diffindo | ↠ free for all.

There was something different about the mansion this morning, and it wasn't the way the furniture was arranged or how the place looked oddly lived in, when the old man didn't usually inhabit any of the rooms he passed through to get down into the sub-levels of the building that housed things people shouldn't see. Things the public didn't know about and wouldn't know about, if he had anything to say about it. Especially since the things down in this basement now had as much to do with him as they did Mr. Wayne. Now, about that thing that was off...

"Ace?" Usually the dog was waiting at the steps, eager to greet him, but the beast was nowhere to be found. "Ace! Here boy!"

Huh. Well, that was weird. As was the sudden layout change down here, too. What in the world was going on?

After the events with Harvey Dent and The Joker, Bruce had become a recluse. Contrary to what Alfred tended to believe these days, it was by accident. When Batman had taken the fall for Harvey's crimes, Bruce had meant to hang up his Batsuit and parade all over Gotham like there was nothing wrong. It was an insult to believe the people of Gotham weren't observant; if both Batman and Bruce Wayne happened to disappear, he was sure someone would connect the dots. With his luck, this someone would be loud. Bruce had tried to keep up appearances, but his footsteps always faltered, or his fingers always pressed the phone to cancel appearances. When he hadn't been looking, Batman and Bruce Wayne had merged; he wasn't sure where the playboy he used to be began and where the vigilante everyone refused to call a hero ended.

Being a shut-in meant he lacked the usual company he'd come to be known for. Hearing a voice in a room near the one he was in was something unexpected. Bruce didn't open his house up to strangers, not unless there was an appointment, and even then, he seemed to embody more disinterest than he did previously when it came to his business and social life. On instinct, and possibly stupidity as he was unarmed and therefore vulnerable, he followed the voice as it called out for something.

"I'm afraid whoever you're calling won't be able to hear you," he said, walking into the room. He gestured around. It was only him and Alfred, as far as he knew. "If there's a frisbee out the back, I have a doorbell for a reason." Not that he knew how to answer the door. Alfred did everything for him these days.

In the future, it was Terry who did everything for him, Alfred having passed on long before Terry was even born. Nightwing, Robin, Batgirl, and all others who'd been affiliated with Bruce and/or the original Batman had either followed suit or moved on to greener, less cowl-filled pastures. Bruce himself had hung up his cape and called it quits when age finally caught up to him and forced him to stop being so damned stubborn. Batman vanished - until Terry appeared and took up the mantle himself. Now it was Terry wearing the suit and Bruce sitting behind the controls, guiding him via comm link as he continued what Bruce had started so long ago.

This guy, however, wasn't Bruce. The voice was eerily familiar, but unstrained by age, Terry didn't recognize it.

"Uh, hi." Terry waved, unsure and on alert. The suit was in his backpack. Probably should've worn it under his clothes, but there'd been no reason to. "Is Mr. Wayne around? I've got--" He cut himself off, something out of the corner of his eye distracting him and demanding his focus.

It was gone. The large glass case that held the suits - all of them, from Bruce's own suit to the ones his sidekicks had worn - was gone. Throughout the damage they'd sustained down here and the the times Bruce had moved things around, that case had stayed in the exact same place. And now it wasn't there. "Man, if you just took what I think you took, there is going to be some serious hell to pay."

It was a shock to have someone not know who he was. His face had been plastered all over Gotham's publications, from television to print. Sometimes they were so saturated in it that he had to admit he was sick of seeing his face even in his mirror.

"I'm -" He noticed he probably didn't have his new acquaintance's attention any longer. Bruce followed Terry's gaze, turning slightly to see what had caught his attention. He thought maybe Alfred was standing there, hands behind his back, looking amused at Bruce socialising, but all he saw was his furniture.

Turning back, he was finding this entire exchange to be completely out of his usual realm of weird. With his eyebrows raised, he couldn't help but be a bit amused at the accusation. This was his house; he wasn't Robin Hood who robbed from the rich and put those items on display in his lonely mansion. "Excuse me?"

"The suits. Big glass case, kinda hard to miss." Terry gestured to the space said case of suits should be occupying. "They're--" Outfits once worn by some of Gotham's greatest heroes, and people he's pretty sure meant, or still mean, a great deal to the old man. Can't very well say that, can he?

"Halloween costumes. Some pretty seriously rare Halloween costumes that my boss is kind of attached to. We can save everyone a lot of trouble if you just give them back. And explain how you managed to ditch the case. What do you got on you, some sort of melting device?"

A part of Bruce knew exactly what Terry was referring to. The only big glass case he had was down in the Batcave. He'd retired the suit to the glass case that he kept hidden between the rocks down there. He felt it was safer. No one looked for a Batsuit in the underground natural basement. "There's never been a glass case there," he opted to say. "Let alone with Halloween costumes."

One step at a time. Bruce was a man of many words; concise, to the point, a smartass when the situation called for it. This was not one of those times, however. He knew any smart comment would derail the conversation and get him no answers he was now apparently seeking. He also had a feeling that it'd only anger his companion even more. Taking control of the situation and getting to the core of whatever this kid was talking about was his goal. "Who's your boss?"

Man, if only he could just outright ask if the guy took Batman's suits, but things were never that simple. Wearing a mask came with secret identities that couldn't be revealed. He was experiencing that personally. Most of the time, the urge to say, 'Hey, I'm Batman,' wasn't there, but there were moments - like when his little brother would talk about how great Batman was - that he wanted to say it. And, of course, there were the moments when he had to ditch Dana and his friends to run off and save the day. Explaining the real reason why would seem less lame than running off to supposedly tend to the needs of an old man.

Speaking of... "I work for Bruce Wayne. I'm his personal assistant, and I don't remember you being on staff."

"I'm not staff," was the first thing that came to his mind. At first he was amused at the idea of someone not knowing who he was. It was a breath of fresh air he hadn't expected he craved. But now it was proving to be a problem.

Bruce didn't remember hiring any more staff. Unless Alfred had done something behind his back ... But his dear friend would be smug rather than secretive about it. He was looking at Terry as though he had two heads; eyebrows furrowed, an amused yet confused look on his face. Nothing was matching up, from the location of these glass cases to the Bruce Wayne these two both knew.

He knew Alfred wouldn't have done that, even for the amusement factor. The Wayne Mansion held secrets that neither were prepared to let anyone know. A mere press of specific piano keys would open a secret door that led to the Batcave. Opening his home to anyone but his family was a risk that neither wanted to put to chance. Batman may have left, but his ghost still remained in Gotham.

"I don't remember having a personal assistant, unless this is Alfred's doing." At the mention of the name, Bruce turned to see if maybe Alfred had snuck up on him and was now lingering at the doorway. It was still empty. And if his slip, even though it couldn't be called one, was anything to go by, Bruce had just put a nametag to his face.

"Obviously," Terry said to the first statement, frustration bubbling up under his skin. Frustration and concern at the mention of the old man's former butler and this man's implied identity. It couldn't be. ...could it?

Now officially weirded out (and worried), Terry took a step back and reached into his pocket, drawing out something that should look very familiar to Bruce. Bat-shaped, sharp, but rounder and edged in red instead of all black. He held it up expertly, like it was a familiar part of himself, ready to throw it in Bruce's direction at a moment's notice. He really should've worn the suit under his clothes today.

"Look pal, I don't know what kind of game you're playing, but you're not Bruce Wayne. Mr. Wayne's an old man, and Alfred Pennyworth died years ago - before I was even born."

Bruce glanced down to see what Terry held out to him. Of course he remembered something that he and Lucius had designed. An entire kit of them rested down in the Batcave, near his suit. Recognition reflected on his face at the sign of the tiny Bat weapons that felt more at home in his hand than the coldness of a gun. "I'm not a fan of games," he said, although a bit absently. It was clear he didn't understand what was unravelling between them. But he knew, for a fact, that he was neither old nor Alfred-less. He knew that the day he was, the latter rather than the former, would be the day he broke into pieces.

With his hands in his pockets, perhaps not a smart thing to do, Bruce decided that the one thing that always proved a burden in his life was now a blessing. "I'll show you," he said, and with that, he turned. He did glance behind him to see if Terry was following. If this kid was so intent on telling him who he was, there was no way he'd pass up the chance to shout in his face that he was wrong about who he was when shown the proof.

It wasn't a long walk. He guided them to a room with a table, something similar to a dining room, where a few magazines and bits of paper were laid out along it. A piano that had a few alterations made to it sat to the side in front of a bookshelf. It looked lived in, but it probably lacked the warm air of a house that was properly lived in. The state of the table showed he wasn't expecting company, as this table would've been immaculate and bare if he was. "I've never had to prove who I was before, but -" He grabbed a magazine from the table, one that had been lying faced down, and he flipped it over as he held it out for Terry to see. It wasn't the best proof one could show, but it was something. A connection between the name and the face. "If I'm not Bruce Wayne, then I'm afraid I can't answer your 'Who am I?' question."

Terry followed, bat-shaped weapon still clutched tightly in his hand. He took the magazine with his free hand, examining the cover and looking up to meet the eyes of the man who claimed to be Bruce Wayne. The problem with that was that Bruce Wayne was old. He could beat the crap out of you with his cane, but he was just an old man who had hung up his cowl for good and stepped into the role of adviser for someone who was more capable. Terry was proud to be Batman, and was starting to really understand what it meant to be Neo Gotham's hero beyond the initial vendetta against Powers for what happened to his dad.

"This can't--" Dropping the magazine to the table it came from, the teen pinched the bridge of his nose. "Man, if this is some kind of time loop thing... I hate time loops. Don't you hate time loops? Just because some people figured out how to tamper with time doesn't mean you should. Then again, half the crazies in this town are doing the same with things other than time, so really, what's the difference?"

Edited 2012-08-05 02:21 (UTC)

Christine hadn't remembered Abax when she'd been returned home, and had gone back to life as normal, or as normal as one could get on a spaceship with a crew whose mission was to explore new worlds and new lifeforms.

Then everything changed. A call came from Mr. Scott in the transporter room that she was to come right away, and when she arrived, slightly out of breath from jogging the whole way, she came face to face with her doppelganger. And what's more, all her memories of Abax came back to her, slamming into her like a ton of bricks and causing her to stumble back, Mr. Scott needing to hold out an arm to assist her.

"Caroline! Is it really you?"

"Caroline?" Mr. Scott asked, glancing between the two. "I thought it was a transporter malfunction and it had spit out two of ye!"

Christine waved him off and reached for Caroline. "It'll be all right," she said, giving Caroline a smile tinged with sadness. "Come with me."

Then she took a deep breath to steady herself. This was going to be hard to explain to everybody.

"You have got to be kiddin' me." Hardison was standing on a dark street in LA watching some grown ass dude named Angel beat the shot out of some white dudes with fugly faces. They were on something. Had to be. How was it he got stuck walking back with Angel? Eliot should have been there. Eliot liked to kick ugly butt.

While he was thinking how sour his luck was, someone -- or thing -- grabbed him and tossed him into a Dumpster like he was a ragdoll. Hardison went crash. He immediately tried to sit up and shake it off, but the thing came at him, ugly teeth showing.

"What the hell did they get me into?!" He tried to kick, but he was still a bit shocked from the crash. And let's face it, he's the hacker not the hitter. The vampire, though he didn't know it was one, grabbed him up off his feet and pinned him back to the Dumpster, then began to move in on his neck. "Hey man hey!"

[ emma struggles. it's not something new; fitting into this town is like trying to fit a puzzle piece that doesn't belong. she tries and she tries, but unless she snaps the corners, no one is going to break. there's henry, with his metaphorical pom poms, cheering her on and believing in her like no one else has ever in her life. her own flesh and blood is more successful in life without even realising it; he takes it and he holds it tightly to him, always questioning, always fighting. she didn't realise there was another member on her team, also oblivious to who she was at her core, always cheering her on but in a subtle way. graham was one of her first friends here; she figures he'll be among her last.

there are large shoes to fill with being sheriff. she doesn't know the town like she knows the back of her own hand. her usual methods are unorthodox. the mayor breathes down her back like she's waiting for the perfect opportunity to push her hand into her chest cavity and rip her heart out. she knows there's a hole in her chest she refuses to acknowledge as it cripples her, but it's where graham's memory is. he takes up so much space, even when he's no longer here, that she sometimes feels like she's suffocated in his scent and in the notion of him being in the same room. she misses him like a heartbeat.

she has her head on her desk - or his, as it's never really truly been hers, has it? it never will be and she knows she'll never properly claim it - and her hands grip her hair so tightly she wants to tear it out. he haunts everything; from the smell that lingers to the prison cell she temporarily called home to every little crook and cranny in this office. she cannot stop thinking about graham, about the huntsman without a heart, and that stupid fairytale that doesn't quite fit her in it. sometimes henry says he'll come back; graham is dead, his fake counterpart, but the huntsman still lives. emma doesn't think so, though. life isn't a fairytale. it doesn't abide by any rules, fictional or otherwise, and the universe still spins on while good people are taken too soon and those with rotten cores still keep going. ]

Ugh. I don't know how anyone does this job without wanting to shoot themselves.

[ she's thinking too much tonight, about what ifs, fairytales, and alternate realities where she's a princess of the palest but most beautiful princess in all the land and there's a huntsman who means more to her than anyone could possibly understand. she thinks if she stays like this and ignores the real world that it'll go away. considering she goes around pretending she still has a heart, she thinks it's possible. it stopped caring about anything that wasn't henry's happiness when graham collapsed in her arms.

life lesson learnt, world; happiness is unattainable. ]

[ the shell dies. the lie dies, the lie that said, you're an ordinary man, no more, no less and the core lived. the core, the heart, the truth, that's what wakes gasping for breath in the morgue, shuddering and shaking and clutching at his chest. i remember, he'd said, and it's still true. he still does. he remembers everything he was and everything he still is. he remembers the before and the after, the lies and the truth and emma.

there's a wolf waiting for him outside, when graham finally emerges in ill-fitting, borrrowed clothes. this doesn't surprise him. it's like seeing an old friend, one forgotten for too long. when it falls into step behind him, he doesn't question it. it's natural. it's right. it's what he should be, instead of what the strangeness of this world made him into. and maybe he should run and hide. maybe he should vanish into the woods and wait for things to set themselves to rights again, for emma's coming means they must go back to the way they should soon enough.

but he doesn't.

he goes to look for her. it's dark and he's better at staying unseen now, now that he's shed his former role. but she isn't at home, and she isn't at the diner, and so there's only one other place.

( unless she's gone, somewhere graham can't follow, but he'll cross that bridge when he comes to it. )

she's at his desk, face buried in her arms and stands in the doorway and just looks for a moment, taking her in, taking the room in. and then he inhales a long, steadying breath before he drags up the words to speak. ]

The job's not as bad as all that.

Faith had been trying to take down another demon, one that was most likely the brains to the one that was currently kicking Hardison's ass brawn. "Hey, Boss," she managed to throw a punch out at the demon, making him stumble some, and she quickly gestured for Angel to beat this one into a pulp while Faith quickly picked up the piece of rebar she had dropped during her fight. If anything happened to Hardison while on her watch, she'd never forgive herself. His team would never forgive her, either (not that she cared so much about them, but losing a member of their crew would hit them hard, regardless).

She kicked the back of the beast, making sure to move him away from Hardison before she slid the piece of rebar through his back. With it's howl in pain, she gave it another kick, where it collapsed on the ground. She kept an eye on it, ready to pull that weapon out of its back and aim straight for it's heart if it didn't take the cue to be dead.

A part of her felt compelled to ensure that her friend was okay. This was not the usual way she went about things. You save the damsel in distress, Angel or Buffy would calm them down while she cleaned up the crime scene. Heart to hearts were a little out of her jurisdiction.

"Hey, Princess. You okay? You're screaming your lungs out like a little girl," she said with a smile. Humour and Hardison kind of went hand in hand. She knew this was a situation where it probably didn't, but it was the only way she knew how to comfort him ... besides slapping him on the back and doing a fist-bump.

[ emma's not a real big believer in anything. the world sucks and it rolls on. but henry, a child who hasn't even begun living, has taught her more life lessons than experience has. her past has hardened her to the point where she sometimes wonders if she's pinocchio in his book of tales, wishing for a better life that isn't so wooden and confining; but henry has softened her to the point where she thinks she's a real person.

hearing a voice with a touch of that irish accent she never thought would set her on fire is one of the many things emma does not believe in. the dead stay dead. when someone dies in your arms, heart completely still within their chest, they're long past saving.

the grip in her hair is tight as she really thinks she's gone insane. this entire town is insane. she's not a hero, or the coming of whatever is going to save this town from understanding how to fix broken clocks. it's hard for her to believe in something that only seems to steal the people she cares about away from her. for her, it's someone who isn't graham standing in her office, seeing what a poor excuse of a sheriff this town now has. ]

Yeah? Clearly you haven't met the Mayor - [ she decides to look up then, figuring she's hearing voices. she doesn't know graham as well as she wants to (because she never tried to) and sometimes she wonders what he'd say if he saw how corrupt this town really was. what would graham do? is a regular thing she asks herself.

and what would he do in this situation? apparently rise up from the dead and stand before her in his office. emma might as well be bambi; she impersonates the character well enough with her wide eyes and mouth open. she begins to shake her head, gripping the desk tightly. ]

You're - No. No. I'm seeing things. This town has officially driven me insane.

↠ free for all.

cold day in gotham in the bat cave chilling;

cold day in gotham in the bat cave chilling;

cold day in gotham in the bat cave chilling;

cold day in gotham in the bat cave chilling;

cold day in gotham in the bat cave chilling;

cold day in gotham in the bat cave chilling;

cold day in gotham in the bat cave chilling;

cold day in gotham in the bat cave chilling;

cold day in gotham in the bat cave chilling;

cold day in gotham in the bat cave chilling;

cold day in gotham in the bat cave chilling;

<33333 I L Y

GIVE ME JOHANNA

GIVE ME EMMA.

GIVE ME GWAINE.

CAROLIIIIINE, ALL THE GUYS WOULD SAY SHE'S MIGHTY FINE

bro

Caroline please!

best broship times? aka come rescue him faith!

AJKDLS OMG HOW DID YOU KNOW I LOVE THESE TWO? prepare for depressing textwalls.

DEPRESSING TEXT WALLS ARE MY FAVORITE

YES. I HAVE MISSED THESE TWO.

GIMME KOL

carolineeeee of course

UGH I AM JUST GOING TO GIVE YOU MY HEART FOR GIVING ME THIS.