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08 November 2011 @ 12:34 pm
So the dreamwidth thing didn't work out. Are any of you still interested in the holds on your character? Otherwise, they're free-for-alls as I am advertising this community elsewhere.
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15 October 2009 @ 06:54 pm
this community has been dead for quite a while, so i would like to let you know that i am transferring this rp to dreamwidth. if you are a current player and are interested in an active rp, you have first dibs on your characters. i will not advertise this rp anywhere else for two (2) weeks, so you have time to get your applications in. if you have previously filled out an application and really would not like to have to do it again, let me know.

if you need a dreamwidth invite code, let me know.
 
 
16 December 2008 @ 09:20 pm
Maxie had just finished his last therapy session for the day. Today's sessions had seemed more tedious than usual for both Maxie and Dr. Quinzel. Maxie, though more than aware of his own thunderous diatribes, didn't much care about the fact that they drove poor Harleen to distraction.

Just as Lyle Bolton, the hulk-like head of security, began walking a freshly cuffed Maxie down the hall toward the rec room, a worried voice came over the loud speaker. "Um, yeah, we have a situation here in the, uh, the washroom. If someone...if someone could ju..."

Bolton panicked, quickly cuffing Maxie to the closest object he could find, a folding metal chair. "Don't cho' be goin' anywhere, Z. God or no god, I'll kick yo' sorry ass!" yelled Bolton, before heading toward the stairs.

As soon as Bolton was out of sight, Maxie stood and lifted the lightweight chair under his right arm, rolling his eyes. "Silly mortals," he said, "so irrational." He calmly walked down a flight of stairs, away from any sounds of a fracas.
 
 
09 December 2008 @ 02:05 am
It's "free time."

So naturally, she slips past the monster that shares her room, and pads down to the rec room, weaving carefully in and out of the crazy people milling about. There's the mutterers, and the shriekers, and the folks that rock back and forth. The comatose ones that stare blankly into space and drool, a little. Christ, the smell. Stale sweat and piss and foul breath, some weird acidic tang. It brings on an odd mixture of revulsion and pity.

She squeezes in between a man that is much too young for the wheelchair he's in, and a concrete pillar scoured with fingernail marks and other, less definable stains, in order to make her way to a chair in the farthest corner of the room. She climbs in, puts her back to the wall, making sure she can see the door and windows clearly-- there's enough of that old military man in her for it.

She hasn't done this in a while. Doesn't allow herself the luxury, usually. And it takes so much out of her... She supposes she'll have to find a way to lessen the toll. Carefully, she folds herself up into the lotus postion, feet on knees, and concentrates on her breathing. Feels every movement of the stale and fetid air in her lungs. Until the yammering of the patients and the brutal, unceasing hum of the flourescent lights is far away. Until she can't see that harsh and unforgiving glare, so sterile. Unclean.

In. Hold. Out. Slowly, now.

In. Hold. And out.

In this way, she retreats further into herself, until her jaw goes ever-so-slightly slack, her eyes unfocus. To the outsider, she'd look like another of those lost souls, the severely drugged that do nothing but stare.

Inside, it's a different story. Inside is where the action is.

Inside...Collapse )
 
 
29 November 2008 @ 04:10 pm
Jervis Tetch remembered the first time they sent him to Arkham, remembered how hopeless everything felt and the chilling finality in the sound of the back door slamming behind him. Funny, to think there'd been a point in his life when he'd thought mere walls could stand between him and his wonderland. That first time, it took him nearly three months to escape. A guard shoved him (well, booted him, really--at a little over four foot five, Tetch was too short to squarely shove) and he stumbled into the cafeteria. This time around, he expected to make good his escape within a fortnight. Scratch that, the Joker'd been caught again, and that grinning idiot was handier than a stick of dynamite when it came to blowing holes in this old, incompetent madhouse; he'd be long gone by Tuesday. Easy.

The diminutive villain stood on his tip-toes to gain his bearings, survey the crowd. He saw some new faces in and amongst the familiar ones, but it didn't matter. If things went according to plan (the plan being wait for someone else to make a break for it and then follow them out through the rubble) he wouldn't be around long enough to get to know any of them. Tetch liked making new friends, but ever since things soured with the Six he was more than reluctant to trust anyone. It was a sad state of affairs, really--he used to say 'tis love that makes the world go round, but now, if asked about anything having to do with affairs of the heart, he'd just grunt and pull his hat a little lower over his ears.

Tetch fell in line with the others waiting for their lunch, grabbing a tray from a greasy stack. He wondered if the chefs here would remember his fondness for chapeaued victuals, thought probably not, and sighed.
 
 
 
26 November 2008 @ 02:03 pm
Two attendants guided a slightly built man with deep set eyes and a long angular face into Arkham's sparse gymnasium during free time. He appeared perfectly calm, making some of the newer patients wonder a little at the purpose behind the orderlies' firm grip around his upper arms.

When he was finally seated, an attendant slapped several sheets of paper and what looked like a series of potted dyes in front of him.

"There ya go, Big Z," the orderly said, "Go on and draw us a pretty picture."

That's when the man noticed the lone, slender figure sitting across the room from him. He looked her over for a moment, the bony eminence at the center of his fore-head taking on a slightly blue-ish tint, before dipping his forefinger into a pot and setting about the task at hand.
 
 
25 November 2008 @ 09:45 pm
For a moment, it would have seemed that Dr. Harleen Quinzel was almost nervous. Perhaps she realized it when she first saw the toe of her left white mary jane become stained from its incessant tapping, or maybe it was upon catching the way that she constantly, almost robotically adjusted her starched uniform; it really became obvious when she’d recalled that her eraser hasn’t been decorated by so many…chew marks, before. She crinkled her nose at this particular observation, perhaps in disgust, and wondered aloud to herself: “Why am I so nervous? My plea went through, after all! Certainly it went through on the behalf of uncouth and old school means, but, I’m getting what I wanted!”

She listened to her thoughts reverberate against the walls, bouncing haplessly into oblivion.
“I should be,” she mused, frowning, “happy.”

Perhaps she was—perhaps she is happy. Happier than what she had ever been (that notion was enough to perk her upright from the anxious haze). After all, here she was, moments from being left practically alone with Gotham—perhaps the state, if not the nation’s most notorious criminal. Heat flushed her face, her entire being. She really, really was about to see him, about to hear him speak, speak to her things that perhaps no one else has ever heard, things that no book has ever published, before.

And that was when she found herself staring at the door, trembling again with anticipation—no. She can’t do that. She absolutely must at all times retain a cool, calm, and collected disposition. After all, she is the sane one, here. She is the doctor. This meeting, every meeting, is dependent on her sense and sensibility, all of which she could have and should have learned somewhere along the line in medical school.

She bit her lip, stained her teeth with black lipstick.

Don’t screw it up, Harleen. You did so many unthinkable things to get here—ugh, unthinkable, indeed. I wish I didn’t suddenly remember that little incident.
 
 
25 November 2008 @ 02:00 am
Getting used to the schedule would be hard for Selina. She had always made her own plans for the day on a whim and preferred to take things on as they came. Instead, she was now forced to follow a strict ritual of activities and work every day. All because she had decided to make one stupid, wrong move.
It was free time in the asylum at the moment though, and Selina found herself sitting in her characterless medical outfit, gazing through books and magazines that one of the nurses had laid out on a table in the recreation room. She didn't feel like engaging in chit-chat with any of the other residents and found that reading was one of the few things that could help her tune out her current situation in times of need. At least the reading material was suitable for her tastes. If she had been stuck with fishing magazines or an issue of Sky Mall, she probably would have officially let herself go insane.
Every now and then, she would shift her blue eyes ever so slightly over the pages of the magazine and stare off at the people around her in the room. She tried not to make it obvious because she hated when people caught her staring at them. It made her feel as if she'd just murdered their parents.
Speaking of murdered parents, she thought, I wonder how Bruce is faring? She couldn't help but think about her ex. It was such a shame that he'd finally been condemned by the very people he had fought to protect and defend. But Selina had long since seen the day approaching and wasn't surprised to find that it had finally happened. For now, she hoped that things might work out for him... but she was the first priority on her list.
You should be making friends, she joked to herself. Yeah right. Arkham was the lowest of low. No one there could possibly interest her enough to earn her friendship.

 
 
24 November 2008 @ 11:23 pm
Lost  
Odin Valentine, one time quantum mechanic, huddled in a raincoat. He had just arrived at Arkham Asylum. It had been raining for days outside. Dr. Crane flipped over an index card and wrote a few notes using a ballpoint pen that had the words "The White House" etched in white on the barrel. Valentine looked at the mural painted on one wall of the doctor's office. He found the mural disturbing. It was a blow up of Guernica. Dr Crane replaced the pen in the front pocket of his shirt, then leaned forward. He tapped the card with a finger. Valentine smiled. The Gestapo would never get him.
 
 
24 November 2008 @ 09:13 pm
He leaned back on his cot, supporting his weight on an elbow as he gazed warily at the other man occupying the room. The cot was hard, barely giving at all under his body. The cell was cool, just under room temperature, the slight chill creeping under the standard issue pajamas. Bruce shivered.

He hadn't expected this when Gordon had caught him without the mask. Hadn't expected to actually be brought to court, tried by a judge and jury. But he had expected the verdict.

But now... every thought, every contingency plan he'd made in preparation for the day he'd be locked up in Arkham, it was all worthless. All because of a wild card, an unknown variable. His roomate.