[From the society that brought you "Superman" and "Batman." Not much of a creative mecca for monikers.
His hands have shifted to clenched at his sides. Jaw tight, posture squared up like he's braced for a fight, and it eases only by inches at the choke in her voice and the late answer to his question and the fact that he doesn't get any one of the dozen canned do-gooder answers that he half-expects.]
So much for cooperation, I guess.
[He backsteps, spreading his hands at the wreckage of the saloon they're standing under. Conscripted into service on some alien world for the will of some opaque organization they never asked to back. From the moment his head broke above the waters of the Lazarus Pit he's been fighting to make sense of being alive again. And it was awful, a whole lot of hard truths and shattered foundations, but never without direction for long. Goals to work toward, plans to make. Scores to settle. Here, he's been cut off at the pass, a few universes away from Gotham and largely removed from every hard line goal that's kept him grounded since.
Helps to keep busy. Interdimensional timekeeping organizations to nose in on, genocidal goddesses to put a bullet in, arsonists to chase down. But give him some idle hands and hell if he's the guy to talk to about fitting in. Barking up the wrong tree for that one, too.]
Maybe you'll have some better luck fitting in around here. Me? I'm going to go ask our friends some questions before the trail gets colder.
[It's no invitation. He's not going to tell her not to come, either.]
no subject
His hands have shifted to clenched at his sides. Jaw tight, posture squared up like he's braced for a fight, and it eases only by inches at the choke in her voice and the late answer to his question and the fact that he doesn't get any one of the dozen canned do-gooder answers that he half-expects.]
So much for cooperation, I guess.
[He backsteps, spreading his hands at the wreckage of the saloon they're standing under. Conscripted into service on some alien world for the will of some opaque organization they never asked to back. From the moment his head broke above the waters of the Lazarus Pit he's been fighting to make sense of being alive again. And it was awful, a whole lot of hard truths and shattered foundations, but never without direction for long. Goals to work toward, plans to make. Scores to settle. Here, he's been cut off at the pass, a few universes away from Gotham and largely removed from every hard line goal that's kept him grounded since.
Helps to keep busy. Interdimensional timekeeping organizations to nose in on, genocidal goddesses to put a bullet in, arsonists to chase down. But give him some idle hands and hell if he's the guy to talk to about fitting in. Barking up the wrong tree for that one, too.]
Maybe you'll have some better luck fitting in around here. Me? I'm going to go ask our friends some questions before the trail gets colder.
[It's no invitation. He's not going to tell her not to come, either.]