there's a fire in your eyes

[crucifriction.livejournal.com]

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.

I want to be seen as God.

The thought festered within him for years, blasphemous. To even think it, much less let it grace his lips, much less actually believe it. As a pious altar boy, he had brought it up in the confessional multiple times. But the lack of absolution brought him to only stick the desire to the back of his mind, with the knowledge that it would inevitably worsen. Become more tangible.

A thousand voices rise from a chorus of whispers to a cacophony of cries.

Now. One moment, he's sitting watchful on a rooftop, thoughtful. The next, what could only be described as revelation, a breakdown of irrationally built walls, flaring into a bright, pure yearning. Even the recent corruption that had plagued him is ignored, in favor of this. This need for devotion.

I WILL BE SEEN AS GOD HIMSELF.

The concrete should bend under his righteous feet as he dashes across the streets, the roofs, in search of disciples and sinners alike.

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.livejournal.com]

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.

eleven o'clock; city hall district

[enigmaestro.livejournal.com]

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.livejournal.com]

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.livejournal.com]

"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."

[viced]

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 one in The City.

So he walked, and walked, and he didn't look up. Only tourists looked up.

[crucifriction.livejournal.com]

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!"

[viced]

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.

[hacktivist]

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.livejournal.com]

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."

[hacktivist]

"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?"

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.livejournal.com]

[ 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?

[thebadturtle]

The lumpy shape -- a turtle, squat as he had compacted himself in the shadows, has finally found something to match his interest in aggro; down below him, there's a pack of men passing money too and fro. They've packed themselves into a back lot. Lots of cars. Lots of vans in a circle. A cliche little bonfire in a trash barrel.

Some of them have dogs. Big, burly things. One guy's selling puppies, talking about studding out his fighter dog. In the distance, two men are putting two dogs in a car's truck, slamming the lid over them. That's when the frenzy starts. The car starts to buck. Don't have to be a genius to figure out that only one of those dogs is coming out of there alive.

Raph hates this shit. Makes him burn up, see red-- and he feels justified in slipping down the roof, and approaching the lot. Drugs, dogfighting-- probably at least one gun deal. He doesn't need to know much else. They won't hurt anybody else -- whether they walk on four legs or two -- after tonight.

[crucifriction.livejournal.com]

Michael is lead here by the agonizing burn of avarice, of wrath, of a little bit of pride. It's not the crime that he finds detestable in this, he cares little for the fates of the beasts after all; it's the fraying of the souls who are doing this that he finds himself both outraged and concerned over. Here he stands, watching from the shadows, making the solemn decision.

He keeps watching from the vantage point, curiosity suddenly piqued by the approaching figure.

[thebadturtle]

Raph is hard to see eve in the best of conditions--here, among the noise and flickering firelight from the barrrel, he is a ghost among them. He takes out two guards at the door before either get word; a sap to one, a hold in brutal arms on the other.

The rest turns into a blur. Blood is shed, but he doesn't kill anyone just yet. His father taught him well-- a life taken is not something that can be given back. Raph is not personally threatened by those who are here, it'd be God's own hand if he got himself shot, or his own stupidity.

But in a moment of shadow combat, as visible as the plague that took the firstborn of Egypt, Raph's come in, and left a pile of bodies in his wake. After all, they're just gangbangers and thugs. He's trained since he could walk. They're nothing to him.

The car only rocks occasionally now-- he pops the trunk. One of the dogs springs out, staggers, and falls. The other doens't move at all. It's a swift, sharp motion-- and he puts the wounded beast down. It's a mercy; he'd like to slide his blade into these other bodies, who have guns and drugs, but he stays his hand.

Barely.

the lone action spammer....

[pilfered]

[ this late at night, eames wears his own face out on the street. he turns the collar of his coat up against the chill, moves quickly down the sidewalk. he means to be home before the dawn, out of sight and away from eyes that can see this face of his and possibly put name to it. ]

uhhHH

[crucifriction.livejournal.com]

[ here, he waits in an alleyway of a certain street, watching as the crowd ebbs away and only lone figures occasionally pass by. he supposes he cannot be picky, cannot be specific on what of the natives deserve his ire. when this man passes by, he reaches outside the alley and grabs him, wanting to see judgment. he yells, madly: ]

Speak, sinner!

don't you judge me

[pilfered]

[ this is sadly not the first time eames has been hauled into an alley by a hostile entity, nor shall it be the last. the curse he snaps out is immediate, and in his own voice, bloody fucking hell, before he realizes exactly what he's been confronted with.

how inconvenient.

it's too late to affect a different face, to slip into something else, to be someone else. so he stays silent, swallowing back all the remarks he'd so dearly have loved to make. really, azrael? what is this outfit. ]

REPLY NUMBER EIGHT JESUS CHRIST

[fingerbang]

It's amazingly innocuous what she's doing, really, even if she is headed back to an apartment (the cheapest one, in the worst neighborhood) after another night of hideous creeping. To the casual observer, she's just some chick hastening down the sidewalk, the lower half of her face partially concealed by a red scarf.

Azrael is not a casual observer. Lust isn't even close to noticing him, though, wherever the hell he might happen to be in this particular scene! Her mind is far too occupied at the moment, running through scenarios she might try to enact on whoever she's been watching tonight and grading them by plausibility.

UH FUCK FINE

[crucifriction.livejournal.com]

Wherever the hell he happens to be in this scene is sitting on the ~~STOOP~~ of her apartment, waiting for her to arrive! He's halfway split between wanting to see that potential for good again and maybe slaying her outright, but he's willing to give her what amounts to a chance. After all, she was his sister, for the smallest of moments.

He's fumbling with his swords in his lap, not paying particular attention to the sidewalk. If she sees him at first, he doesn't see her back.

[vivi-sorrow.livejournal.com]

Vivi hadn't patrolled tonight; he'd set tonight aside for practising his magic. The vacant lot he usually used for training was bare now, save for a magic circle inscribed in the dirt, with himself in the centre, sitting cross-legged. The space beyond the circle was completely clear, and for very good reason.

His attention was locked onto the orb of fire he held in his hand, gently rotating and flaring under his complete control. It floated above his outstretched hand, the sole source of light in the area. He'd gotten better at control now; the orb of fire gently expanded and contracted with his own breathing. It still took a lot more concentration than he would have liked, but he had time and a safe place to practice.

BABY I'M SORRY...

[crucifriction.livejournal.com]

Michael approaches the circle in a silent movement, somehow drifting between being disgusted and enraptured in the sheer power of the magic, of its bearer. This doesn't belong in his realm. This is ill, that of disorder. Thoughts resonate within his madness, swirling. Anger pricks at the back of his neck. Hateful.

As he approaches, his footsteps become gradually louder, heavier. More definite.