and caring wrapped up in cloaks of energy and wild, uncontrollable needs to run, explore, be. She’s friendly almost to a fault, but her upbringing has left her tinged with traits she cannot deny. Bright eyes that show you all the love in the world also watch your every move, recording and filing away your ticks and give aways without even realizing she’s begun to. It is not something she is proud of, but it is who she is and that has to be enough. Her curiosity will be the end of her, if her upcoming story doesn’t beat her to the chance.

MBTI AND/OR ENNEAGRAM:  ESFP, Chaotic Good, The Helper

THREE WEAKNESSES:

Family: she craves that compassion and love, longing for memories of a brother who cared for her and was her world. It remains the only reason she stays and keeps fighting. She grows too attached, lets people too close to her heart only to have it brake when they leave again.

Flames: it flashes like a film reel at times, tiny glimpses of the night that ended her happiness. To this day she cannot stand the roar of a fire without flinching, cannot help but stare in despair as the flames ascend and lick across the skin of its target. It is one of her biggest weaknesses, and one that causes her the most distress.

Limits: she has none to be seen, very few needed to be torn down to see the less than exemplary example of a warrior underneath. She is an unintentional paradox. Broken but standing tall, desperate but unmoving, caring with all she is and throwing people away without a glance at the sight of betrayal. Ophelia longs for everything and wants for little, until adulthood and her lack of choices slapped her in the face. The problem with a girl who is so inevitably trapped is that caged birds go insane, or die trying.

BIOGRAPHY: tw mentions of fire, death, abuse.

Ophelia was born Ekaterina, in Moscow to parents who were just a bit too absent minded to truly be called so. She learned very early on that love did not equate to care and protection. It was a lesson her older brother learned as well, and soon the only people they could rely on were each other. What was lost to her due to her age, was the dangers slowly seeping into her life thanks to the gambling debts of her father. He owed money, far too much of it for a family living in the lower half of Moscow. And when papa needed a way to fund those debts, he chose the wrong men as an out. Debt cannot be paid with more debt, and when one of the houses came for him, they stole his family as well.

At six years old she woke up to the smell of smoke and the distinct warmth of flames. The fire set by the men in suits raged across their home, taking with it the bodies of her parents. Later she learns they were killed before the flames even began, given the promise that their children would burn for the ways her father crossed them. But she didn’t burn, the scars on her body and heart coming from anything but the flames.

The shouts of her brother had snapped her from her stupor, and that night now came to her in flashes. The blanket he wrapped around her mouth and nose to keep out the smoke. The way he lowered her to the fire escape and made her promise to run, climb down until her feet met asphalt. The way she watched the building collapse in on itself as the flames consumed it. And finally, the realization that there had only been enough time to save one of the Sokolov children. And her brother had made sure it was her. She was told her family did not survive the flames, and that was the end of that.  She was taken in by strangers, a family in Romania. Memories of a childhood in Russia faded to dream, ones she longed for often. What would eventually come to light was the fact that the very people who had stolen the lives of her parents, had captured hers as well.

The Petrovic family was old ties, members of Death but removed under the guise of a normal life, to be called upon when deemed necessary. For Ophelia, it meant a childhood of strange people coming and going, files given and people to never be seen again. Her parents were secretive of what went on, stating she would get to understand when she was older. They kept her adoption no secret, filling her head with grand tales of the kindness of their hearts, taking in a girl when no one else wanted her, left behind like discarded trash. Told she was to deserve her punishments when she disobeyed, verbal lashings intermixed with sharp hands across her face, slaps to her wrists.

Her childhood was as normal as a home of occasionally cruel foster parents could be, in the only sense of not knowing how false that observation was. Ophelia’s dislike for violence was clear from the beginning, but her affluence for languages, puzzles and studying others left her with a sharp mind and sharper wit. By twelve she could speak to you in four languages, work her way from chains within minutes, and answer the most finite details about a person she studied for only a few moments. She was a force, if not a gentle one. But she was reminded daily of how useless her intelligence was if she couldn’t back it up with a blade, how she had to be someone who was to be something, make something of herself for the ‘family.’ Ophelia was told she would understand one day, what was necessary to survive.

That day she was meant to ‘understand’ came at the age of fourteen, when  Ophelia was led to follow her father and adoptive older brother one night. She was made to watch as a man refused to give what he knew, and paid with his life instead. Biting into the soft flesh of her hand to stifle a choked scream, she was soon pulled from the shadows of the warehouse, and told of what she’d only suspected. Death was unavoidable, no matter where life took you. Killing was the price they paid, and she would pay the piper in time.

With the need to hide the true occupancies they held from their her no longer, Ophelia was brought into the fold of knowledge, stained pink ballet flats digging into the ground as she tried and failed, to seek another way. But the lessons told were blunt and true. You could try and run, they would find you. No one takes kindly to deserters, and her family was Death true and true, was that not something she wanted to belong to? To know the power could be grasped, a family in its own right to be enveloped in, skin licked at and caressed by blood and darkness. By eighteen she was desperate for something, any chance at a relief of all she was meant to follow in. So she let the city take hold of her, losing herself in corners of bars and rooftop ledges. Watching, waiting, anticipating. Getting small jobs as a waitress, barkeep, anything to feel the rush of nightlife and enough money to pad her pockets and allow a bit of freedom.

Her only saving grace was that it was clear to those who raised her that she was not yet suited to blood stained hands and choking life from those deemed unnecessary. But what do you do with defiance and unease? You break them of it. Her new role was that of an observer, given the chance to attend school, learn a bit of what she desired if it meant keeping the lark singing. It may have been shackles, but they were loosened enough to slip free of.  And one day she was determined to do just that. They wouldn’t make a monster of her without a fight.

Her weekends were spent at home, being drained of the brightness of her soul, replaced with screams of blood and pain. Ophelia was made to watch on occasion, in hopes of breaking her of her aversions to hurting, maiming, killing. And when she disobeyed, the punishments were her own to bare. It was affective in the sense of damaging the innocence she was never meant to have, to keep. It left her aching, longing for the old life so violently ripped from her. She wanted answers as to WHY, why it had been her. So she began to dig. And with that, it all unraveled before her.

With the compliance of copious amounts of liquor and sweet words of praise and adoration of skills, little by little one fact was revealed. According to a file, her brother had not perished in the fire that had stolen away her parents. Her flesh and blood brother was was somewhere alongside her in Bucharest, belonging to a house not disclosed. Whether it was Death or another, all Ophelia knew was that he was closer than ever. Would he remember her? Did he even want to? Did he resent her for leaving him alone all this time, not knowing he still breathed? No names given, just a general age and the knowledge that she may not like what she found. It was that fact that felt like a nail in her coffin of chances. For how could she run, when the only other family to her name ran deep in the very darkness she longed to escape from? No, she would find her brother and maybe together could make a new start.

Now, with the first chapters of her life behind her, the only choices left were slim to none and stained red, so very red. Ophelia is now a level one, and doing what she can to remain relatively free of the carnage and espionage. There is no chance of a life free from Death, and no matter which road she takes, she remains unfaithful. Whether that lack of faith be to her family or her morals—is yet to be seen.

Everyone loves to hates a phoenix, and she is determined to be just that. Whether the ashes she rises from are friend or foe are a choice yet to be made. Watch out, for it is the littlest ones who have the biggest bites.