Log in

No account? Create an account
Gotham Lights' Journal [entries|friends|calendar]
Gotham Lights

[ website | Gotham Lights OOC ]
[ userinfo | livejournal userinfo ]
[ calendar | livejournal calendar ]

Gotham University, December 2nd, late afternoon [09 Feb 2006|12:56am]

[ mood | working ]

Don't shoot the messenger...Collapse )

14 comments|post comment

Robinson Park - 7:04 PM - December 6th [05 Feb 2006|12:35am]

[ mood | stressed ]

The last few days had been an exercise in tedium for Ra's al Ghul.

Oh, true, he'd had plenty to do, what with organizing Allie's upcoming employment at Gotham Studios, trying to get the details on both Bruce Wayne and this Batman character, and so on and so forth, but still. Whether a man had seven or seven hundred years of life experience, they still fell victim to cabin fever and to the idea that you were getting no where fast, and currently Ra's was suffering both. After all, with the exception of his newest trainee, none of his projects had been panning out - there was nothing on Bruce or the Batman he could he could honestly believe (clueless billionaire and six foot tall Hell creature, respectively? yeah right) - and he hadn't left the hotel in nearly a week. And these facts, this feeling of running out of options, probably explained why he'd left only one order for his impersonator - do nothing until I return - before hopping into his favorite of the League's cars and taking a spin around the city. Sans the car's usual driver.

His destination he hadn't been certain of, but eventually, somehow, he'd ended up in Robinson Park. The second he had, however, even the car had seemed confining and so, despite the lancelets of icy rain, he'd gotten out. And now, currently, he strolled down the cracked sidewalks that snaked in and out of patches of grass and trees, strangely unburdened by all he'd had his hands in over the last few days.

Well. Wasn't this nice.

(open to anyone - this means you)

7 comments|post comment

Day of Atonement. [12 Jan 2006|11:18pm]

[ mood | cold ]

Pamela Isley came to dread the onset of night.

She took caffeine pills; brewed bottomless pots of coffee; jogged around the block to elevate her endorphins. The nightmares had grown steadily worse. The long tendrils of vines like weeping wax. The needle-like teeth of Dionaea muscipula scissoring viscera and crunching bone. A sea of faces in a moss pelt -- her mother, Jason, Dick -- their mouths sewn shut with thorns.

She remembered her years of primary school theology, specifically the instance where God stopped the sun in its holy track across the sky. Oh, how she'd marveled at that possibility. Could God stop the Gotham sun if she prayed hard enough? If she knit her knuckles tight together -- broke bones in those adroit fingers -- would the Lord Almighty stop the solar nimbus in order to preserve her very own Israel?

And suddenly, without cause or reason, the break.

Where once her dreams were flooded with barbarity, there came the heteroclite silence. She slept without incident -- sometimes twenty hours at a time. Her lectures went without instruction; students milled out of the classroom after she failed to appear. There was talk of suspension. Martin Cox -- the professorial thorn in her side -- had tried her cellular extension until the intray would hold no more data. Dr. Price had even called, his reedy voice writ with consternation, imploring her to return to work before Dean Hargrove "did some Bonsai trimming of his own."

Ignorance had turned to algid bliss. She toiled in her laboratory: eight, ten hours straight, face pressed against the eyepiece of her microscope. A refinement had been necessary, she had realized, in order to preserve the potency of the sample. Jason's DNA, though pulled apart by the poison, had revealed an extraordinary similarity to her own. Her forearms began to bruise from the injections; hypodermic wounds would open and bleed, dripping rivulets of vitae onto the collected reams of toxicology reports and statistical functions. But with every extrapolation she grew closer to the truth. To the moment where she -- not God -- could stop the sun in the sky.

"And the sun stood still, and the moon halted, till the people had vengeance on their enemies."

post comment

3rd December, 5:01 pm [09 Jan 2006|12:30pm]

[ mood | accomplished ]

So rested he by the Tumtum Tree/And stood awhile in thought.Collapse )

post comment

Arkham Asylum: Mid-day/Early Evening [26 Dec 2005|01:59am]

[ mood | giddy ]

x-posted @ Jack's journal; also, Harley has an e-mail to read :D


To Ms. Harleen Quinzel

post comment

December 2nd, 10:09 AM [08 Dec 2005|09:52am]

[ mood | numb ]

Since returning to Gotham, Max Shreck had already settled into a routine. Wake up around 9:30, make coffee and breakfast. Consume. However, the newspapers had been accumulating in a small pile on the side table, near the front door. He hadn't wanted to read them, just yet. Max had felt it would be like continuing a series of novels after missing a few volumes - there were gaps that would need to be filled.

However, he thought, as he slid his scrambled eggs out of the pan and onto his plate, he now had Knox to fill him in, if he had any questions. Not to mention, there was going to be something about him in the papers now, and he had to be prepared, know what it said, in case the muckrakers showed up at his doorstep. Shaking off a chill at the memory of the last time he had let himself be caught unprepared, he set his plate down on the small kitchen table - no need to bother with the bigger one if it was just himself - and went to retrieve the stack of papers.

Smiling slightly at the thought of getting back into the swing of things, he took the first Gotham Globe from the bottom of the stack, dated November 27. He read the front page thoroughly - an article about the GPS, an expose on the dwindling amount of vaccinations available for the upcoming flu season, some new-fangled wing added on to Wayne Enterprises.

Wayne. Hm. The name sparked a flint at the back of Max's mind, and he turned thoughtfully past the sports to the social section. If he was going to make his re-entry into Gotham, he'd need to know what Wayne was up against, the little silver-spooned twerp.

The paper fell to the table from Max's hands with a soft rustle, drowned out by the thundering of his heart.

The article was about the party. And had Max bothered to read it, there would have been a line or two regarding the rumor of his appearance.

But none of that mattered. None of that even registered on the Richter scale.

Right there. Right smack in the middle of the page, in color, smaller than life, but still alive. Talking to Wayne. Having the time of her apparently continued life.



"Well," Max breathed, his tone going from unsettled to dangerously unruffled in a matter of syllables. "This ... changes things entirely."

post comment

Arkham Asylum, 6th December 1995 12:42 pm [05 Dec 2005|10:51pm]

[ mood | hungry ]

Getting some questions answered...Collapse )

(Open to doctorcrane)

9 comments|post comment

Gotham Hilton, Allie's Suite - 1:45 pm - November 30th [30 Nov 2005|01:01am]

[ mood | calm ]

On the subject of job interviewsCollapse )

post comment

December 3rd - 11:24 AM [29 Nov 2005|07:47pm]

[ mood | sympathetic ]

Kitchen WisdomCollapse )

post comment

3rd December - Mid-Afternoon - The Narrows [29 Nov 2005|01:54pm]

[ mood | content ]

The young boy guided the brightly-coloured blocks around a pre-ordained track of opposite color, his star-shaped hand negotiating a path through the twisting clutter of wires. He sat with his legs folded beneath him, the snakelike ends of untied shoelaces draping the floor in typical disregard for style. He was young -- not more than four or five -- with two missing front teeth that punctuated a gap in his candy-sticky mouth. A cotton sling hung from the juncture of his shoulder, wounded arm resting in the cupped cradle. Leslie turned her attention back to the boy's mother:

"Jake's just so careless," the woman said with a nervous laugh, "to fall off of the junglegym like that. I swear, I have to pad the kid up like a deep-sea diver whenever he goes out of the house." She twisted the hem of her threadbare sweater between her fingers, toes turned inward in a suggestion of awkwardness. There was a deep, ruddy bruise upon the high arc of the woman's left cheek: perfect striking distance for a balled brace of knuckles. Leslie had heard it all before: women who defended the actions of their drunken husbands out of fear of abandonment; the long sleeves and skirts always served to hide the canvas of other bruises. She pressed her lips to a thin line, declining to comment. The boy's injuries spoke for themselves: you couldn't tell her that the dark impressions of five fingers on Jake's arm were the result of a playground accident.

"Kids are always reckless," she finally said, looking over to the boy with a fond smile. Jake smiled back, pressing his tongue to the gap between his teeth. "But I'd like to make a suggestion, if I could." This was the tricky part. Trying to insinuate action without being too obvious; trying to make it sound like it was the parent's idea. "I think that a kid of Jake's caliber could benefit from one of our after-school programs. There's a great art class that's held after school every weekday. You said that Jake liked to draw."

The mother's eyes lit up. "Oh, he does! You should see some of the things he makes me! I mean, he's a regular Picasso!" She laughed, a bit more genuine. Then her face crumpled. "We don't have the money, though. I mean, I can barely afford to keep him in shoes." Leslie smiled. "We're fortunate enough that a lot of these after-school programs are offered free-of-charge," she said, "and with Jake's talent, I bet he could get away with getting all the supplies he needs without too much of a strain to your pocketbook."

Jake's mother smiled faintly. "He's a good kid," she said, reaching over to ruffle her son's hair, "I really want the best for him." Leslie nodded genially: "Then it's settled. I'll put you in touch with the director of the program. She'll be able to give you the time and place for the class. I think they've worked it out so that one of the schoolbuses will make a stop close to where you live, so you won't have to worry about him wandering the streets after it lets out." She shook the woman's hand, slipped a card for the nearby Woman's Shelter in her pocket, and bade a fond farewell to the blossoming artist.

Days like this made it all worthwhile.

post comment

In the classifieds section, morning edition of the Gotham Globe, 6th December 1995 [26 Nov 2005|07:13pm]

[ mood | indifferent ]

Image hosted by Photobucket.com

Backstory here

post comment

Tricorner Yards, December 1st (approx. midnight) [26 Nov 2005|01:58am]

[ mood | contemplative ]

Second meetings, second sourcesCollapse )

post comment

Gotham Square - 9:45 am - December 1st [21 Nov 2005|09:30pm]

[ mood | hopeful ]

Not even ten in the morning, and already Knox's day was going badly.

Ok, so maybe badly wasn't exactly the word. It wasn't like someone'd called and told him his dog had gotten run over - or something to that effect since it occured to him that he didn't have a dog. But it definitely wasn't his ideal start to a day. Not when he'd stopped over at Globe HQ and found out that there were no real assignments for him - the last one (an electrical fire at some rich schmuck's house or something) had been snatched up just before he'd gotten in. And if that hadn't been irritating enough, someone had come tearing around the corner just as he was heading out, bouncing through a muddy puddle of water near the curb and drenching his trenchcoat in grime. Oh, yeah, and had he mentioned it was raining? Well, it was. Not hard, of course, but it didn't lighten his mood.

Truth be told, actually, the only thing that would make him feel better about the day thus far would be if the Batman dropped out of the sky to give him an exclusive interview. Or if Max Shreck - who he was still convinced was alive and well in the city - magically appeared in front of him. The plausibility of either, however, he severely doubted - no one would believe him if Batman decided to share all, and Shreck? If he was alive, Knox knew Max would be avoiding him.

Maybe hoping for a cup of hot coffee would be better and just as effective. And hey, hot coffee he could do without much fuss - there was a little coffee place down the street just a bit. And maybe he'd think of someone he could talk to or some kind of scoop he could get and the day wouldn't end up being as horrible as it had started.

Buoyed by the idea, the reporter pulled his muddied trenchcoat a little closer for protection against the needles of cold rain that fell and headed in the direction of the coffee shop, eyes on the signs of each shop he passed, not really paying attention to where he was going.

(Open to asgoodasmayor)

45 comments|post comment

December 1st - 2:50 AM [16 Nov 2005|02:36am]

[ mood | exhausted ]

Collaboration for the sleep-deprived...Collapse )

post comment

Tricorner Yards - 2:04 am - November 30th (Backdated) [10 Nov 2005|12:58am]

[ mood | shocked ]

Maybe black cats are bad luck, after all.Collapse )

post comment

Robert Young's Residence - 1:29 am - December 1st [09 Nov 2005|03:18am]

[ mood | weird ]

Desperate times call for desperate measures ...Collapse )

23 comments|post comment

November 29, 8:20 AM [07 Nov 2005|11:23pm]

[ mood | contemplative ]

Upon returning to the Batcave, Bruce removed his cowl and set it aside, along with his gloves. Carefully, he removed the plastic vial he'd taken from the scene at the Harbor, and strode toward the computer terminals, scanning the control panels briefly.

The computers had taken a heavy hit during the Riddler's Halloween assault, and though the main chemical analyzer had yet to be replaced, there was a smaller, older unit that Bruce still had at his disposal. True, it wouldn't give him the complete chemical breakdown that he needed, but it would serve as a jumping-off point for his investigations until Wayne Enterprises' scientific division opened, and he could find a way to pawn the sample off on another employee for analysis.

Settling the skin sample he had taken into one of the slots on the chemical centrifuge, Bruce sat back in a chair, folded his arms, and waited. And thought about the facts.

One body. No witnesses so far. No evidence of suicide - a poisoning like his would be an unlikely method, no matter what it turns out to be. And there was that abrasion on his arm ... Bruce squinted, recalling the shape of the shallow wound he'd seen on the late doctor's forearm. Had it been from a scrape in the water, or a collision, there would be evidence of it on his clothes... however, he'd been in too much of hurry to collect his skin sample to worry about details.

Wait, hold it, Bruce thought to himself. Something about his own train of thought seemed to be waving a little flag at him, something he couldn't put his finger on. He'd have to let Batman tip Gordon off about the possible struggle signs, let him and his squad check the body. Until then, he'd have to live with that nagging little itch that he knew would persist until he'd answered his own questions.

The centrifuge beeped, and Bruce leaned forward in his chair, reaching for the spare pair of reading glasses he kept near the keyboard. Momentarily, his mental snapshot of himself made him chuckle. Batman in glasses... Harvey Bullock would have a field day over that, I'm sure. However, his chuckle was truncated as even the rudimentary results of his scan came up loud and clear.

Atropa belladonna.

"Black nightshade," Bruce whispered, running the tip of his tongue thoughtfully along one corner of his mouth. "Well, Dr. Woodrue. ... That's certainly not going to be anywhere in Gotham Harbor."

30 comments|post comment

November 29th - Noonish [04 Nov 2005|09:07pm]

[ mood | content ]

James Gordon rides the elevated train through the center of Gotham, the sleek rail design vivisecting its way past towering office buildings done in both New and Old World motifs. He prefers this mode of transportation to a standard car for many reasons. The train was not belabored by traffic jams (though the occasional delay has caused many a wrinkle in his brow), and it offered him an unobstructed view of the great city in ways that ground transport could not. Gordon loves Gotham; for all of its pitfalls and shady dealings, there was nothing like the heartbeat of Gotham Square, its people and presence. He's seen Chicago; bided his time in Metropolis. But this -- the great mecca of the modern and civilized era -- could not barter for a fonder place in the old guy's heart.

He disembarks on Fleet Street, hands shoved into the pockets of his wool coat, steps sure and directional on the cracked pavement. The discovery of the body in the Harbor troubles him. The ME had volunteered his best estimate as to the cause and manner of death, but they wouldn't know anything definitive until the toxicology screen came back. Which could take another couple of hours. Jim supposes that the science isn't as expedient as, say, a one-hour photo kiosk, but his department thrives on results.

The brownstone he shares with his daughter is among the nicer flats on this particular block. A fine, wrought iron gate stands sentry at the hedge of a modest lawn, a paved sidewalk leading up to a short three-step porch. Barbara's bike leans against the interior fence, the chrome glinting brightly in the midday sun. Jim smiles. It was fortunate that his daughter's rigorous academic schedule and his bustling day at the precinct coincided in a shared hour-and-a-half lunch. Sometimes Jim wouldn't get home until the wee hours of the morning, and by that time his daughter would already be in bed. This was a golden opportunity for the two of them to catch up; for Jim to make good on his "diligent dad" duties.

He steps up the walk and turns his key in the door, calling out to the spacious foyer: "Babs? You home?"

(open to dojobookworm)

17 comments|post comment

Pamela's flat - Late afternoon - November 29th [01 Nov 2005|06:14pm]

[ mood | cheerful ]

A cacophony of colour litters the floor of Pamela Isley's smallish bedroom. Every once in a while a bright blur of green or red will come flying backward out of the closet, having not met the requirements. She now exits the small alcove, hands on her hips, brow pinched in indecision. A glance to the clock -- three thirty-three. If she were a superstitious woman (she isn't) Pamela would think that the coincidental alignment of digits actually meant something. But a scientific mind has no room for folklore or mythology, so she takes the time at face value: she had approximately twenty-seven minutes to find a suitable outfit for her dinner date, or else she wasn't going.

Well, that might be too hasty.

She glances back at her closet, hangers cast to and fro, various boxes tumbling over one another like bricks in a yard. Only one garment has escaped her desultory examination: a knee-length hunter-green cocktail dress that she'd bought to wear to the examination of her doctoral thesis. It was modest only in length, making up for it in the v-neck swoop that was showcase enough. She'd worn it to dinner with Jason after she'd been granted her PhD., and the memory tugs on something primal. Forget it, Pam. She strides over to the closet and tugs the dress off of the hanger, the green silk cool between her fingers. She wasn't sure if it was entirely appropriate for the motorcycle ride, but couldn't you sit sidesaddle on those things anyway?

She steps into the dress and zips it up, arms strained at the sockets from the effort. Her hair and make-up were already accounted for: a natural dashing of rouge and mascara (she was never one for gaudy appearances.) She examines her reflection in the vanity mirror. Frowns. Something's missing. An epiphany seizes her and she roots around in the junk drawer of her bureau, drawing out a velvet box. Inside is a delicate brooch done to look like a thicket of ivy leaves, garnet stones interwoven with the gold filigree. She pins the bauble to the shoulder of her dress and aims another glance in the mirror.


She has a few moments to spare, so she darts into the makeshift laboratory off the bedroom and checks on her samples. The tissue from Woodrue's body is still running that infernal scan, but she's made progress. By the morning she'd be able to isolate the sequence caps and figure out just what was the concoction Woodrue'd lauded her with. And to carry on where he failed, she thinks with a small smirk. The window of the laboratory, muffled with thick crepe, nevertheless broadcasts a singular headlight. She peels back the tape and looks down into the street, spying an idling motorcycle amongst the foot traffic. She smiles.

Grabbing the small clutch from the table she locks the door and palms her keys, descending the twisting flight of stairs to the street below.

(Open to grayson_redbird)

7 comments|post comment

Early morning, 11/29 [10 Oct 2005|12:40am]

[ mood | awake ]

(Open to anyone who wants in, really...)

Another morning in the patron city of irony...Collapse )

24 comments|post comment

[ viewing | most recent entries ]
[ go | earlier ]