there's a fire in your eyes

[crucifriction]

WHO: Azrael and you.
WHERE: City streets.
WHEN: The night of December 9th.
WARNINGS: Violence; others will be added as they occur.
SUMMARY: His desire has filled and burst. And all Michael wants now is to be the City’s God.
FORMAT: You choose.

Comments

[meowminx]

Selina had patrolled for a while, but the night had been rather quiet. She was taking a break, sitting on the edge of a rooftop with a steaming cup of coffee as she sometimes does.

Her cowl and goggles are pulled back as she sips, eyes on the holiday lights below. She may not be a big fan of the season, but she has to admit the view is even more stunning this time of year from up above.

[crucifriction]

When he approaches her from behind, having found his way onto the rooftop from the other side, he doesn't disguise his footsteps. Rather, he allows the suit to clink with each step, loud and clear.

"Catwoman," he announces, voice heavy with a sort of bravado. "It's fate, that we meet here."

[meowminx]

She sets her coffee cup down and glances back. Not that she needs to confirm who he is once he speaks.

"Uh huh." At least he isn't pleading for her forgiveness this time.

[crucifriction]

"Do you think otherwise?" Impatience creeps into his tone just. Like. That. "Do you think that this is mere coincidence? That I am as much of a toy to time and chance as you are?"

A few steps closer.

eleven o'clock; city hall district

[enigmaestro]

It was a late night at the office, again. Undoubtedly, Edward thought bitterly, to Mitchell's unending glee. With his newly commissioned political power came newly commissioned longer hours -- which left less time for personal endeavors. But Norman still kept his place in Eddie's forethoughts, assisted by the three healing ribs and cast ankle he now sported. The only small release he indulge in now was experimenting with the Threshold. With Katurian (out of necessity), with Michael (out of spite). The small hours curled away under his heavy fascination with this unheard power.

He was waiting to hail a cab. Driving, in his current state, was out of the question.

He made the mistake of looking upwards, at the marble building's roof behind him. A curious habit, worn from older days.

[crucifriction]

By the time that Edward actually looks, Michael is already dropping gracefully from the rooftop.

In the haze of his crowded mind, he ponders both wrath and mercy, punishment or hope. Of course, Edward Nygma only truly deserves the former. As the only entity who can rightfully call himself a judge, he knows this in his mortal veins and existential spirit; but the heady power to absolve pricks at his temples, his fingertips. He might even exercise it for him.

When he lands before him, he stands straight and silent with the intention of letting the wretched speak for himself.

[enigmaestro]

"Oh." It was a quiet note of unabashed, honest surprise. Since access to Desire's Threshold could be done from anywhere, to anyone, Eddie had taken for granted his anonymity. Lane would never figure it out, he had thought. The safest of bets. And yet, not even a day later, here was Azrael. Silent and godly in his pose. Moving closer. It was almost Shakespearean in performance, almost something Eddie could appreciate for the sheer, bold theatrics.

Eddie couldn't run, because of the ankle Norman had broken. He couldn't run away.

"Oh my God."

[crucifriction]

Something bristles through him. Something grand, greater. "Yes," he says, taking sure steps. "Yes."

"Again."

[homomachinis]

It wasn't technically night when Mitchell left the office. Actually, it was closer to early morning, the midnight oil had long been burned, and he was finally leaving only after everything that could possibly been completed had been done. He'd always been married only to the job, but this was probably a bit on the obsessive scale. After Edward's promotion, and his spat with James, Mitch was much more apt to stay as late as possible, if only to avoid his bodyguard entirely. Tonight he was trying to leave incognito, get out without alerting the other man. He needed time to think, get away.

Ever since he'd fallen off the deep end recently, he'd been feeling the press again. That compulsion he couldn't control, the urge to hurry up toward what he didn't want to hurry towards. Work was essentially the only cure, but even workaholics had to sleep, even though he didn't try to take the car. Shit, he didn't even have a drivers license. Only an ID, then again, when one didn't really need one in New York, they certainly didn't need

[crucifriction]

Naturally, looming overhead and watching the lone figure walk briskly down the street is Michael, Sword of Sin casting a warm red glow around him. The decision to meet the man head-on, to sweep down and cull him if he's tainted, to sweep down and save him if he's able to be saved, is a tempting one--he waits standing motionless in this thought. He can't see who it is, despite the bright streetlights. It's tricky.

"Sinner!" he booms from the rooftop, echoing throughout the empty road. "Bow towards me!"

[homomachinis]

He'd had the hood of his coat up, but at the loud, booming voice, the scrambling of his arms, up to his head is enough to push it away. Fuck this sounded bad for certain. He looked up, and turned toward the direction of the voice, and goddamn if he wanted to piss his pants just slightly.

He didn't, but he wanted to. Instead, after peering up, squinting into the night, before finally catching on the red figure, he finally shoved a hand into his pocket. Small favors.

"Uh, hi?" he shouts it, even as he takes a step back.

[crucifriction]

Narrowing his eyes under the mask, Michael realizes that this idea wasn't necessarily feasible from this height. His mortal form, after all, would only suffer from having a hoarse voice. A shouting contest hardly seems appealing at this moment.

So, he drops. The cloaks billows around him as he falls, coming around to shield his visage as he hits the ground a few yards away from Mitchell, safe and sound and standing upright.

"Tell me your name," he hisses, taking a few steps forward.

[technophantom]

Sometimes Ghost broke off from work, on rare occasions, to find a rooftop perch high above the City, looking southward at all the lights. Times like these, he couldn't deny it, he was a loose end here, unraveling slowly, burning for purpose and grabbing at anything that presented itself to him, only to have it slip away and through his metal gloves like mercury. Flotsam of a life that, at home, he was so sure had a meaning.

He didn't expect any company, but he was thinking about the imPorts, about corruption and complacency and cruelty and crusaders.

[crucifriction]

Ghost is the only one who, when he immediately spots, forces him to consider turning back. It's a weak, decidedly human response that the current outer shell of him finds troubling, finds vulnerable. Ghost is a virtuous being, says the old part of his mind. But he's still a being says the other. Still, he steadily approaches, tone shifted from righteous to nearly meek.

"Ghost," he finds himself quietly saying behind him, having lost fervor. "I've found you."

[technophantom]

"Had I known you were looking, I would have made myself more easily found." He glanced over, indicating the spot next to him on the air conditioning unit overlooking the City. "How goes your crusade?"

[crucifriction]

"It goes." The answer feels unsatisfying on his tongue, falling flatly in the air. He tries again:

"I've done much today, Ghost. The City is in great need of its God."

two am; the docks

[futurebatwoman]

[There's a smuggling ring on the docks she's been staking out, working on tracing it back to their employers with no luck so far.

Tonight they haven't shown, so she's spent the past hour swinging her legs idly off a rooftop and trying to decide whether to pack it in and call it a night, stick around in case they're just late, or go find some muggers to punch in the face.]

[crucifriction]

[ It's only inevitable that he's found himself in this hive of scum, where the filth of the City would spread sin with the filth of others.

He sprints across the streets, between the warehouses, when he stops for a breath. It's only pure chance that he glances up to see Max. Of course, he thinks otherwise.

But here he stands, looking upward toward her. Challenging her to come down. ]

[futurebatwoman]

[She blinks and tilts her head. Isn't that that weird dude from the network?

Meh, she's bored anyway. She floats down on her wings, landing several yards away, and looks up at him. (She has seriously got to stop being so short.)]

So what are you doing out here at dubious hours of the night?

[crucifriction]

[ He lifts his head, looking down on her even more. ]

Judging. [ Simply, as if it were meaningful in itself. ] You have been practicing wrath. I can feel it.