TESTING STUFFS NO POASTY PLEASE

[sheldor the CONQUEROR]

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[sheldor the CONQUEROR]

Harry spotted his friend, a delectable Hufflepuff just his age. Darcy Hill; he wasn't certain that he had feelings for her that extended beyond friendship, but he certainly appreciated her person. She always threw him off his game; one minute she was 'one of the guys' and the next, he wanted to just take her and--he jerked his head to the side as if to eliminate any naughty thoughts. Maybe he had gotten some dirt in his brain cavity last time he had been cloud watching. That must be it. He racked his brain for one of the lamest muggle pick-up lines he could think of. This was their greeting, almost like a secret code; pick up lines. He could tell she knew it was him because when she turned she had a smile on her face. Not that it was uncommon, for she was always smiling, but he was pleased nonetheless. He was even more pleased when she threw her arms around his neck. He wrapped his arms around her waist in turn and squeezed her in a lose grip. They exchanged pleasantries and he frowned as she faltered for a moment. Her response was stiff, and it was all very odd; but he was not one to push something. He'd figure it out eventually, of course, he was surprisingly adept at ferreting out information when he wanted to. He was less obstinate when it pertained to the personal lives of his friends, however. He wasn't insensitive, merely curious!

"How are Hermione and carrot top?" she asked, flashing him a grin. He rolled his eyes and shook his head. "C'mon Darce, you know you can't insult him like that." he arched a brow. "After all, you have the same color hair." They paused a moment, then burst out laughing. How wonderful it was to be able to see her again; it felt like ages, and his heart ached to see her smile. He wasn't accustomed to not seeing her for months on end. It had certainly been a sight more boring over the summer. Hermione and Ron seemed to be oblivious to the fact that they were attempting to romance each other, and in their denial had managed to somehow exclude Harry more than usual. He didn't blame them, it was about time! It had merely been a bit boring.

[sheldor the CONQUEROR]

Standing in the middle of the crowd was a petite but tall young woman with unusually bright red hair that tumbled in the loosest of waves to her lower back, framing her face. Bangs cut straight across her brow, just above her eyes which were a bright green flecked with gold. She had a fey face, with narrow structure and high cheek bones, a slip of a nose and slanted eyes full of mischief. Even when her face was relaxed and devoid of expression, she had that quality that seemed as though at any minute a smile was just about to break through. People who knew her would first describe her as a cheerful person. She laughed and smiled easily--not to put on a show, but because she was a naturally happy person that was easily amused. She was wearing a white button down collared shirt with the sleeves rolled up to just below her elbow. Over that, she wore a simple black sleeveless jumper with a plunging neckline, gathered in an empire waist. The hem of the dress fell to mid-thigh, exposing dark gray tights and finishing with black Mary Janes. Her hands were clasped in front of her, holding onto a small carrying cage with a rather young spotted Ocicat, a small plaque on the front displaying the name "SHAY". Behind her was a small trolley with her trunk and supplies. A middle aged woman with short and wild red hair stood tearfully, reaching forward to embrace her daughter.

A pained expression crossed Darcy Hill's face as she carefully set Shay's cage down and hugged her mother tight. She felt slightly guilty for leaving her mother all alone; they both knew she had to go, but it was too bad she would be so far away. Her mother lived in Ireland, and she had no way to get south to Hogwarts, for the very simple reason that she was a muggle. Darcy Hill was not an ordinary adolescent; she was a witch. A witch with mixed blood; her mother was a muggle, and her father was a wizard. Her throat closed as she thought about him; past tense. She almost couldn't bring herself to use it when talking about him. This was the reason she couldn't stand to leave her mother, it was still so soon after the....incident. Her father, Liam Hill, had been murdered over the summer. He had worked for England's Ministry of Magic as an auror. Liam, Aislin, and ten year old Darcy Hill had moved from their home in Ireland to London, England for a work transfer. It didn't make much of a difference school-wise; Darcy would still have attended Hogwarts. This way, they reasoned, they would even be closer and able to visit with her occasionally, when vacation permitted. One night he had gone out for some assignment, and didn't return. This wasn't exactly uncommon, his hours were long and unscheduled most of the time. After a few days, however, they grew worried from not having heard from him. Five days later, they received a message from the Ministry stating that the remains of Liam Hill had been discovered, the circumstances were not to be disclosed entirely, but that it was confirmed to be the work of a group of Death Eaters that had ambushed him and his partner. That was it; no person at their fireplace, no explanation as to what happened, and no updates except....they didn't catch them and had no way of finding them out. It was so unemotional, so unfeeling, and it made Darcy angry fit to boil. For all her father did for the government, and they couldn't even send a representative to give them the news face to face?

So they had moved back to Ireland, living with Darcy's grandparents until Aislin could get back on her feet and find new work and a new house. Luckily they were not poor, and it was one less thing for her mother to worry about. Darcy hated crying; it was embarrassing. Not only was it the worst feeling ever, but she didn't like to expose herself so much to people; she was a trusting and usually open person about her thoughts, beliefs, ideas, memories, and her past, but when it came to her emotions....for some reason she couldn't stand to let anyone see anything but a smile on her face. Anger was okay, and irritation, but she much preferred to show a happy face to the world. It provoked less questions and tears were....well, they were just embarrassing. She couldn't tell why.

"'Bye, mum." She kissed her mother's cheek and pulled apart. "If I don't go now, I might miss the train...." She forced a smile, picking up Shay's carrying cage, and turned and walked away, straight into a brick column that gave her passage to the other side--Platform 9 3/4. She couldn't look back at her mother; she knew it must be hard for her to be in London, thinking about their previous life here. Sighing, Darcy headed for the train to find a compartment. Usually she looked forward to school, and though it would be a pleasant diversion from life, she mostly just wanted to go back to sleep and not do anything except watch TV.

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There was still some time before the Sorting Ceremony and the feast. Students were given plenty of time to mingle and chat, catching up with friends before they had to retreat to their House tables for one of Darcy's favorite parts of the new year. She loved to watch the first years, all tiny and cute and nervous. With her things safely put away and Shay stalking about the castle happily exploring every nook and cranny to make sure nothing had changed, she was free to look about for her friends. She was a generally independent person, enjoying her time by herself--she just preferred to spend her free time with friends. And she had many. Only a few close friends that really knew her, but she was friendly with many people in different houses--even the occasional Slytherin. They weren't inherently evil or anything, just some of them were more cold and ruthless than others. She had changed before coming down, currently wearing something similar to all the other females in the Great Hall. A pleated dark gray skirt that fell just above her knees, white stockings underneath, black Mary Janes, a white collared shirt with a tie with her House colors on them, yellow and black in stripes, and over that a gray sweater vest. She wore a standard black robe open over the ensemble. As she stalked through the room, she stopped to say hello and give a hug to the people she knew, making standard small talk. She stopped for a moment, glancing around and standing on her tiptoes to look for one of her best friends.

"Baby, did it hurt when you fell from heaven?" A smooth voice sounded behind her, and she could hear the grin intoned in his words. She grinned and turned around, her hair settling over her shoulders. "Harry!" she exclaimed, and skipped forward to throw her arms around his shoulders, giving him a tight hug. He laughed and she grinned up at him with a childish expression. "How have you been?" She released him but did not step back far. She did not believe much in personal boundaries between friends, and Harry Potter was used to it by now.

"Not bad. Not great either, but not too horrible." He shrugged. Darcy knew about his aunt and uncle, and from personal experience she knew about his horrific cousin Dudley. A traumatic experience, the one time she had visited him at the Dursley's house. She never made that mistake again! "We missed you this summer. What happened?" She usually met up with Harry at the Weasley's house, spending ample time with Harry's Gryffindor friends Ron and Hermione. She particularly liked Hermione, who was a friendly and highly intelligent young woman. This summer, however....she had not made time for them. She felt a bit guilty, but her jaw clenched and her expression froze for a moment as he asked her, then relaxed into a rehearsed smile. She had become a most excellent actress over the years. They said it was almost impossible to fake a "true smile" because it required intricate details involving the eyes and facial muscles. Darcy proved them to be fools, mastering the technique. It served her well.

"Oh yeah, sorry. I was busy; we...went back to Ireland for the summer." She felt another twinge of guilt at her words. She wasn't really lying, but she wasn't telling him the truth. She felt justified in that it wasn't something that she had to tell him, and it wasn't that she didn't trust him. She didn't think she was ready for everyone's apologies. Nothing was worse than pity from your friends, except perhaps pity from strangers. "How are Hermione and carrot top?" she flashed him an impish grin.

[sheldor the CONQUEROR]

Harleen Quinzel crossed her arms over her chest and tapped her high heeled shoe impatiently. She was smartly dressed in a dark gray pencil skirt and matching blazer that was fitted snug about her slim figure over a bright red collard shirt. Despite her professional dress, there was a cheap and tawdry quality to her when she wore them. There were just one too many buttons of her shirt undone, her skirt just an inch too high to be truly decent. She was a curvaceous woman in her mid-twenties. She had voluminous blonde hair that tumbled down around her shoulders, though it was currently pulled in a high ponytail, bangs falling off to the side and trailing over the corner of her eye. Wisps of hair framed her face, falling out of the elastic confines. She had never worked out in the field before. Here she was, standing in a shining elevator of Arkham Asylum, the premier psychological institute. People would kill for the opportunity she had, working as a psych intern. Most people had to go through years of grueling education, a competitive application process. If she had only one talent, it was that she could manipulate people. Fortunately, she had an amazing body and she knew how to use it. Her professors at the university had been very...receptive of her bribery. On the other hand, she had liberally used that talent to pass by all the steps that were normally required to bring an individual to the place she now stood. Although it meant that she didn't have to exert much effort (only in a mental sense), she also had little to no knowledge on the subject of psychology. That knowledge she knew would be important for the job that she was currently facing.

She didn't deserve this prestigious internship--not that she cared, but she knew. She was not impatient to reach the corridor. It was quite the opposite; though she usually was a calm and confident person, she had just realized how she was in over her head. Of course she would pull through it with just a little effort on her part. She was not an impatient person, but her current actions spoke of how uncomfortable she felt with any possible future failure. She always got her way in the end; it just happened that this time, she didn't completely know what to do with it. It was a few minutes before the elevator slowed to a stop, the digital plaque reading floor one. The bottom floors were reserved for Gotham's criminally insane, the most dangerous down as far as you could go. And that's where she was heading. Not only had she gotten the internship, but one of the most exciting assignments possible. She was going to get the chance to talk to one of the most dangerous men in all of Gotham City; the man they called The Joker. She had been debriefed on the situation, had read over his files a million times. She was excited. It's not often that a girl like Harleen got to talk to someone as infamous as the Joker with the knowledge that she was safe. Physically, of course. It was impossible to keep him from messing with her mentally, but she didn't think she would let him. She wondered absently if he would be an attractive man. It certainly would make this much easier if he was.

As the elevator pinged and the doors slid open, she cast a smile to the young woman that was showing her where to go and received no smile in return. Women always hated her. She wasn't naive, she knew why; they were jealous. Jealous of the ease her good looks afforded her. Biting back a peal of laughter, she stepped off the lift and turned around and watched the woman as the doors closed. Standing there a moment, she turned on her heel and reviewed her instructions. She sauntered down the corridor at her own pace, glancing in at the inmates as she passed by their padded cells. She felt as though she was walking for hours--and pretty soon she began to recognize some faces from the newspaper, and felt a bit unnerved as they smiled out their little windows at her with wolfish expressions on their face. Sniffing indignantly, she snubbed them and stopped looking into the windows, watching straight ahead. She was too prideful to give anyone the time of day unless she expressly desired to. And these men were below her notice.

The lights grew dimmer as the corridor seemed to descend. She was faced with series of small declines, and she skipped down the intermittent groups of stairs. She stopped when she could see the end of the hallway. This was it. She started down the hallway again, and came to a stop in front of one of two cells. She glanced over to the guard that was sitting in the corner. He nodded solemnly, and she took a deep breath. There was a heavy door set in the cell with no window on it. There was concrete only a few feet up from the floor of the wall, and the rest was clear, and inches thick. There was a wide slot with metal bars set in the plastic. Not wide enough for anything but a child's arm to pass through, there was no need for anything to cover them. She had been told that the glass, though it seemed flimsy, could not be broken by any human strength, and was similarly impervious to bullets. Explosions, up to a certain point, but she was sure that was how it was for almost any substance. Not that she planned on bringing any explosives in--she wouldn't be able to even if she wanted to.

She couldn't tell how large the cell was; although a light shone down from the ceiling within the cell just against the glass, it retreated into darkness to obscure the rest of the room. He was the most interviewed inmate, being the psychopath that he was. She was, all of a sudden, gripped by fright and nervousness. She bit her lip and stepped up to the glass, trying to search out a figure in the darkness. There was a chair on both sides of the glass. She blinked and called out. "Joker?" Her voice seemed louder than it should have, resonating against the close walls. She stepped back and set her briefcase down beside the chair, then approached the glass again. She did know the protocol for this, as it had been detailed to her in the doctor's office upstairs. "Sir, my name is Harleen Quinzel. I believe they told you I was coming; If you would, perhaps, be willing to come into the light so we may talk?" She put a preemptive smile on her face, clasping her hands behind her back.

[sheldor the CONQUEROR]

He grinned right back at her as she glowered back at him. "Could you be a darling, and I beg that you STOP FOLLOWING ME." she said. He had been expecting something like that; she had given exactly the reaction he had been hoping for. He wondered, if she disliked him so much, she should just disappoint him by smiling and ignoring him. Someone had once pointed out that he was only doing it to get her attention, since he couldn't get her romantically he wanted her to hate him. That person had ended up with a black eye after going to far, but that was beside the point. Sirius knew a lot of boys (and girls) were jealous of him, for various reasons. He didn't want to admit it, but he did want her to think of him. He had always thought it impossible for her to ever think of him as anything more than his public face, and so he had worked hard to get her to hate him. At the mention of his name he was certain she could feel a burst of emotion; who cared if it was irritation or disdain; he was still in her thoughts, so in the end--he still won.

He had become rather despondent that she actually did hate him, but the incident a few days ago had shown him he was wrong; it gave him hope. He wanted to show her he was actually more than just the womanizer everyone saw. It was his crutch, his defense mechanism; he wanted her to know the real him, but he knew he couldn't allow her to see it either--no one could. Then they would know. They would know his weaknesses, his fears, everything. He didn't want anyone to know the real him, as much as he sometimes thought he did. Every time he caught himself acting regular around her, he couldn't help but automatically ruin it for them both by saying something smart alec.

"Well you know," He began, letting the book drop out of his grasp and into her lap. "I was just walkin' along minding my own business," he said with a smirk on his face and exaggerated his words with some emphatic hand gestures. "And something just pulled me to the library. I've never been in here, if you'd believe it." He paused, knowing the protocol of enemy exchanges he paused to allow her a moment to make a comment. He was well versed in manipulation of the situation. He had not stated that just because it was the truth, or naively believing she wouldn't remark up on it; it was placed in their to allow the conversation, the bickering, to continue. It wasn't fun to be the only one talking, after all! "You need to stop trying to call out to me with your silent longing. I'm right here, after all." He grinned broadly and leaned over her again. "It's just a well known fact, Andy. You know you love me." he said smugly. He didn't count it as flirtation, though it was possible to be misconstrued that way. This was his way of taunting her. It was the best way he knew to get a rise out of her!

Thinking about the bet, he realized he had grown bored with it. A whole day? It was too long for it to entertain him. He was so close to just letting her win to get it over with, but then he would see her and remember that he simply had to win. There was no choice about it! He wondered if she would agree to shorten it. He didn't want to wait until he went to bed! He wanted the decision made now. He wanted the end so that it could move into the next stage. When he thought of something exciting, he grew so excited he couldn't wait for it to occur. The bet had been wonderfully entertaining at first, and now--not just because he couldn't flirt--he had grown incredibly bored with it, itching for the moment when they faced each other and one had to concede. He wanted to see the look on her face when he won, and she expected the worst from him, as he knew she would--what else could she think? But he would throw her for a loop again and give her back her sketch book though the bet dictated the opposite. If she won, it would ruin all his efforts. He had planned so carefully for this. Okay, so it was spur of the moment, but after the idea dawned on him he had spent a few moments thinking rapid-fire on all the possibilities and had come up with a solid result in both cases. He hoped she was curious enough to see what would happen to let him win.

[sheldor the CONQUEROR]

Noticing but not bothered by the rather obvious annoyance that Qwen expressed as she interrupted them, she couldn't help but wonder why people took the other gender so seriously. If you had to work at it, what was the point? If someone liked you they should just flock right to you. Sabriel certainly never worked to get a man or woman. They had to work to get her. If they weren't confident, she didn't want to waste her attention on them anyway. Sabriel was a passionate person in some aspects, but love was something she tended to lack. Perhaps it had something to do with her childhood; she didn't care enough to delve into the psychological aspect of it, but any psychiatrist would have diagnosed her immediately as being anti-social. Some people called those with anti-social personality disorder psychopaths. The first time someone called her a sociopath, she had demonstrated it by knocking them out. She fit the framework perfectly.

Even from a young age, she had never followed any rules that were laid down, either by her parents or by the government. She had done many, many things that were grounds for arrest. She was deceitful and had many aliases she had used in the past, using people to get what she wanted. She was impulsive and rarely planned ahead--she never needed to. She didn't have to worry about the future because other people would always have things that she could take. She'd never go hungry, be poor, or not have a house or a job. Stealing was her job. Taking things from people. Security, happiness, money, goods, virginities (Sabriel was an equal opportunity employer); anything she wanted she got. He had a tendency toward irritability and aggressiveness; she often exerted physical force when necessary. If someone insulted her, she often responded in the worst way possible. Normally she could wait until she was in costume of course, because she didn't want to jeopardize her leisurely life. She was reckless and rather callous. She had a tendency toward being unemotional in all aspects other than anger and violence. She was often unmoved by the plight of others, and had little empathy in her system for the troubles of other people. She had always been able to maintain a mask of sanity; it enabled her to act as normal as was possible for her. Of course, she still remained a quirky individual, perhaps more awkward than what most considered normal, but if you really thought about it--what the hell was normal, anyway? She didn't care all that much about her own mortality; she acted as if she was invincible, which she really did believe. A true narcissist and independent person, she detested almost everyone without reason. It wasn't worth the effort for her to make or retain relationships with other people, which she rarely did unless it seemed like a good idea. Right now was one of those times.

"The name's Will Fletcher. What's yours?" he asked her politely. She bit down on her lower lip and contemplated him for a moment through a narrowed gaze. Figuring it wouldn't hurt to give her name, she flashed him a small smile and propped an elbow on the table. "You can call me Sabriel, Will Fletcher." she arched a brow and brushed a finger against her lips, resting her thumb against her jawline. A common bad habit of many who wore their hair long, she had caught up a lock of dark brown hair with her free hand and began to twist it around her finger. She stared back at him, wondering how many pictures he had gotten of her in uniform. She doubted he was clever enough to figure it out, but even inadvertently he could pose a threat to her in the future; she would have to be careful. What was the saying? Keep your friends close and your enemies closer? She could work with that. Her smile broadened at the thought, and she leaned back into her chair, dropping her arm off the table. She heard a tinkle as the door opened, and the purely evolutionary impulse caused her to glance over to the sudden new sound and movement. Recognizing it as another female, she relaxed. The process of recognizing the new element and processing it and reacting to it took just a few milliseconds. The girl was certainly attractive, and Sabriel couldn't help but look long enough to judge her. She thought perhaps they might be of kindred spirits, if she was any judge of character. She wasn't really a good judge of course most of the time, but she liked to think she was. Loosing interest, she realized that Avery was approaching their table--with a young man. She glanced him up and down as he greeted her and Qwen, and although she had no scruples about the ownership that people tended to believe they had over people, she didn't bother with him aside from a glance of acknowledgment. It was a more than adequate action to her, and she believed it to be more than polite enough for someone she didn't know. It was becoming rather crowded; she hoped no one else joined them, or she might have to become rather cross. Or leave. But she wasn't the type to back down without reason...

"WIB? Woman in black....hm. I don't know, I've never seen her before." She shrugged noncommittally, wanting to bypass this subject. She felt like she knew what their public opinion would be--she doubted that Will, as she now knew him as, would not admit anything he might think about her in front of anyone else. She wondered what he did think, and then decided she didn't want to care. Either way, she didn't want to hear any criticism. Flattery she would accept, but she really didn't want to be aggravated further anymore. Despite Shift's obnoxious presence and interruption, she had fortunately regained the books. Later she would just drop them off at the police station with a forged note saying it was from some friendly superhero. There were enough in this city, it seemed, that she doubted another good-doer would be wondered at or investigated. Anyway, if they did try it's not like they would get much. "Uh Sabe do you want something to eat or anything?" Qwen asked, but didn't even wait for an answer before she got up and brought something over to Sabriel; she recognized it as what she loved most. She was very picky about food, and it was one of the few things she really liked here at the coffee shop, so she usually got it when she came here. "Aw, thanks darling." she cast Qwen a small smile and took a sip of her tea. "I have to agree I suppose; at least no one was hurt. I hate having to deal with the cops, like today. They can be so thick sometimes. They treat me like an idiot half the time. God knows they're the ones acting like idiots the rest of the time." She cast Will a sly smile. People had a habit of acting like idiots when she turned on the charm. Sometimes she didn't mean to, but often she did--after all, she didn't believe in moral standards. Silly flimsy things like that didn't restrict her! Not when she wanted something to go her way, and if it worked for her for someone to pay attention to just her physical presence, then why shouldn't she use it?

Today she was in a real mood. She had the odd ability to feel multiple strong emotions at once. Though she felt sufficiently aggravated from the goings-on of the day (she could hold a grudge for years), she felt a distinct satisfaction in the accomplishment of her goal. This setting her in what was mostly a good mood for her, she she decided that she would make the extra effort to make friends. She couldn't let anyone get suspicious, after all! She wondered how she could do that--it wasn't something she was accustomed to by any means, and so she really had to wrack her brain with all the methods she had seen in movies or read in books. Sharing an interest was something, right? She remembered that there was a convention in a couple of days that was for lovers of antique and rare books. It was something she had been actually looking forward to for weeks now. Nothing interested her more than rare books! She had gone on quite a stealing spree in order to save up money for just the occasion. She wasn't sure if she really wanted to share it, but....it was the only opportunity she could think of. Anything else she would have to put more effort into. She didn't want to have to work too hard, and so she chose the lesser of two evils. "There's this book convention this weekend. You know, like really old and really rare books. I'm going to go to it--I can get some free tickets if anyone....um...wanted to join me." She said awkwardly, glancing off to the side. She was pretty sure she had never really invited Qwen to do anything, and had never extended the hand of friendship to Avery. She hated to sound awkward in front of anyone, especially the two strange men sitting with them, but at least she had gotten it out. "It should be fun. I've been saving up to get some books there. You can help me pick them out. If you want to." She shrugged, as if to suggest that she really didn't care one way or another. She didn't usually, but now it was a new challenge for her--see if she could make friends with these people. She glanced expressively at Avery, to show that she was actually including her in the invite.

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[sheldor the CONQUEROR]

Wesley braced himself. He knew how to handle people with a temper. It seemed that everyone on this ship was hot-headed. He was a stoic character with a steady temper and calm of thought, and despite being exposed to them from almost birth, he still hadn't quite gotten the hang of being on the receiving end of all that anger. He bore it well, with little hint of emotion aside from acceptance of his fate. He knew that the Captain had the worst temper of them all, but he also knew that it merely came with his rank. He had the opportunity to turn around and dish it right back out to the crew, who would have to take it. But Wesley was a firm believer in breaking the circle. He knew how to motivate people to get them to work, he knew how to manipulate things to make everything more efficient, and he understood that keeping everyone as cheerful as possible was an onerous task. He enjoyed it to a certain degree; though everyone grows tired of their jobs at times he often was pleased to see how well he could organize the operation of the ship. Knowing that Jamie was already in a bad mood, and he was the one intruding on her morning (late as well), he was ready for a scathing response.

“No Wesley, I’m not tired. I mean, it’s not like I didn’t have another dream where I actually had Pan miserable and I was awoken by some loud mouth. It wasn’t like I walked out onto the deck simply to tell them to shut up, only to discover a man trying to get my crew to commit mutiny against me! I’m just Jim Dandy Wesley! Surprised you can’t tell!” She spat at him. Dipping his head in polite acknowledgment of her words he turned and busied himself with fixing up her bedsheets. It would be time to change them soon. Wesley saw to the laundry but did not wash it all himself. As supervisor he would help if there were not enough hands available (or if those hands resisted washing) but he was far to busy to engage in a menial task that required little to no skill. He had worked out a system to keep the chores fair. There was a bi-weekly rotation, with groups of six men working at one chore those two weeks. The chores ranged from maintenance to cleaning the rooms, laundry to inventory. Only a select few, chosen by the cook himself, were allowed to help with meals. The rest did dishes, checked and cleaned the machinery, mended clothing and anything else that needed doing. The very worst of jobs, such as emptying and cleaning the chamber pots, was reserved as punishment for those that angered the captain (and sometimes Wesley if he was feeling judicious enough). He turned and saw her tucking into her breakfast, and bit down on the inside of his cheek out of habit. He suddenly remembered he hadn't had his own breakfast yet. It looked like he'd be eating late today then. That's okay though; hunger was good for the character (in moderation of course). He would just have a large and leisurely lunch, if fate allowed. He looked up at her as she inhaled, about to speak.

"I still don't know how you can be such a morning person. Get my boots as well, okay? And possibly my hat. I might try to go and get some rum for the crew. Kill the man who was talking this morning as well, if they haven't already." Wesley gave a mild laugh. "Well someone has to be a morning person around here. Otherwise you'd have to get your food all on your own, and the crew would have to take the initiative on the daily routine. Plus it's the only time I can spend without the crew around. Besides, don't you like seeing me every morning, first thing?" Grinning to show he was joking (though he really wasn't), he shrugged, hoping she wouldn't take offense to his words. Although he had known her so long, it was nearly impossible to really know Jamie Hooker. Sometimes she could be in a volatile mood, sometimes sensitive to words and taking them as offense, and sometimes she could let things slide even if they were overtly insulting. He meant it all in good fun, but still--anything was possible. "Of course; boots and hat..." he said, fishing around for the right ones. He supposed it wasn't considered normal most of the time for a male to have fashion sense; but if he was expected to dress the Captain each day, he had to make sure that she was more than presentable. A part of an intimidating figure was an impressive dress. It had never bothered him, however. It was a source of pride that he was partly responsible for the reputation of Captain Hook. At least no one could say he was remiss in his duties! Setting them to the side, he decided to address the rest of her statement. "A trip mainland? Certainly will do the crew some good. It's been getting a bit....stuffy." he observed diplomatically. "As for killing the man, you know I can't agree to that Captain. Scare him up a bit, maybe make him stay on board while we go to land, but you know I hate cleaning up a mess like that. It takes forever." It was not his position to dictate what Jamie could or could not do, but he certainly let her know his opinion, hoping to sway her decision by logic she would understand and hopefully agree to.

As she stood up, he knew that she was finished with her breakfast. Although there was still plenty of food on her plate, he knew she didn't just get up and walk away from a meal for no specific reason unless she was finished--and she always received more food than he knew she could eat. Just in case. Wesley tried to leave nothing to chance; always plan ahead, that was his motto. Always plan ahead, and then when the problem arises--well, you're already covered! He began to rearrange the plates on her platter, snatching up a piece of bacon while she wasn't looking and hastily wiping his fingers on the napkin, then carefully folded it out of compulsion for neatness rather than appearance. It was just going to the crew anyway, no need for ceremony. He watched her walk to the mirror and stare at herself a moment before she began to brush her hair. He had never seen anything like it; if she treasured it as a special feature of herself, then she had every right. It was outlandish, that hair; pin straight and bright as the autumn leaves, the external manifestation of her internal fire. He smiled, just watching her for a moment. He wanted to walk over and run his hands through her hair. The moment passed, however, as she moved to the basin to watch her face. He knew she would give him a sound thrashing if he tried anything of the sort, second mate or childhood friend or no.

Sighing, he lifted the tray up and waited as she finished dressing to get her leave. Just as he was about to open his mouth, she spoke. “Now, I might have an idea I’m willing to share. It’s something along the same lines, but I believe that it’ll work wonderfully. Now if we can just get that silly tart, Isa—did you hear that?” he set down the tray for a moment, and stood completely still, her previous words forgotten. There it was; an indistinct tick-tock thrump. Or was that just the sound of his heart beating, reverberating in his bones? It was silent but for the ever-present background buzz of the crew setting to their respective business outside the captain's cabin. No, there it was again; he was sure. Tick-tock. Tick-tock. A steady, rhythmic beat. He clenched his fists. That sound meant one of two things; either someone had decided it would be good fun to put a large clock on deck, or Caiden (the croc as Wes liked to think) was on board. Again. He wondered when the man would learn; he wasn't wanted! One drunken mistake didn't mean anything to his Captain. That's right! His captain! He gritted his teeth. He'd show that creeper who was boss. You can't just waltz onto someone's ship uninvited! “Anyway, I have an idea, but if you have anything you want to say or contribute, speak now Mr. Leyton. If not, I’m going to go ahead outside and make sure that blasted Caiden isn’t on my ship already.” Wesley nodded, more than understanding of the attention this situation would require. The plan or whatever could wait; he wondered how she could expect him to add anything to her idea if she hadn't stated it, but decided it would be a good idea not to voice that thought. ”Of course Captain. Your plan can wait until later; I believe you are right. This event must take precedence.” He set his hand reflexively on the pommel of the dagger at his waist, attached to his leather belt--mostly for tradition and ceremony than actual use. He treated it well, caring for it like a prized possession. Which, to him, it was. He had never used it to draw blood from someone before; for intimidation, perhaps, or as a tool, but not for violence. The crude guns were sufficient for him if it came to that--which it rarely did, Wesley was a diplomat not a warrior. Before he had a chance to say anything further, the door swung open.

I'll be damned. If it isn't the pretentious lout himself! Standing there bold as brass....ooh the nerve of some people! Hasn't he heard of privacy? Wesley had some thoughts. Some nasty and unusual and impolite thoughts running through his head. He would have loved to voice some of them aloud for the vile person before him to hear. Leaning against the doorway...pfft. What theatrical posing! Wesley put his glare full force at Caiden. "Oh, good morning my dear Captain!" The cursed man said, winding his way through the cabin to approach her. He wanted to drag the man out and give him a thrashing before tossing him over the edge, but he knew he had to follow the Captain's wishes. "Eaten breakfast? Gotten dressed? I heard...the ruckus this morning. Not too far off I was, you know." Wesley gritted his teeth, watching him as he maneuvered around Wesley. Oh he really got his blood boiling! Unable to stand it any longer, he turned his head just slightly to the Captain but kept his eyes locked on Caiden's sauntering form. ”Would you like me to throw this creeper overboard, Captain?” Unable to stifle a little comment, the threw the next in; ”The crew have been working so hard to get the ship clean today. It would be a shame to have it sullied by his presence.”

----------------------------------------

[sheldor the CONQUEROR]

Mildly disappointed that she hadn't taken the bait, he waited to see what her final reaction would be. He hoped she wouldn't let the conversation lapse and just go back to reading her book. He nearly pouted for her lack of reaction but then remembered himself and stifled the urge to display the always useful 'puppy look'--which had she but known would have been a marvelous joke indeed! Laughing inwardly because he was the only one that at present could appreciate the pun, he was not disappointed. As she stood up and let the book fall back onto the chair, he fixed his smirk in place as he watched her. She held out her hands to him in the motion of a captive. He wasn't exactly certain what she meant about pleasing himself with the idea that she loved him, but he had a few smart remarks about that his dirty mind could churn up. Deciding quite rightly that this was not the right time to show his superbly perverted wit, he continued to process her words, his mind responding slowly. After analyzing the words and their potential meanings (including the factors of her mood, past behavior, and obvious conflicting emotions when Sirius was involved) he finally decided that indignance would work the best to his advantage. His jaw dropped and his brows knitted together. "You know, it's not just you being mad that makes me smile!" he said, thrown off guard. He hadn't expected to be accused with the truth, though he knew it he could not publicly accept it. "You know I enjoy harrassing everyone equally." He sniffed at her. Catching himself about to continue on a little rant, he snapped his jaw shut and exhaled through his nose, tilting his head to the side so that all she could see was the top of his head, his shaggy black mane falling into his face to obscure his expression as he sought to regain his composure.

Throwing his head back, he had replaced the exposed face with a calm and collected mask, his expression carefully smug as if laughing at her attempt to derail him, obviously deemed insufficient. "Why, you plannin' on goin' somewhere Lockhart?" he asked, grinning with a wolfish smile. "I will miss my favorite little toy. It's all right, though. Plenty of people to replace you." Oops. He hadn't meant to go so far; he assumed she'd either be offended or express relief and tell him to go find a new plaything if she was that expendable. She wasn't really, and he knew it. She had pushed his buttons right back, though, and he had already been loosing his grip earlier and hadn't quite prepared himself for this encounter, though he had in fact initiated it. He was always driving recklessly into situations without thinking about the consequences, or what actions he would take once the event was engaged. He should have known better!

"C'mon Lockhart. You know I don't make plans. I don't have to. Everyone else makes the plans, I just have to pick and choose in the moment which one sounds best to me." He was surprised that she agreed to it, and he almost launched into an elegantly worded and very empty speech about the reasons why they should cut the bet off at dinnertime. Lips parted and breath held in posture about to speak, he was surprised enough to only blink at her. Then he grinned, and he stared at her a moment. "It's okay," he began, almost expecting to get decked before he finished his sentence, he leaned in and brushed a finger along her jawline to come to rest under her chin. "I won't flirt with anyone before you once the bet is over. You'll be my first customer." He flashed her his most charming smile, and had been about to supplement that statement with something else to further infuriate her (it was not a matter of pride for having slipped earlier in the conversation) when he blinked. In the few moments that it took for his eyes to open again, two twins had popped out of nowhere and now clung to either arm, plastered against Andy and glowering at Sirius. His jaw dropped open in surprise. He certainly had not expected this.

In his shock, he said nothing. One of them exclaimed something in an obviously fake manner, flipping his hair. Sirius frowned, watching him. He was quite sure he'd never seen even one of them before. And here there were two! He was sure he'd have noticed if Andy had any serious fanboys. He knew most stayed away partly because they feared Andy's retribution, but also because they had a feeling that Sirius would give them a similar treatment if they tried anything too sneaky. Between the two of them, Andy had remained relatively free for Sirius' "attention" over the years. It was possible he had missed these two; but twins? They did look vaguely familiar, but he brushed it off as unimportant for the moment. No one had ever interrupted him like that, and he was still so shocked that he held onto the book that Miguel had shoved into his arms. When he regained his sense again, he burst out laughing. Louder and harder than he had ever laughed, and dropped the book at his feet as he doubled over and clasped his sides. He felt like his body was being ripped to shreds as the laughted turned slightly maniacal. He couldn't help it; it was just too much, the looks on their faces and their words! Oh ho! They were so smug! Andy's little body guards! His laughter maintained a steady volume and rate as he writhed on the floor of the library, completely oblivious to the outrage the librarian was unleashing, screeching to be heard above his raucous laughter. He didn't care, though. He was in such a foul mood, and those two--despite their most vile intentions--had alleviated him from his doldrums. "HOLY s**t!" he finally yelled, lying on his back and grinning up at the ceiling. That had been good, though he was out of breath and his muscles hurt from the laughter. He had two new playthings, and oh would they squirm in his grip. Noticing that a few of the students in the library were smiling without knowing what they were smiling about (laughter is, after all, exceedingly contagious), he was marched out of the library chased by the hawk-like librarian, grinning to his fellow students all the way. Oh delight....

[sheldor the CONQUEROR]

Darcy watched as two students dressed in the designated Slytherin house colors approached them. They were both blonde, but while the female's hair was a natural blonde the male seemed to have bleached his hair to the point that it was almost white. She assumed it was probably natural, however; as a half-muggle she knew a lot about the muggle world, but many wizards and witches didn't. Chances were, it was either some natural magical/genetic anomaly, or he used some spell. She smiled to think of him as using a spell like that--he didn't seem to be the type that fussed over his appearance like that. She was normally quite a bad judge of things of that sort; but this boy was dark. Not necessarily gloomy; just....dark. With what seemed like a natural inclination to scowl. Well that just wouldn't do, no, no! He was devilishly handsome. If beauty could hit you like a brick, this was it, Darcy imagined. His hair would be ridiculous on so many other people, but it blended well with his blonde eyebrows, piercing blue eyes, smooth white skin and fine features. Glancing at her friend, she could tell they were physical opposites--and though she didn't get to see Harry much during school except in classes (where everyone mostly behaved themseleves) she guessed that this was probably his mortal enemy. Draco Malfoy. She knew the background story; although she had only met Harry a few years ago, she knew so may stories about Draco. She had hoped he would be an ugly little old man-type, so that she could hate him without regret. But he was so devastatingly attractive that though she knew she should hate him, she couldn't hate him. At least while he was silent. She wasn't really the type to fall head over heels for anyone, but she certainly appreciated beauty--in females and males alike, though she was romantically attracted to the latter. She had a number of boys in her past; but none she had really liked. Always exceedingly picky, she was also rather independent.

The two spelled disaster for her love life. She couldn't stand clingy boyfriends, and that's the type she seemed to attract. Oh sure, they acted confident and independent when they first met or started dating, but then they quickly changed into whining, complaining wimps who demanded every minute of her attention devoted to them. Well! She would bet that this Malfoy character, despite his faults, wasn't that type. She shook her head mentally, realizing what she was thinking about; this was Draco, the boy that had tormented Harry the past six years, and had insulted a few of her friends. Having never actually met face to face before, she decided to show him up. Let him eat his heart out, she thought. He can glower all he wants. I'm sure he's not impervious to being made a fool. Though generally a very kind and gentle person, occasionally Darcy could get into a mood when provoked, and would decide she really didn't like someone. It didn't happen often, but she was a rather impulsive type of person; her quick flip flopping of emotions and thoughts in the space of a few minutes as Draco dragged his friend alongside him toward her and Harry, she had gone from shocked admiration to realization to a surprisingly vicious desire to tear his heart out. Though she was a lazy person, if she set a goal for herself she accomplished it. And she was sure she would be able to.

Her desire to tear him down off his high horse was only reinforced when he finally opened his mouth. "Conversing with more half-bloods I see. Where's the Mudblood, and the Muggle-lover?" She had known he was a stinker, but to sink that low! She hadn't heard any insult so foul as that in a very long time. Surprised, however, that he hadn't insulted her in a similar manner (though his intonation and insinuation of the word 'half-blood' didn't go unnoticed), she flashed him her brightest smile and turned the charm on full force. "And you must be...Draco Malfoy. Pleasure to meet you." She said, and though her voice seemed full of charm, her blue-grey eyes turned dark and stormy, showing the roiling force of destruction in her soul, a threat only hazily masked. "I'm Darcy. Darcy Hill." And don't you dare forget it, her eyes said with a wink.

[sheldor the CONQUEROR]

Harry was about to make a comment to Darcy, when a familiar sinuous voice sounded, demanding his attention. Rolling his eyes emphatically he turned to face the voice's owner. Of course he was not surprised to see Draco Malfoy. This particular Slytherin male, so risen in the Hogwart's house hierarchy, was a social leech. He clung to his father's reputation, his family name, and had nothing to prove for himself. Harry, who had no such fallback, had nothing but his own merit to distinguish himself from all other wizards. His accomplishments, his values, they were his own. Sometimes he felt bad for Draco, who stood no chance. None at all. Unlike his godfather (still a sore spot in Harry's heart) Sirius, Draco didn't have the backbone to deviate from the family tradition. Sirius had been brash enough, moral enough to know right from wrong. He hadn't cared about his family if they couldn't accept him. He knew they were wrong, and he not only denounced them, but fought against them right up to (and resulting in) his death. Draco didn't stand a chance. He was a spoiled little brat, and most of the time when he was around Harry didn't care if he had a tormented psyche. Draco was the proverbial thorn in his side. The boy seemed to make it his goal in life to annoy Harry Potter, for some strange reason. Harry might have offended him early in their Hogwarts years, but he didn't see why Draco held onto the grudge for so long. What a boring life he must lead if that is all that he could think of to occupy his time. Throughout the years they (namely he and Hermione) had become more outspoken against Draco, growing more and more defiant to be bullied by him any more. Deciding they were good thoughts, he put them into words. "Malfoy." he returned the clipped last-name greeting to signify a similar distaste to be in the company of the blond boy. "Conversing with more half-bloods I see. Where's the Mudblood, and the Muggle-lover?" Draco sneered, thinking he would score one. Harry had just arrived at school, the place he loved best. He really didn't need to be annoyed with such trifles as Draco's need to inflate his ego.

"Half-bloods? Hm, yes....don't we all. Look, Malfoy. I'm flattered, but don't you have anything better to do than stalk me and gossip about my friends? I mean really..." he sighed, shrugging. "This little game grows old. Grow up Draco. Get your own life and stop trying to steal mine." He glanced over at Darcy. Though he didn't think that Darcy and Malfoy were introduced, he had told her a lot about the insidious Malfoy heir. He knew she hated anything to do with Voldemort and the Death Eaters and thought them particularly detestable. He had also imparted the detail of information that Draco's father was a Death Eater. He didn't think she probably knew about his recent arrest, but oh--Harry most certainly did. He had to keep up with the current wizarding and muggle news alike. It was the only way to stay in the know, a step ahead of Voldemort and his lackies. He knew Darcy was her own wild spirit, always surprising him. She was unpredictable and impulsive; he liked that about her. It kept their time together always interesting. He grinned at her as she turned on the charm for Draco. He didn't know what she was playing at, but he thought he might have an idea. He was all for showing Draco up, but he didn't want her going about it that way. After all, it was likely a futile idea and quite probably would backfire on her. It would prove a messy affair, and besides; though he mostly hated Draco, he didn't think he could agree to something as inherently cruel as that. Not after what Cho had done to him! Feeling a little flare of guilt, he surpressed the idea that it had really been mostly his own fault anyway. "Ah, right. My apologies. Draco, meet my friend the charming Miss Darcy Hill. And who is your lovely friend?" he asked, finally noticing the girl that stood next to Draco. He couldn't imagine anyone fawning over the insipid young male, but he had been proved wrong time and time again. He had a feeling that many girls not even in Slytherin fancied Draco, but none for his personality. It was impossible. He was puerile and annoying, not even clever and had no backbone! It was an impossible thought. He grudgingly admitted that perhaps girls could like someone's face but not desire anything but to look at them, but he chalked it up to momentary lapse of sanity. Only explanation, of course.

Flashing a smile, he dipped his head in greeting. "Obviously you know my name. I'm sure Draco has told you the most horrendous horror stories about me." He bit back a sly comment about her being a companion of Draco's, because he didnm't want to be insulting to someone without provocation. That was more Ron's department than his; and so he would treat her in as polite a manner as her own behavior demanded. He had little hope that she would turn out to be more than just another Pansy Parkinson (what had happened to her, anyway?) He continued on. "Unfortunately, I don't know your name. Actually, I don't believe I've ever seen you before." He frowned slightly. He thought he knew most of the students from their year, but it was possible she was from a different year. Still, if she had been part of Draco's nefarious posse, he was sure to have seen her before. Draco only traveled in packs, acting as the leader but never entering the fray. Speaking of manpower, where was Draco's muscle? His two bodyguards weren't there. Wouldn't it be interesting if Draco had learned something over the summer and no longer needed the two neanderthals? It certainly would make their rivalry much more interesting!

[sheldor the CONQUEROR]

A shadowed figure slowly approached the lighted area, dragging the metal chair toward his body. She held her breath as the light illuminated his face. She had seen his pictures, but she wasn't sure she was quite prepared for it. It wasn't the scarring; it was the mind behind the scars that she was frightened of seeing. She had been warned that he was an expert manipulator. His words could be venomous and insidious, worming their way through your mind until he had you in his grasp. She was excited and nervous; she had never been close to anyone who was reputedly insane. She wondered if he would be obviously insane, or if he was so insane that he had the mask of sanity. That was one thing she remembered from the rare classes that she had attended; she didn't remember exactly what it meant, but it was a nice little phrase to be applied to the situation. She bit her lip as he approached the glass. When their eyes met, it was like electricity shooting through her body; she wasn't one for romantic cliches, but that was all she could explain it as. Something violent and frightening, something extreme and yet enthralling. He was a lot cleaner and more presentable than some of the inmates she had seen, which was certainly saying something for the fact that he was cooped up in a prison cell. She wondered if it got boring being here in high security, or if being off his rocker kept him vastly entertained. She was more excited now to pick his brain.

She stood there, watching him. She had already made the first move; it was his turn to talk, now. "Tell me," he paused, staring intently at her. She bit her lip, waiting to see what he would say next. "Does my appearance make you uneasy?" It certainly wasn't the question she had been expecting. Recalling the nature of his character, she grinned right back to him. "Why should it? You've got a nice smile." She said, jokingly. "Besides," she shrugged, deciding honesty would serve her easiest with him--that way he couldn't twist her lies around. "I've seen uglier mugs than yours before. Trust me." She cast him a tight-lipped smile, thinking of some of the men she had seduced to get her way. Compared to them, he was like ********. She stared right back at him as he stared her down. "Don't be shy. I'm just a regular guy." he said as he leaned forward. It wasn't a complete lie to her; although he might not be saying it in honesty, she could see the face beyond the misshapen scars stretching up along his cheeks. The face she saw behind them was a handsome one, with surprisingly intelligent eyes. She had never learned the way to distinguish between eyes that were considered to be sane and clear and those that are filled with madness. To her, though, he seemed sane enough. He laughed after a moment and leaned back in the chair, his laughter trailing off. She had no appreciation for the violence that he was capable of. She hadn't fully read his files, and so she had skipped over most of his crimes except for what she had heard in everyday gossip. Which was varied and lacking in precise details. She did not fully comprehend the situation; she knew he was supposed to be dangerous, but what did that mean to her? Nothing, really; he was just some stranger she had never met that was imprisoned and that she was interviewing. She wasn't even sure as to the purpose of the interview; he had been questioned so many times since he had been sequestered here, so what on earth would he tell her that he hadn't told anyone else? She was hoping to uncover some brilliant secret that would shock and amaze anyone. She didn't want to do any work if she didn't have to, and so she hoped that some magnificent unprecedented breakthrough would result in her being able to sit back and not do anything ever again. She blinked at him, seeing her future right before her and all the possibilities it promised.

He was so...dynamic. She had only seen him for a few minutes now, and she already could tell that he was an interesting person. She found herself leaning forward and cleared her throat, then leaned back into her chair again. A thousand questions ran through her mind, but she had a set list. She opened her briefcase and pulled out a couple sheets of paper, then set it down at her feet. Settling the stack of paper on her lap, she glanced down at the top sheet and read it. She sighed for a moment; tossing the sheets off to the side, she shrugged. "They gave me pre-made questions. I don't think they feel I'm competent enough. I'm probably not; you want to know a secret?" she grinned, scooting her chair closer to the window and glanced at the lightly dozing guard a few yards away. "I slept my way through school." she nodded and held her palms out in a shrug. She had always been more than a bit cheeky and quite unable to control her emotions or her tongue. It had gotten her into trouble many times before, but she had always worked her way out of it. Even in the face of this reputed "madman", with what she knew to be a violent reputation, she had no sense of decency or decorum for the gravity of the situation. Though it required sobriety and a certain sense of discretion, she was unable to maintain a professional level of behavior. Her true unbridled nature showed through the professional appearance and she flashed him a broad grin, deciding to tease him a little bit and see if he was any fun to talk to. With a name like the Joker he had a lot to live up to in her mind. "So I really don't know what the heck is going on around here. Now tell me, Joker. Does that make you uneasy?"

[sheldor the CONQUEROR]

Tonight had been an easy night. Not a single bank robbery. No hostage situations. No night prowlers out and about. Most people would have gone home for a nap, especially after the few hours of sleep he had gotten last night. This was no ordinary man. At first glance he seemed to be just some weirdo in a costume. Everyone within (and in some places outside of) Gotham City knew him by the shape of his shadow. That's what he was, and little more. A shadowed guardian, both derisively and endearingly termed the Dark Knight. His true name? No one would guess that the vigilante was the posh playboy, Gotham's very own Bruce Wayne. Bruce Wayne may be his birth name, but only one man (the trusty Alfred Pennyworth) knew his true name; his identities, though unconnected, were not secret. His true self was the masked and cloaked Batman, aptly named after the furry animal. People in general feared bats, and it was something he used to his advantage. There were people who had a problem with masked vigilantes, and he was not angry about it. Sometimes it grew irritating, but he agreed with them; it was against the law. As a vigilante, he played in a world outside of the laws of the US government, unconstrained by protocol and internal affairs. They didn't know that he had the purest intentions. That he was resolved to retain his strict morals to death. Deep down, however, he knew it was right. Even if the general public hated or feared him, he would still do what was right and work to protect all the innocents within the region.

Batman stood perched upon a ledge high up on a building that allowed him to look over the entirety of Gotham. It was spread out as far as the eye could see on all sides, and he felt almost as if he was surveying a kingdom lay out in front of his feet. He didn't like to think of himself as a king, however. He didn't rule anyone here except those with evil in their hearts. He was friend and benefactor, protector and an aide to justice. He was a villain's worst nightmare, the man in the cape. He used his dark appearance and bat-like habits to strike fear into the hearts of his enemies, and it worked. He had been working in the bat suit for over fifteen years now and the man in the mask was well into his thirties. Though getting on in years, perhaps, he was still agile and strong. He trained for hours every day, ate plenty of protein shakes, and....got very little sleep. Fortunately he had always been a late night-early morning person. He had never needed anything more than five hours of sleep. Less, if he got a good night with a few extra hours in. Doctors complained about their hours, but Batman never did. Always on call, no matter the goings-on of his personal life or what holiday it was, not even the day of the week could interfere with his execution of justice. He was, totally and completely, the job. It had become something of an obsession, really; or so Alfred told him.

Alfred Pennyworth was his oldest and most trusted friend. More of a family member, really. Alfred had served as butler and friend to Bruce's father, and had been there since Bruce was born. He was there all through his childhood, and through the hardest parts of his life, from the loss of his parents at a young age, to his dark adolescence and finally to the creation of the Batman. He knew the ol' Brit was just worried for his health, but he knew that Bruce could not allow Batman to die. Not yet; not now. He hadn't found anyone to replace him and he knew he would have to find them soon. Never one to leave anything to the last minute, he liked to plan ahead for any conceivable obstacles that may arise. And a successor was definitely something necessary. If something happened to him, who would take up the mantle of the caped crusader, defender of the innocent public? Certainly not the GPD. Certainly Batman worked closely with a few discrete members of the police department, and he had nothing but the greatest respect for those that remained pure to their purpose. But when he had decided to eradicate the vermin of Gotham's underground, he had found that the police had become rotten from the inside, and with the help of Commissioner Gordon had helped to clean up not only the streets but also those in uniform. Although they did their work well and had made a significant improvement in Gotham, there were just some things that they could not accomplish. Outside of the restrictive laws in place to protect the general public also helped the true villains and hampered the effectiveness of the police force. The Batman could bypass those restrictions and get the villains. That was his job, his calling. To go to the lengths that others could or would not. He was not a tyrant, and would never trespass on the rights of those who had done no wrong. He did not arrest people, he did not kill, he did not destroy. He captured, preferably with little to no bloodshed or violence, and turned the perpetrators over to the authorities who would bring them to viable justice in the public eye. He was, essentially, a bounty hunter who was in it not for the money or the fame or the glory of violence, but for the simple reason that he believed in the good of the world.

"Oracle. Is there anything on the circuits?" He seemed to be pushing against the side of his head as he talked to the air, but in his left bat-ear was a communications device not unlike a cellphone attachment, except it required no additional hardware except what was wired into the suit. Listen, Bruce. You asked me to keep you posted. Don't treat me like a freakin' idiot. I'm not new to this, you know? A harsh female voice responded into his ear. He frowned into the night. "Oracle...." he cautioned. Gah. Fine. I'm sorry. Don't give me a lecture. But really, I told you I'd let you know. I'm listening in. It seems like there's nothing worth pursuing at the moment... she trailed off, and he could almost hear her shrugging. Hold on, let me see if I can contact any of my walkers. With a simple grunt of consent he let the communication lapse, dropping his arm. Oracle had once been his partner; the Batgirl. Gordon's grown daughter. Unfortunately she was now bound to a wheelchair through a horrible accident, but had been determined to continue her work in the fight against crime. She had replaced Alfred as the controller of the batwave communications.

It was quiet. Too quiet. There was never a night devoid of some criminal activity. You just had to know how and where to look for it, and Batman had all his bases covered. Or so he thought--he had so many inside people out on the street, relaying information back to Oracle whenever they caught a whiff of what was up. This silence on the wave must mean that there was something big in the works. Call me paranoid if you want, but there is no way that only something small like shoplifting and loud parties is all that is going on. Maybe I should try and ferret something out... he sighed, glancing around. Or maybe I should just call it a night, go home and do something more constructive than just sitting at home.

[sheldor the CONQUEROR]

>> HERMIONE GRANGER

Hermione and Ginny looked up as Harry walked back into the compartment. Glancing sideways at Ginny, she saw delight as his return swiftly followed by barely disguised disgust. Glancing back to the doorway, she saw why. It seemed that everyone but Harry and Ron knew that Ginny was in love with Harry, and although Hermione was fully supportive of her best guy friend pursuing whomever his heart desired, but Cho Chang had become a tiresome crush. She just wanted them to realize they were all wrong for each other so that he and Ginny would just get it over with and get together already. They were perfect! Hermione knew he needed a girl that was firm and spunky like Ginny Weasley. Cho might be nice, but she was just too weepy in general and too meek and mild-mannered. Ginny was family to Harry's best friend, they had history together; he had saved her life from Tom Riddle in her first year. She was even in the same house as him. If that wasn't fate, then Hermione didn't know anything about romance! Speaking of the Weasleys, she shot a look to Ginny's older brother, who seemed to be sulking for some reason as he stared out the window. Usually conversation flowed so freely between them all. Now that something had changed, she couldn't figure it out; what was it? What was so different that made their time together awkward? Biting her lip, she realized--she knew the answer. Her feelings would complicate things, but why was it this way? He didn't know how she felt. She didn't really even admit it to Ginny. He had seemed to reciprocate her feelings well enough; fourth year he had been wildly jealous of his teen idol, Viktor Krum the Quidditch player. Fifth year they had helped each other in the face of the tyrannical hand of the ministry. So why couldn't she tell him?

Glancing back to the door, she realized that there were more coming into the compartment than just Harry or even Cho. A girl slid into the compartment and sauntered over to the empty seat currently occupied by Ron's feet. A frown crossed Hermione's face; this woman radiated a seductive ferocity that instantly turned her usually good opinion against her. Hermione was the type of person that usually ignored gossip, didn't judge by first impressions or even just by appearances. But this girl was different. She was moving in on Hermione's self-perceived territory, stepping between her and the boy she had been friends with through thick and thin since their first year of school. The boy that she loved, despite all his incredibly stupid tendencies, since about their third year. Perhaps even before that; it was hard to tell with love, however. When friendship ended and love began was a line stretched thin, and so she gave it little thought. Though she had an analytical mind, even she knew that you cannot always examine love in a purely scientific manner.

RON WEASLEY <<

Ron paid little attention as Harry returned, undoubtedly with Cho Chang. She was nice, he had no objections to her. If Harry liked her, then Ron did too. But she just had a tendency to be a little irritating; perhaps not as often as Hermione did, but then--he and Cho weren't really friends. He enjoyed a rather bizarre relationship with Harry and Hermione. They were both magnificently talented in certain areas, both clever and well known for it. They both also had an H in their first name, and they had been his best friends since his first year. He didn't begrudge them anything (most of the time anyway) and they accepted him and forgave him for his mistakes. He liked Hermione, a lot. Sometimes he wondered if maybe it was more than just friendship, but he had had very little experience with the world of romance and so had not pursued her in any way. She didn't give him any encouragement anyway, and if they were friends, it was pretty much the same thing right?

He sighed as someone approached him, and he looked up to see three people squeezing into the small compartment. There was room on the benches for up to six people, but it would be a tight fit! He nodded hello to Harry and offered a brief smile of greeting to Cho, and his eyes passed over the girl who stood at his legs. Moving them without a word, he sat up to make room for her on the opposite side of the bench. It took a few moments for his visual system to process the information and relay that information to his brain, which then took a few moments to respond to that information. Ceasing the rearrangement of his robes so that Harry wouldn't sit on them, his head snapped up and he stared at her with his jaw dropped in shock. What on EARTH was a female that attractive doing in this compartment, let alone sitting right across from him! He had very few scruples when it came to social manners, and had no problem with just staring openly at her for a few moments. When Harry introduced her, he offered a lopsided grin. "Er.....hi, I'm Ron." he stated, offering a slightly belated response. "So what house are you in?" she asked with a smile, and his heart skipped a beat. She was freakin' hot! He hoped she was in Gryffindor, though she didn't seem to be wearing anything to indicate what House she was in. "Uhhh.....Gryffindor, you?" he spoke without eloquence, as was his habit. He could form thoughts quite sufficiently, but his brain seemed to decide not to connect well with his mouth, so his clear and coherent thoughts came out into an inelegant jumble. Blushing slightly, he coughed.

[sheldor the CONQUEROR]

Recovering from his rather embarrassing flip out, Sirius ran to his room and flopped down on his bed, staring up at the canopied ceiling of the four-poster bed. He felt so relieved now that he had let it out; though it was really quite embarrassing, Sirius was adept at dealing with awkward social situations. People loved him enough that anything outrageous or quirky just reinforced the images they had in their minds, and so with a little normality sprinkled in here and there, it tempered his image from someone wildly or even annoyingly crazy to one that was endearingly surprising. He couldn't help that some people were irritated by him, or even hated him. It didn't bother him as long as he still had friends and admirers. And yes, he could tell the difference; sometimes he thought maybe the others couldn't tell the difference, but he certainly knew when someone was just a fan or when they were a genuine friend. Admirers might seem to love you, but they really just used you. A primary belief of his, it allowed him to rationalize his own usage of people for various reasons. Sometimes it was true, people didn't always see him as an individual but just as some person they had placed upon a pedestal. Not that he didn't hate it, of course, he loved the attention. But he hated being treated like he wasn't someone who liked his individuality taken away from him.

He reviewed what had happened in his mind, and he knew what she was up to; he had never really seen her flirt with anyone like that before, except of course when she had done it to him those few times. He felt his face grow warm and he frowned. He didn't like seeing her act that way with anyone else. Even if it was just to annoy him, as he suspected that little ploy with the odd boy. He knew right then that he had always felt this way about her; Andy Lockhart, his little spit fire. He rolled the thought around in his mind; him and Andy? It certainly didn't seem like such an incredible stretch of the imagination now, given all the things that had happened between the two of them. It was certainly an interesting idea, considering what it would be like. Perhaps part of the reason why was that she was so different from everyone else. He had never met someone like Andy that could turn him right on while acting her bitchiest. He liked that she wasn't a timid quiet little thing that couldn't voice her opinions or make up her own mind. He liked the challenge she presented him with. The untouchable.

It was almost time for dinner; he went to the bathroom and splashed his face with water, straightened his tie, and even ran his fingers through his hair to spruce himself up. He wanted to look good for his triumph. It had almost killed him, but he had won! He was planning what he was going to say. Well not really, but he was imagining himself in a heroic pose. He made sure that Andy's sketchbook was in his pocket, and then skipped off to dinner. He pushed through the doors to the Great Hall and strutted over to the Gryffindor table. He looked around to see if he could spot Andy.

[sheldor the CONQUEROR]

"It seems like you have no clue how to cure me. Looks like I will just have to remain mad." She grinned, watching his motions. She wasn't a complete idiot; at least not most of the time. she knew he was playing with her. She wasn't naive. A little gullible, maybe, but definitely not innocent. She had lost her innocence long ago. Most people who experienced trauma and were strong enough to emerge from it relatively stable went on to help prevent the trauma from happening to others, such as offspring of rape victims becoming cops. The frequent visits to the therapist office might have put the idea in her head initially, but certainly had not influenced her choice in career path.

"No one in this society of white collar individuals knows who to fix me." he paused, looking at her. and she could tell he was observing her reactions closely, even if he didn't seem to. "You want to know why no one can figure out how." He allowed the silence to hang between them, and she licked her lips as if tantalized by the scent of the mystery. The rational part of her brain thought that perhaps he was going to disappoint her and probably lie, but it was overridden by her irresponsible curiosity. She leaned forward and seemed to turn her head as if to hear better. "It's because there is nothing wrong with me." He stated it so matter-of-factly that she didn't even crack a smile; her eyebrows shot up and her eyes were full of doubt. Resisting the urge to laugh, she bit down on her lip to keep from smiling, not worried about being rude. "Ahem....sorry. But y'know, ya can't just drop something like that. 'Scuse my vocab, but are you ********' with me or being philosophical?" She began to lapse into informality with him. Something just brought down her professional walls; she felt like he really didn't care about whether she hid her laid-back personality for the prim and proper professional self. She was reassured about this with his next words. "You see, none of us should have to apologize for who we are. You do things your way and I'll do things my way, and both of us are just fine, sugar." She shrugged and nodded. "I'm glad you feel that way, because honestly I don't get why people are so caught up in acting a certain way just cuz you're at work or somethin', y'know? I mean what's the freakin' point? We all aren't secretly prim and proper, so why pretend? It seems like a big ******** joke to me." She frowned. It was one of the things she hated most about the work force; you either had to seduce someone high up or kiss a**. Which was why she had been fired so often. She had a black list a mile long following her that had been started in her early high school years and ran up to just a few months before she got this internship. Ever since she was young she'd had a foul mouth and a quick temper, easily excitable and with no viable mind-to-mouth filter.

"We go against the way people see normal and that's enough to condemn us." She arched a brow and cast him a cheeky look. "Well. Dunno 'bout condemnation, but certainly no one sees me as normal." She wondered if perhaps it was wise to flirt with him, and then decided she didn't care either way and emitted a light laugh. It was a part of who she was, and she wasn't about to break away from what had always worked for her in the past. "Men see me as a...goddess. Women call me their personal Devil." She laughed again. "I...understand what ya mean though. Sometimes it gets so tirin' to be hounded by their complaints. I can't help it if they're too plain and boring to interest anyone." She shrugged. He certainly had it much worse than her; at least her abnormality allowed her to succeed. She was, after all, the one on the right side of the glass.

"I'm a victim of society, one who was mistreated long before I had a fighting chance." She was taken in by his words. Not because she thought of him as anything more than interesting (or so she told herself) but because he was so surprising; she never knew what he would do or say next, and that was exactly what she valued in life. Spontanaiety and unpredictability. Her childhood had been unstable and unpredictable, and it gave her a morbid sense of comfort to have her life in an uproar. It was what she needed; her life was too....together lately. She needed some new form of excitement--the bar-and-bedroom scene was getting old quickly. "I had a drunken father, one who used to beat me and ask me why I wasn't laughing yet." He paused and looked at her, and she knew her exprssion was one of genuine pity. She had a rought childhood, but nothing as bad as the continual abuse that could come from a violent alcoholic in the family. Didn't you always hear that there was some tortured soul behind the crime, a result of the environment in which they were raised. "One time he beat me up pretty bad and to make sure I got the joke out of it, he cut these scars into the corners of my mouth with a broken liquor bottle." She had no clue that his story changed each time; that only he knew the truth, and quite possibly even he didn't remember it with all the cyclical lies he had told. She felt the pressure just behind her eyes of tears forming, about to spout forth and leak down her face, and she blinked them back and put a hand to the glass. Tears came easily to her, it was a necessity for her con work to be able to cry on the spot. It was also a liability with situations like right now; sometimes she just couldn't completely control it.

"Don't worry about me baby, I've gotten along just fine thinking that I was crazy." He finished, and she was too entranced to see that the spider had spun its web, and she, the metaphorical fly in this situation, was deftly caught.