Dc Roleplay

Discussion in 'ROLEPLAY GRAVEYARD' started by Lonewolf888978, Apr 12, 2015.

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  1. Set in the DC universe, we forge our own stories with these fantastic characters.
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    OOC Here!

     
  2. Gotham City
    Outside an Abandoned Warehouse
    Deathstroke


    Say, why we guarding this guy again? I thought he was just some dirty politician the boss wanted capped.
    That was the original plan, then the Penguin wanted to have a personal talk with the guy.

    Hell, I'd hate too be that guy! I heard the last guy the Penguin talked too ended up with his own fingers shoved down his throat! Wait, why are we guarding this guy? You think the Bat is gonna show up and try to free this guy? Boy I hope so, think of how much cash we would get if we took down the Bat!
    Shut the hell up, and just watch for anything. I don't wanna think about that damn Bat. He broke my brothers back, along with his nose and half his ribs.

    Geez. He alright?
    Still in the hospital, and that happened- What was that? Frank?


    Looking towards his friend, the thug stepped back, raising his rifle, seeing his friend laying on his back, a hole between his eyes. The thug turned towards the darkness, ready to fire at whatever killed his friend, but met a similar fate, as an unseen gunman fired from the unknown. For a moment, the night was still, only to be pierced by a zipline being fired from a building across the street, the mercenary Slade Wilson, aka Deathstroke, zipped down towards the warehouse doors. Cocking a pistol, equipped with a silencer, he slowly opened the door towards the warehouse.

    Inside the first room, was a small office area, not much nicer than the outside of the ugly building, but in it were two more thugs, the first asleep in a chair, and the second toying with his gun. The man looked up, surprised too see the mercenary, but before he could speak, a bullet entered his throat. A second shot quickly took out the sleeping man. Steps moved toward the room from a hall way to Slade's right, a voice calling out.

    Aye, Ricky, what was that noise?

    The man turned the corner, and was met with a fist to the face. Falling backwards, he fired his gun wildly as it sprayed into the ceiling. Kicking the mans throat, the mercenary twisted his foot, and heard a satisfying snap. Firing down the hall the man came from, two men returned fire, both with similar assault rifles. Hugging the wall, Deathstroke threw a grenade down into the room, and heard two startled yells, being interrupted by an explosion. Entering the smokey room, both bodies laid still, shrapnel covering their bodies. At the end of the room, was a single door. Walking towards it, the Wilson went too open it, but was met with it being kicked off its hinges, a large, muscular man with a sledgehammer accompanying it. Rolling away, the ground cracked under the mans hammer. Drawing his sword, Deathstroke side stepped the hammer again, and quickly sliced threw the mans calf muscle. The man yelled in pain, dropped his hammer and grasped Deathstroke by the throat.

    Being lifted off the ground, Deathstroke dropped his sword, and drew his second pistol. He fired into the hulking mans knee cap, and the two dropped to the ground. Falling too his knees, the man reached for his hammer again. Deathstroke fired into the mans temple, ending his life. Sheathing his sword, and getting his other pistol, he entered the room, spotting his target. A man was tied too the chair, a burlap sack tied to his head. Taking the bag off, Deathstroke saw Issac Leotic, a politician tied in with a drug ring here in Gotham City and Metropolis. AKA his target.

    The man looked as though he was beaten savagely, and had cried alot. The man gave a shout of joy, exclaiming.
    Thank goodness they sent someone for me! Thank you so much, now lets get out of here.
    I'm far from your savior. Very far I'm afraid.

    The assassin smirked behind his mask. Raising his pistol he fired point blank into the corrupted mans forehead, the impact knocking him and the chair back towards the floor. Deathstroke was hired too kill targets, not save them. His employer couldn't risk keeping him alive with the information he knew.


     
    #2 Lonewolf888978, Apr 12, 2015
    Last edited: Apr 13, 2015
  3. "My, my... what do we have here?" A cold, husky voice filled the open air and in its wake, a frosty sigh followed from a deep breath. The cold Gotham air contributed in chapping the clown's crimson lips as it blew further into the walled path in which he took. Silence returned afterwards, but was quickly filled once more by the soft sound of smirking lips. The sound grew into a soft, perhaps malignant chuckle and, in a mere moments, echoed through the dead-riddled hall with a cackling that sounded as insane, as disturbing, as spine-tingling, and as dark as the one who laughed; the Joker. The Clown Prince of Crime tiptoed ever so gently to and fro - careful, as not to step on the bloody bodies laid to rest by the Terminator himself. Naught followed the Joker except his mentally ill thoughts and the flies that were attracted to his rotting face held only by staples and rubber bands. Blood gushed from his eyes and lips as they always did, and the Joker merely wiped the rivulets with his purple suit. Of course, the Joker was careful not to misadjust his manic grin that was quite literally up to his ears.

    Deathstroke was but a door away, but the Joker had other plans. In fact, his plans were already set into motion about half an hour earlier... However, it was supposed to be for his darling Batman and not this assassin. The whitewashed Agent of Chaos continued his tiptoeing as if he was a child who religiously believed in the saying "step on a crack and break your mother's back," Only, when the Joker realised this - he began visciously stomping on bodies and breaking spines and ribs with his feet. Who cares? They were all dead. He tried to withhold his laughter, but the Clown Prince could not - he let loose another cackle. Entering the door, the Joker saw naught but the assassin and the dead politician. He peered into Wilson's eyes with his own red and drying eyes, rubbing them in anger and insanity to find that it was he, not the Batman, who came. "What've you done!? I've been waiting for far too long!! Now he won't see any of this, now he won't see the work I've put up for him!!!!" The Joker bellowed to Deathstroke. Using sleight of hand, the Joker revealed a remote hiding within his sleeve and at once, pressed the button in pure and manic and unthought of madness!

    In response, all the dead bodies' faces began to grin - their lip muscles moved profusely in spite of their post mortem state, revealing the the assassin they were all poisoned beforehand by the Joker's Joker Venom. With another press, the wallpapers of the corrupt one's room burned to reveal a crude and darkly painted "Welcome Home Batman! I've missed you so much!" on the walls, painted with pig's blood and black paint.

    "You... you've ruined everything. You've ruined it all!!" The Joker bellowed, followed by an insane and manic laughter. He took his pistol out and began firing wildly at Deathstroke.
     
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  4. He was a man, faceless, but a man nevertheless.

    Many thought him crazy. They called him a madman. He was neither.

    For years, the people of Gotham asked for help and sought a savior. The people of the city wondered why such violence cursed their borders. They asked why they alone had to deal with monsters like the Joker or Two-Face. The faceless man himself asked the same.

    But he wasn't the answer.

    He was the Question.

    And he had spent the last few nights researching one particular Gotham politician, an up-and-comer with a lot of skeletons in his closet. That politician was a part of Cadmus, the Question was certain of it. Cadmus, that secret society of nefarious means and masked members that only he had managed to shine even a scrap of light upon. Few others believed him. In fact, he was the only one aware of Cadmus' existence that he knew of. It had taken years of piecing disparate shreds of evidence to elucidate their web of lies, deceits, and shadows.

    The rapid rise of N'Sync in the 1990s and their just as sudden fall. The murky beginnings of the Gulf War. The founding of a Japanese robotics company meaningfully naming themselves Cyberdyne and creating the Hybrid-Assisted Limb system (who's unfortunate acronym only strengthened the Question's belief that Cyberdyne was definitely a Cadmus subdivision), the calculated waxing and waning of Britney Spears' career....

    ...and, of course, aglets - the little plastic pieces on the ends of shoelaces.

    It was the aglets that gave the Question the final clue to tracking down this particular politician, whom he was certain was a Cadmus informant. Unfortunately, by the time the Question reached his location, the corrupt official was dead by the hand of none other than Deathstroke the Terminator. To make matters worse, the Joker - of all people - was with him.

    When the Question opened the door and entered the firefight between the two killers, his first thought was Huh. Neither of them would be on Cadmus' payroll; supervillains aren't their style. The second thought was, Oh, shit. Its Deathstroke and the Joker.

    His third thought was, Oh, shit! Its Deathstroke and the Joker!

    He immediately rolled behind the meager cover of a table as bullets shredded the walls. The Question was a conspiracy theorist, not a fighter. He had some training at hand to hand, but someone like Deathstroke could eviscerate him twenty different ways before he could blink and going up against someone like the Joker was simply suicide.

    For now, he had a few seconds before either killer noticed him, so he looked around frantically for something to use. He fished around in the pockets of his trench coat: paperclip, pen, chewing gum, matches. Not much there. On the table he was hiding under was something more promising. It seemed the politician's kidnappers were mercenaries. A pair of grenades, a Glock 17 with a full clip, and an aerosol can of bug repellent for the hot summer nights.

    His was a sticky situation, but an answer began forming in the Question's mind.
     
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  5. Gotham City
    Abandoned Warehouse
    Deathstroke
    @Damien Kriez @Razilin

    Slade gritted his teeth, surprised by the Clown Princes appearance, and slightly annoyed by his chaotic laughter, the assassin manage to dodge the first two bullets before a third fired cleanly through his shoulder. Shrugging it off, Deathstroke rolled towards the Joker, drawing his pistol, and brought it up to the Jokers forehead. The clown laughed, ignoring the gun to his head, and laughed even harder once Deathstroke pulled the trigger, and the gun clicked empty.

    Drawing a blade, the clown sliced twice at the mercenaries stomach, the first merely sliced against armor, but the second drew blood. Dropping the useless sidearm, Deathstroke drew his sword, slicing it towards the clown, who ducked under the blade. The clown chuckled as he kicked Deathstroke back against the room, Slade slide against the floor, his sword skidding from his hand. Drawing his second firearm, he spotted movement from the corner of his eye, and turned and fired towards the Question twice. Before he could fire a third time, a card flew past his throat, and stabbed against the wall.

    Turning his attention towards the Joker again, he fired at four more cards being thrown at him, knocking the cards aside uselessly. Charging the clown, he grabbed a small cylinder at his waist, his Bo Staff growing to full size. Swinging low, the Joker was brought down by the sudden swing from the staff. Standing over the insane man, Deathstroke raised his staff to strike again. ​
     
  6. Gotham City was a nasty place. Rife with crime, air thick with a stench uniquely Gotham, and a heat that nearly rivaled Smallville during the summer. The reason he wasn't suffering said heat in Smallville could be traced all the way back to the man who'd sent him here in the first place. Conner figured Clark had intended to keep an inconspicuous eye on his dark-clad friend, at least at first. Or something sinister was happening right where Conner couldn't see it, and Clark was being secretive again. Either way, Conner couldn't tell if he was thankful for the chance to be a part of something, or bitter because it was Gotham.

    Until Clark had let slip a very specific bit of information regarding a nasty corporation Conner was quite familiar with. Not to mention--

    He stopped, suspended over a bleak looking warehouse. The most desolate part of Gotham had to have its own abandoned warehouse, of course. He knew he'd heard noises, although he hadn't been certain what they were until he'd paused to listen carefully.

    Gunshots. A few consecutive bursts. Through the smoggy Gotham air and the thick walls of the warehouse the shots were muffled, but he'd heard them just fine. His thoughtful expression deepened and morphed into one of concern, lowering himself to the ground in front of the warehouse and internally debating whether he should contact Clark or let it all play out-- and then intervene. Gotham wasn't his territory-- he hardly knew how to handle its problems.

    And he truly began to regret being here in the first place. Clark and his damnable need to have eyes in every city, looking out for some "informant"-- hell if Conner knew what he was even talking about half the time. And Gotham, of all places?

    Because of course, Conner - Superboy, or whatever they were calling him now - knew perfectly his way around this mess of a city. Riiight.

    He sighed. The nagging feeling that those gunshots were somehow important persisted, and his enormous ego insisted that he could handle a few thugs, if even anybody had survived the first few rounds. Clark was probably busy anyway, he reasoned. And Batman didn't seem to want to show up anytime soon. Probably busy, too.

    In that case, Conner decided clairvoyance would have been nice addition to his already impressive arsenal.
     
    #6 Dipper, Apr 19, 2015
    Last edited: Apr 19, 2015
  7. The combat, the kicks, the blows upon his face - it all reminded the Clown Prince of Crime or no one but him. Pain, many would say, is the last thing to make someone smile. The Joker, however, was not one of the many. He was, in fact, one of a kind. With every cross and jab, flick of a wrist and a flying card, and pull of a trigger, the madman's manic grin stretched more and more underneath the blood, flesh, and rot. It was ironic, that the Joker wore his own face as a mask of sorts. He had it sliced and then stapled his mug back, completely ignoring the supposed pain that comes along with it. Irony, however, was a field the Joker often strolled. It is, after all, a form of insanity. In the Joker's mind, he saw Slade as Batman, and loved every bit of it. However, when the Clown Prince of Crime was brought down to the ground, reality snapped back and saw the Terminator as he should be. This bored him greatly, and wished not to partake in fruitless battle.

    Before the mercenary swung his bo staff, the Joker pressed the gag flower stapled grotesquely on the right side of his blazer. Upon being squeezed, a large cloud of Joker Venom thick as a smog engulfed them. In mere moments, the room was filled with his green gas, making any who take even the slightest whiff of his his creation smile maddeningly. It was a symbol for both the Question and Deathstroke to evacuate. The Joker, however, did not rely solely on the gas. You see, the moment his toxic fumes began to fill the open air, the Clown slipped merrily outside the door. His plan to give Batman a warm welcome had failed, but the bombs he planted beforehand weren't completely useless. He had pressed the big red button on the remote and dashed out. "That's all, folks!!!" His voice was loud and frantic, and he laughed. His laugh was loud but began fading away as the Joker hightailed out of the building. Upon reaching the exit -
    BOOM!
     
  8. The Question ducked as Deathstroke unleashed bullet hell in his direction, and rolled away from the table, where he saw the Joker unleash his infamous gas. As a loud explosion shook the room, the trench-coated vigilante spun the aerosol can in his hand and lit a match against the leather sole of his shoe. He sprayed the can's contents across the open flame, creating a spewing stream of flame that burned away the Joker Gas. He closed his eyes as the bright light of the igniting mist erupted forth.

    The Joker had fled out the door, but Deathstroke was momentarily blinded by the impromptu flashbang. The Question bull-rushed the veteran mercenary, shouldering him against the wall. He aimed the can at the other man's metal mask, its contents sticking to the lenses and obscuring his vision. The Question then slugged Deathstroke across the temple, knocking him down. He doubted it'd be enough to put down a veteran hand-to-hand fighter, but it was enough for the coated vigilante to dart out the door toward the Joker.
     
  9. Gotham City
    Abandoned Warehouse
    Deathstroke
    You bastards!
    The mercenary said, his vision blurred by a bright fire, a laugh escaped his mouth, the Jokers gas taking effect. Slade felt a force hit him, knocking him against the wall, which seemed to help his eye sight slightly. He managed to make out the shape of the Question, before a his vision was once again obscured by an aerosol can. Raising his fist to strike, the Jokers gas acted up again, a loud, maniac sounded laugh escaping from behind his mask. The Terminator felt a force against his temple, knocking him to a knee.

    Wiping visor clean, the mercenary chased after his two foes, snatching his weaponry up as he went. Various curse words mixed with laughter, slowed him down, and caused him to fall over smiling dead bodies, causing more laughter. By the time the mercenary reached the door, he heard a click behind him as an explosive force propelled the man out the door, a piece of metal stabbing through his torso. Hitting a car, his eye sight blurred momentarily, but he retained awake, as the pulling he was in a moment ago fall apart, flames spreading from the windows.

    Pulling the metal out, Slade felt his super soldier enhanced body healing itself, and he used his good arm to push himself up. Taking a view of his surroundings, the Joker and Question was gone. The Joker was probably off, fantasizing about fighting the Batman. The Question was off doing.... Creating more questions Slade supposed.

    Feeling eyes upon him, he strode off, the sounds of cop sirens approaching causing him to quicken his pace. The sense of someone gazing at him put the assassin at an unease pace, and finally stopped looking on the roof tops, expecting to see Bats himself gliding down to him.

    Instead he saw something much more interesting.


    Superboy.
     
  10. His ears rung momentarily once the explosion went off. That wasn't good. He really, really didn't want to hang around once word got out that there had been an explosion. The resident vigilante would surely question him until Clark came to the rescue with a well thought out excuse for his presence here, and no doubt would his mission - or whatever it was Clark wanted him here for, other than searching - would be put on hold until Batman got caught up in more important matters.

    The flames reached out like tendrils beyond the broken glass of the windows, rising higher as they drew fuel from rotting wood and bodies-- if the stench emanating from the building was anything to go by. Dark smoke billowed up and beyond the surrounding structures but thankfully hadn't spread just yet. Had he been in Metropolis, it'd be out by now and more sirens than he could handle would be blaring from each corner of the city. He scanned the immediate area for survivors, as was nigh-instinctual at this point, and found little more than three escaping figures he couldn't make out through the fire.

    He blinked a few times to clear his eyes of ash, and in an instant his expression twisted into one of surprise as Deathstroke stumbled out of the warehouse, or... propelled, and lurched back a few feet to keep his distance. If Deathstroke were present... he didn't really want to think about what had been going on in the burning warehouse.

     
  11. The Question vainly tried to keep up with the Joker, but the Clown Prince of Crime gave him the slip. Panting from this most recent exertion, the coated vigilate headed back into the building and returned to the room where the fight had taken place. Deathstroke had escaped as well, leaving only the dead and the corpse of the corrupt politician as the room's only remaining occupants.

    The Question knelt by the corpse and began rifling through the belongings he found. The cellphone was particularly enlightening. Phone numbers belonging to prostitutes, a few entries for known drug peddlers, fellow politicians...fairly routine skeletons in the proverbial closet. However, it was what was missing that intrigued the Question. Where were the entries for family members? No wife, no children, no extended relatives.

    The Question had done his research on this man before hunting him down. His wife of twenty years was a known trophy and gold-digger. Together, they had two teenage sons who went to a private high school. Interesting that they weren't on this man's speed dial.

    The Question turned the phone over, inspecting every aspect of it. The case was old, scuffed on the corners. The plastic screen had thumb prints and streaks in specific places, suggesting frequent use with the right thumb. The same right-handed wear and tear was evident on the volume controls on the side. The charging jack was abraded for the same reason - regular use. This was a working phone. However, when he checked through the device's apps, there were only basic ones. No games, no radio stations, no signs of customization. This was strictly a working phone.

    Which meant there was a personal phone stashed somewhere else.

    The Question got up and dusted his knees. He had some family members to find.
     
  12. Upon leaving the nowa merry group to attend to their own matters, Joker snuck away back into a series of alleyways that neither the Question nor the Terminator knew. If they had a keen sense of smell, tracking the Joker would be as effortless as a german shepherd trying to find a plate of raw steaks, for his face was just as bloodied and malodorous. Fortunately for the Clown Prince, their sense of smell were more than average - not enough to find the Clown Prince. As the madman made his escape, the search for the Batman was on. Now, the Joker was no ordinary madman. In fact, in his own mind, the rest of the world is insane and only he, the Joker, is the one trying to make it normal again. Chaos, as the clown had put it, was the natural order of things and thus, was subject by its will. The politician was no ordinary politician either... the Joker was not a fool to be taken lightly. Thinking what schemes fit perfectly for the laughs and giggles, he chose the perfect white collar worker with blackened stains under his very sleeves. It was none other than the petty thug who tricked the man before the Clown into wearing the red hood above his head. HIs name (fictional), Vespa Lorenzo, was a name that echoed all through the Joker's sad albeit twisted mind. He forgot it not, and waited for the perfect time to exact his revenge: when Vespa, the thug that he was, rose above the ranks and became a politician - a dirty one, but one nonetheless. And what better way to screw someone over than at the top of his game?

    Stepping to and fro in a dark alleyway, where the lights dimmed ever so often, about three seconds or so, the Joker stopped at a peculiar food delivery truck. It was peculiar, but it did not look out of the ordinary. That is, to an ordinary bystander or passerby. The Joker clapped his hands and opened the back - two teenage boys, Italian looking, tied up from head to toe with duct tape, like a gray Egyptian mummy. Only their noses and eyes were free from the adhesive tape. They were the sons of the recently deceased statesman, and they were to pay for their father's sins. "Hellooooo boys." The Joker whispered, his voice was cold and dark, merciless as the Joker was. The Clown refrained from laughing, he fought the urge to laugh but his manic and deadly grin was forever etched upon his face. "It's time for a field trip, kiddos!"

    The Joker manned the vehicle, driving all the way to where it all began: Ace Chemical Processing Plant, the birthplace of the Clown Prince of Crime. It was abandoned, left to rot and ruin through the years. The Ace of Knaves opened the doors, throwing the sons out. Goons emerged from the darkness of the debris - all bloodied and with smiling scars upon their faces. They wore untangled straightjackets and were hungry for the blood of the Batman. "BATMAN!" the Clown shouted, his voice impatient and followed by a manic chuckle. "WHEREFORE ART THOU, BATMAN!" and the rest of his goons wailed and laughed alongside their king. Taking a crowbar, he began to strike the boys in the arms and legs, totally insane and hoping the Batman would finally hear his calls.
     
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