13 April 2012 @ 02:03 am
[action: 1249 Williams Road]

[When you're an old man waking up in the body of a young woman, you catch on quickly.

To say Crane is distressed would pretty much be the biggest fucking understatement of the year, and maybe he spends a little too much time staring into the bathroom mirror to just confirm that, yes, for some reason he looks like Harleen, his former student and current friend.

He doesn't actually know all that much about Harley's situation in Mayfield-- who she lives with, where she works, that sort of thing. He cautiously explores the house, as if worried about running into someone. Which he sort of is. He can barely tolerate human interaction normally. He will NOT be doing any of that sounding like her.]

[action: around mayfield]

[He managed to swipe some clothing from Harleen's fake!husband's wardrobe he's a robot he won't need it, which gets him a few odd looks from the drones around town. Or that might just be because his her his her his hair is a hot mess right now. What are combs. What is make up. What is not dressing like you're homeless. He doesn't know.

He's heading towards the hospital. If he can't find answers there, at least he can hide in his lab until it's all over.]
15 February 2012 @ 11:08 pm
Riddle 040: A Little Less Conversation...  
[At some point on this seemingly ordinary Thursday afternoon, a conversation between two older men can be heard over Mayfield’s phone lines. No, it isn’t Jack Smith or the Mayor. But who could these men possibly be...?]

-- I do NOT have cobwebs--

Well, from the sound of it, you certainly don’t anymore.

I have no idea where you’re getting such horrible lies from, Nigma, if you haven’t just thought them up yourself, but they’re just that. Lies.

He actually defended you, you know. Do you mean to tell me that all those lovely things he had to say about you were lies?

And you’re just going to automatically believe-- No, of course, of course you’re going to trust the word of a textbook narcissist over mine; it’s like talking at a mirror for you two, isn’t it?

What’s the matter, Jonathan? Can’t handle it when I rustle your feathers? You had no problem rustling his.

... I am hanging up the phone, Edward. I will never be picking it up again.

I’m sure you won’t. Wait. Hang on a second. [A dramatic pause.] ...Oh dear.

... [Why is he letting his curiosity get the better of him?] What?

Well, it appears as though---in my haste to check up on you, of course---I neglected to filter the call. Must have slipped my mind.

[As good an actor as Eddie may be, there’s no hiding that shit-eating grin that’s just crept onto his face.]

... I am going to fill your veins with so much fear toxin you will never have a coherent thought ever again.
30 January 2012 @ 11:13 pm
[Guess who has been having nightmares so severe they’ve been scaring the goddamn Scarecrow and thus hasn’t slept since his revival.


Because he’s tired and cranky and when Crane is cranky he wants to make everyone around him as miserable as possible and he does this by being a freaky motherfucker.

For your enjoyment, a phone call:]

You wake up in a box, pine wood and lined with silk, but you can’t remember how you got there. It’s dark, too dark to see anything around you, but you can hear a rain of dirt above you, feel the heaviness of the Earth swallowing you up. You’ll wear your nails down to the quick and lose your voice from screaming, and you’ll run out of tears long before you run out of air. If they ever bother to dig your coffin up, they’ll find your skeleton twisted in absolute terror.

Thanatophobia. The fear of death.

It’s not that people are afraid of death itself, really. It’s much like the fear of heights; people are more afraid of the fall and subsequent sudden stop at the end than the altitude on its own. With death, what we truly fear is the unknown. Even the most truly devout always has one niggling doubt in the back of their mind, that everything they’ve been taught is a wicked lie. As a man of an advanced age and lacking morality, I’ve often wondered about it myself. What will happen when I, personally, die? Popular opinion seems to be that I’ll go to Hell, and I have been missing my dear old grandmother lately. And yet, that’s only one option, one opinion in a vast sea of speculation. Perhaps reincarnation is the true way. I’d like to come back as a crow, personally. Such majestic creatures.

Or, perhaps, it’s this. Simply, this.

I’m sure Mayfield has been called similar things in the past. Purgatory. Hell. Humans have such an amusing compulsion to apply familiar concepts to foreign ones. Mayfield is a special case, much worse than anything the average mind could comprehend.

But, for lack of a better word, I believe Hell will suffice.