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Registered On: Mar 28, 2024 17:18:42 GMT -5 ~
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Last Edit: Oct 5, 2015 15:40:11 GMT -5 by Deleted
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Post by Deleted on Oct 5, 2015 15:30:55 GMT -5
“I don’t know nuthin, and if you were smart, you wouldn’t know nuthin either.” The door slammed with a certain finality that Mr. Kent was starting to get used to frankly. In the apartment tenement there was a spontaneous and rather pervasively contagious case of specific amnesia regarding three now dead police officers who had called this entire area their beat. The amnesia seemed to spread across racial, gender and age divides and had symptoms including slamming doors, threats and fearful glances. Clark looked at the wall for a moment outside of Apartment three, the occupant exhaled, leaning against the wall. He was shaking, his heartbeat quick, patting himself down, he grabbed a cigarette, lifted it to his mouth, and then lit it. He breathed quickly, then slowly.
Terror. These were people in terror. Clark looked down the hallway, through the walls at people hiding, staying inside, windows barred, doors chained. Clark sighed and touched his tie, blinked for a moment, then let his hand drop. No. Not yet.
A door opened, a young african american child was looking out from the door. There was a mother inside, sleeping in the bed. Clark smiled at the boy and raised a hand. The boy retreated a bit. “Don’t be afraid. I’m a friend. I’m . . . I’m here to help.” He took a step forward and the boy looked up at Clark with a bit of confused wonder.
“What’s your name?” Clark asked, getting closer.
“I’m Marcus.” The boy whispered quietly. He looked at Clark as the man walked towards him.
“Hello, Marcus. I’m Clark. I work for a newspaper, do you know what a newspaper is?”
The boy shook his head.
Clark laughed a bit “Well, um, a newspaper is where people print stories about things that happen, so that people can know the truth. So we talk to people, try to learn things from them, then write about it so everyone can read it. Does that make sense?”
The boy nodded once “Like the internet.”
Clark smiles widely “I’m not sure if everything on the internet is really true, like it’s supposed to be in a newspaper.”
The boy blinked confused “You Really Think Someone Would Do That? Just Go On the Internet and Tell Lies?”
Clark shrugged awkwardly, licking his lips as he rolled his eyes “Well, I don’t know. I know a lot of things are true on the internet, but a lot of things aren’t. But then again, I suppose in some newspapers a lot of things might not be true either. I know that I like to learn the truth and write about it. How old are you Marcus?”
Marcus held up a hand with five fingers.
Clark nodded “Well then! Five. That’s fantastic. Is your mother home?”
Marcus nodded then said “I’m not supposed to talk to strangers.”
Clark shrugged and said “That’s probably good advice in a big city like this. Lots of scary people can come around. Tell me, do a lot of scary people come around here?”
Marcus nodded, then put his finger to his lips. “Shh. I’m not supposed to talk about them. Mommy said.”
Clark nodded as he said “Oh? Why not?”
Marcus shrugged “Mommy said they couldn’t hurt us if we didn’t say anything.”
Clark looked at Marcus for a moment and raised an eyebrow “Oh? Did mommy or you think of going to a policeman maybe? Tell someone that there’s scary men who say things like that?”
Marcus shook his head.
Clark continued “Oh? Why not?”
Marcus looked down and whispered “They were policemen.”
Clark sounded serious for a moment, as he stood up straighter. There was a little more steely resolve in his face as he heard that. “Marcus . . . can I talk to your mother? It’s important that I do.”
Clark Kent walked out of the tenement building, and then looked up at the side of it. The interview had been hard to get, but he was able to get it. An anonymous source, but it was a start. People had to be willing to stand up or nothing would change. He was able to make her understand.
There was a man on the roof looking down. Binoculars, a walkie talkie. “He’s walking out now.” Hmm. He was being followed. Clark shook his head and considered his options. Maybe he should follow Raymond Chandler’s advice. When you hit a dead end, sometimes the only way forward was to have a guy with a gun come in. He was being followed, he knew that, being watched, so even if he wanted to, he couldn’t engage in any . . . exceptional heroics at this moment. He was, for better or worse, Clark Kent, mild mannered reporter for the Major Metropolitan Publication, the Daily Planet.
Clark walked down the street, tucking his hands into his pockets, whistling a bit. Casual, turn his coat away from the chilly winds. Clark didn’t feel the chill cut through to the bone, he didn’t get those hairs on the back of his neck that stood up when he was in danger. Because he knew he wasn’t in danger, and that meant he had to do something. More than anything, he was starting to feel frustrated, at the stonewalling, the lack of progress, the lack of easy answers.
This was why, honestly, Clark Kent could do more than Superman ever could here. Truth and Justice. Two simple things, so hard to preserve, so hard to push forward. They were ideas, and ideas were stronger than force and physics. Ideas persevered, and ideas were shattered. Ideas were strong enough to last through the death of civilizations, but fragile enough to be snuffed out by convenience and fear. Maybe it’s why he was so frustrated when he saw people hurt and afraid and so willing to abandon those simple ideas. Injustice was perpretrated here, deepseated injustice of the sort that affected generations, build distrust and created a people at war with themselves. They were so much stronger than they knew, and it frustrated them that they never seemed to realize that.
But until then, he could at least try to equalize things. Unbalance the delicate state of the powerful and powerless. There were people who felt that just because they had influence and power, they could prey on others, murder. Maybe he couldn’t swoop in and save the day, but he could at least do what he could to help people try to retake their own power.
“Hey, buddy. Can you spare some change? Just a dollar?” The guy in the alley called out as Clark passed by. “Maybe you should just come in here and give me your wallet.” Clark turned and looked at the guy and saw the gun in his hand.
“I don’t have a lot of money on me.” He said
“It’s okay, I’m sure we can make you pay it anyway. Maybe we can just talk. . . Buddy” Clark looked over his shoulder as he realized there were now two very large men behind him. One put their hand on his shoulder. Clark looked up and saw straight into the nostrils of the man who towered at least a head and a half over him. It was a broken face attached to those nostrils, bald with Neanderthal brows. The broken nosed man shook his head once. It was a meaty hand, it dwarfed his shoulder and gave a firm squeeze. Clark was certain it had an iron grip, but then again, iron really didn’t do much to a Man of Steel. Clark made a point to look appropriately sheepish as he winced with the squeeze “I suppose we can talk for a bit.”
The man with the gun smiled and said “You seem so smart, it’s a wonder you’ve been so stupid. Move”
The gun was raised up and pointed to Clark, a finger on the trigger. Clark felt the hand on his shoulder. They walked together in the alleyway.
"So what's the deal with these guys? I mean, you don't think I'd argue with a gun?"
The man shrugged and said "These guys like to think of themselves as a neighborhood watch. They watch the neighborhood. . . make sure there's plenty of cooperation."
“I don’t think you really just want a dollar, do you?” Clark said with a bit of nervousness.
"That we do not" The guy with the gun, smiled a bit as he said “I just like to think of myself as a messenger. I’m not so good with words, but I get my point across.” He pointed a gun directly at Clark's kneecaps "Allow me to pass on this message."
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Post by Deleted on Mar 9, 2016 8:18:57 GMT -5
FWOOP!
Twin, bat-shaped, metal blades as black as the night sky suddenly sliced through the cool air, barreling silently towards their two unsuspecting targets down below. Both hand-held batarang throwing weapons (technically known as, shurikens - for any of you weapon connoisseurs out there…) seemingly came from out of the alleyway’s darkness; rocket launched by the shadows themselves with expert speed and force at the two muscle headed thugs – both too busy mugging their unlucky victim to even take notice, until it was too late.
The first razor sharp batarang slammed into the gun-wielding thug’s hand just as he took aim at his captive’s kneecap.
“Agh!”
The first mugger grunted out in startled pain, dropping the loaded gun uselessly to the pavement.
Mugger #2 was simultaneously struck upside the face with the razor blade edges of the second batarang in a direct and unforgiving hit. A fresh, deep, angry red line immediately formed along Mugger #2’s cheek and jawline and soon began trickling bright red blood.
Before either mugger could gain any sense of what had just happened, the dark shadows of the alleyway appeared to spread wide open once again and released into the night one more fun surprise. The Batman. He moved with a stealth and silence rivaling the likes of the night breeze itself, moving so fluidly and effortlessly within the blankets of shadows, as if they were his own personal portals of travel to be used whenever, wherever. He swooped in like a silent, dark blur of fury directly after he threw the batarangs and now slowly stood to each his full height – seeming somehow even taller in the darkness.
“Here’s my message!” Suddenly the Bat growled out in his digitally disguised voice, altered to sound even more feral and graveled.
A freight train bone-crunching punch to the center of Mugger #1’s face was suddenly delivered mercilessly by the Bat and sent the man sprawling to the ground.
In a lighting quick spin, the Bat then dodged an oncoming attack from Mugger #2 and followed up with a harsh steel-toe booted kick directly slamming into his ribs.
Within about five minutes, the whole skirmish with both scumbags had ended, both thugs now left unconscious, bleeding, bruised, and with very likely the possibility of quite a few broken bones. On the flip side, the Bat himself remained completely free of taking any damage in retaliation. Soon, the Bat had both Mugger #1 and #2 securely bound, gagged, and tagged with a specialized piece of tech – a tracking bug set to broadcast an encrypted signal for only the GCPD to receive.
A basic agreement (that was still fuzzy around guidelines) had long ago been reached between the Bat and the GCPD with a general understanding that the GCPD would pick up any bloodied, broken boned, and/or bruised “neatly wrapped gifts” Batman left specifically just for them to find and potentially book whenever convenient – only when it came to detaining the average criminal element of Gotham, should circumstances permit.
And although to the blind eye, the current set of circumstances seemed to fit right into the shared agreement – Batman knew better: this crime scene and all those involved were anything but average. For the moment however, he decided to play things off as normal despite being aware of the surrounding odd circumstances.
Surrounding odd circumstances being?
Example #1: A third party thug was had been playing ‘look out’ for the two main mugger thugs, safely staked out on a rooftop a few clicks away – possibly feeding them info or commands via radio comm-link. Example #2: The helpless victim being mugged in the dark and completely abandoned alleyway was really no helpless victim at all… It was Clark Kent, best known as Superman – the Man of Steel!
Batman could only wager a guess that the reason why Clark was choosing to allow this ridiculous mugging shenanigan to continue was because he too was aware of being under secret surveillance. But if he was, he still had the speed and ability to more than easily catch up to that unknown third party look out thug and put a stop to him… Unless he couldn’t because there was even more going on than Batman had been able to see. He wanted answers, and after casting a quick glance up to see that the third party look out was now gone, having left his post without a trace, he REALLY wanted answers NOW. Once he was confident the surrounding area was clear of any other threats or unwelcoming bystanders, he finally deemed it safe to address Clark.
“Not quite the warm welcome you'd expect, huh?” Batman asked, his digital specialized lenses now shifting modes to give a forensic scan of the area, looking for any potential clues.
Including a thorough body-scan over both heavily unconscious muggers in an effort to see if there was any significant detail on or about them that might give them a connection.
“Friends of yours?”
The Bat now cast his ghostly white, thinly slivered fierce gaze directly at Clark, casting a haunting glow within the murky darkness.
“Finally grew bored from saving cats out of trees?”
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Post by Deleted on Mar 14, 2016 16:32:59 GMT -5
There's a sound when flesh tears and sinew detaches that is unlike anything else in the world, a strange combination of tearing, ripping, springing into place, a biological sound that is often coupled with an unworldly and uncomfortable crunching as bones break. Clark used to stay up at nights in Smallville, listening to the sounds of life and death all across. . . well, it was impossible to tell how far then, he'd hear it all and he wouldn't sleep, just trying to tune out the noises. To focus on one noise at a time. Still, the first time his father broke his hand while repairing a tractor was unmistakable, and Clark remembered looking at his father's hand, seeing the mangled bones underneath, and having to bring him to the hospital. Clark could see with microscopic precision the sinews sever in the mugger's hand, the scream that followed afterwards was predictable as well, along with the sound of the flesh of the second mugger's face being torn, and the meaty thunks of armored fist against flesh. It was excessive, but then again for the man who did the strike, it was necessary.
It was easy for Clark to come up with options, he'd had a few right now, although they'd have to be done carefully. He didn't like the idea of having to lose that little bit of the personal that the world had left him. Superman was a man who stood as a symbol for the world, who did everything he could to help because it was the right thing to do. Clark Kent was the man himself, the joy of being a normal human being, with the ability to focus on a profession, with friends that he enjoyed time with. He knew that one day his secret would be discovered, and on that day he'd have to give up his life in Metropolis, he'd have to give up Lois, Jimmy, the Chief, Cat, Bruno, and all the rest. He'd even miss those strange press bantering sessions with Lex Luthor, putting on the charm offensive and avoiding questions. It was fun, part of the game, and he did a lot of good as Clark too, but Clark knew that life would be temporary. Eventually the secret would come out and he'd have to leave. It wasn't that the people who hated Superman would be able to hurt the Man of Steel, but those who lived around the Man of Steel would always be collateral, and Superman knew he couldn't be everywhere at once to protect those he cared about, and even if he could, they wouldn't treat him the same. No, that life would be over. It complicated things sometimes, especially in situations like this, when there was a gun to him. He had to be careful not to reveal himself, or let anything else happen. His plan had been simple, get shot in the leg. Catch the bullet on the richochet to prevent collateral damage, then collapse. That's what people did when they got shot, they collapsed, clutched something and screamed a lot. Move fast enough, and they wouldn't even notice. Heck, Clark even kept blood pellets on him for just such an occasion, just in case it had to be compelling.
If they tried to shoot him again, take the hit, fake the dead, get up later and barely survive. There wouldn't need to be a followup. Either that or just start running, let them shoot him in the back, let the bullets avoid him and then stumble away out of sight, moving at super speeds to get out of their line of sight. Not the best options, but one to keep him alive. This was a better option, though. The Batman, breaking the muggers thoroughly.
The Batman. . . Clark could hear the fall of a bird across town, he could hear the heartbeat of a newborn infant in a hospital nearby if he focused his attention enough, and Clark once was able to focus with such intensity, he could hear the electric buzz of potential energy in an atom. He could look through buildings, across miles and see the fall of a bird from a tree from over 50 miles away. But Clark Kent was always surprised by Batman. Somehow the man was always able to find those blind spots where Clark wasn't looking, those moments of distraction to move through the shadows, to blend in and disappear in a way that just evaded his attention. It wasn't like Lex, though, Lex always had some sort of countermeasure to make himself invisible somehow. Batman just . . . knew where to stand so that Clark wouldn't think to look for him there, and then he'd appear out of nowhere. It amazed Clark every time. He knew, watching the man work that he had mastered the art of dissecting and disassembling his fellow man. Clark suspected that Batman knew hundreds of ways to kill a person, and dozens of ways not to, and it always impressed Clark how Batman always seemed to take the more difficult path to use those more limited options.
Batman moved quickly, Clark didn't even seem to have time to respond. That wasn't true, mind you. Clark could have done many things by the time Batman had finished, but he couldn't think of any to actually do, so he looked frightened, breathing heavily and watching the situation, mild mannered Clark Kent, Kansas Farm Boy turned Big City Reporter, gaping jaywalker, Linebacker who didn't know his own strength. He licked his lips and straightened his glasses as Batman finished tearing apart the muggers, he didn't have much time to do much more than that. Say what one would of the Dark Knight. . . the man was efficient and the man was thorough, bound and gagged, projecting that strange whining radio signal that sort of played in the back of Clark's ear. Annoying, but then again a lot of those signals surrounded people all the time, and you learned to ignore them quickly.
"You know, it's pretty par for the course for whenever I visit Gotham." He sidled back into the shadows, just leaning against the wall to catch his breath, he looked up for a moment through the corner of the wall, narrowing his eyes, and then narrowing them further. He shook his head, rubbed the bridge of his nose and straightened his tie. "This is the third time I've been mugged this week, and I keep getting threatened. I'd say it was the normal Gotham welcome, but I'm starting to think that I'm starting to really get on somebody's nerves."
The big guy who'd tried to clamp down on Clark had a blank magnetic card in his pocket. Some sort of ID maybe, although it didn't have any symbols on it. The two of them were dressed normally, although the body armor they had under their clothes suggested that they might be slightly more professional than they'd first appeared. The cellphone in the smaller man's pocket was a throwaway, the SIM card showed that a number had been called, and then the record deleted, although that really didn't stop Bruce from being able to pick up that information and decode it.
The boots of the muggers were military . . . muddy. Not an abnormal thing, really, except in the Concrete Jungle of Gotham City where mud and earth was in very short supply. The remnants of concrete dust on the shoulder of the larger one, and the bit of concrete dust on the pant leg of the other suggested construction site.
"I can't say I've ever met either of them before, though. Still, since I came out here to cover Lex Luthor's unusual new interest in Gotham City, and the intriguing rise of all the walls locking off a section of the city I've had a lot of threats going my way. It's only gotten worse since I started investigating that police shooting. You know, the one where the mob killed the officers involved? The one with the little girl? A lot of people around here have a sudden case of amnesia, although a few of them seem to remember the officers involved in the shooting running a small protection racket in the area."
Clark shrugged as he looked the Bat in the eyes. He still had that odd, aw shucks demeanor that just threw city folks off. It wasn't that he wasn't being serious, it's just that he was so damned earnest, just so off kilter, just so clumsy, his clothes just slightly out of style, fitting ever so oddly that it somehow made him look out of shape, his hair ruffled just so, his glasses just so large. He looked like the lovechild of a country rube and a nerd, just completely out of his element in a place like this, except for the fact that he was treating Batman as if the Bat was an old friend here to help with . . . a cow giving birth or to bring in the harvest or to help fix a car or something, instead of . . . well . . . Batman. He'd ALWAYS treated the Bat like that, he seemed to treat EVERYONE like that.
It was almost inhuman. It was certainly alien to Bruce Wayne.
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