[closed/on-going]
WHO: Shinji Hirako (ilmascherato) and Batman (notteoscura)
WHAT: Dropping off a few presents for Shinji.
WHERE: AMC Headquarters.
WHEN: Day 93, quite late at night, after the run-in with the Joker.
He’d had to restrain the one clown that was left.
By the time he returned to the place that he’d left the thrugs strewn around like injured dolls, there was one.
Only one witness to the Joker’s work so up close. Only one that had survived, that he could bring to be illuminated by the pale light that the antimafia commission had to offer these days.
Batman, with his cape torn, his mask roughed up and gouged on one side, somehow managed to grit his teeth and haul the dead weight of an unconscious clown to the car. His sight threatened him with its impending absence, testing him by clouding up and closing in with darkness. The man held on as tightly as he could and fought back that recession in his vision.
The drive took less than five minutes.
How he managed to climb the side of the building with that tied-up captive of his was something he wouldn’t remember later.
But there, in the darkness; there he stood in the half-wrecked suit that he’d worked so hard to design and then master, the material of the cape winding around half of his body as the night wind gently blew it to the side.
The clown sat on the fire escape, still unconscious and leaning against the rails of the platform on which the Batman was.
Having soundlessly opened the window, he narrowed his eyes just the slightest bit in order to focus on the man who sat in the office on the other side of the window.
Shinji Hirako. An AMC higher up.
He’d be able to get information out of this clown, or find out who could. The cape rustled, softly, in the breeze that came next.
WHAT: Dropping off a few presents for Shinji.
WHERE: AMC Headquarters.
WHEN: Day 93, quite late at night, after the run-in with the Joker.
He’d had to restrain the one clown that was left.
By the time he returned to the place that he’d left the thrugs strewn around like injured dolls, there was one.
Only one witness to the Joker’s work so up close. Only one that had survived, that he could bring to be illuminated by the pale light that the antimafia commission had to offer these days.
Batman, with his cape torn, his mask roughed up and gouged on one side, somehow managed to grit his teeth and haul the dead weight of an unconscious clown to the car. His sight threatened him with its impending absence, testing him by clouding up and closing in with darkness. The man held on as tightly as he could and fought back that recession in his vision.
The drive took less than five minutes.
How he managed to climb the side of the building with that tied-up captive of his was something he wouldn’t remember later.
But there, in the darkness; there he stood in the half-wrecked suit that he’d worked so hard to design and then master, the material of the cape winding around half of his body as the night wind gently blew it to the side.
The clown sat on the fire escape, still unconscious and leaning against the rails of the platform on which the Batman was.
Having soundlessly opened the window, he narrowed his eyes just the slightest bit in order to focus on the man who sat in the office on the other side of the window.
Shinji Hirako. An AMC higher up.
He’d be able to get information out of this clown, or find out who could. The cape rustled, softly, in the breeze that came next.