i_countcalories It figures. [narration/open/whatever!]
He felt sick, staring into a face that he couldn’t say he had once trusted, but one he felt familiar and relatively comfortable with. Just another “thing” to go wrong.
It figured, in the completely illogical scheme of things with his life, that he was staring down at Max. The Max he had known was the scuzzy bussiness man with some humanity. Not this stranger with ideals of lunacy.
Maybe that was why Beetle didn’t feel fear when he saw the arm moving in slow motion, mimicking death scenes in movies. It just figured.
Go to Hell Max. Cliché, and not the most suiting for last words, really. He couldn’t help but feel anger, not just of betrayal. And it wasn’t just directed at Lord. He had to face this alone, defending those who didn’t even listen to him.
Native nobility. His whole life. Wasn’t that what they called Woodrow Wilson? Or was it Roosevelt? Couldn’t remember. Why did it matter? The gun was raised at eye level.
White. Pain.
It figured. The one time Booster became worried, the one time Michael showed fear.…
When the white faded into grayness, to blank and unfamiliar streets and the pain dulled into a mild headache, Ted had a delayed reaction. His hand swung up, reaching for where he was sure he had been shot, excepting gore, ooze, anything. He drew away his hand from his face and found that his glove clean, the costume spotless. He frowned and looked around again, the climate not pleasant, but not what he expected from Hell. Not like that short visit. One of the few reasons why he was able to drop fast foot craving for good. It was a city, like Chicago, the Hub, Gotham, Metropolis, expect nothing distinct caught his attention. It wasn’t Hell.
Pat Robinson, Ted thought with a slight frown as he absently rubbed the back of his head, growing faintly alarmed there was no damage of a bullet through the head under his finger, is going to be one pissed off camper.
Ted pulled off his goggles and cowl, as if he hoped that they were somehow blocking the obvious and found that to be of no help. “If this is Heaven, someone better have a really good explanation.”
"This isn't Heaven. You aren't dead, you dumbass." The Midnighter was never particuarly friendly, first off. He had watched the man in blue virtually stumble in out of nowhere, and heard his breath. Midnighter was watching him, carefully. Analyzing. Processing his each unconscious gesture to see just how the fight would go.
If it was even a fight he'd get.
The Midnighter didn't offer any explanation of what 'this place' was, though. He just watched, with his bulky arms folded over his chest, somehow managing to look a lot taller than he was. To look a lot larger. No, he certainly didn't look friendly at all.
Ted turned around, still somewhat disoriented. He was a fair enough fighter, not a master, and seemed capable of handling most fights he got into. But he was too confused right now, unless provoked in a physical manner, to even consider picking a fight. And the stocky man looked like someone he just wouldn’t pick a fight with. If Ted had known there was ‘company’ on the street, he wouldn’t have even said a word.
Beetle managed to gather some wits about himself, he had been able to take care of himself, once upon a time. “Now, I doubt they’ve got studies on this, but I’d guess coming to the conclusion that you’re dead would be ‘normal’ if your last recollection was getting shot at eye level.” The brunet paused, dark blue eyes unfocused for just a second, considering. “Unless if you have powers.” Black costume. Mask. Attitude. Yup. The guy was in the business of vigilante, or villainy.
"You don't need to be post-human to know that Heaven would smell better," Midnighter said gruffly, standing his ground. Sizing up this man in his bug-suit.
"You just got here," the hazel-eyed man observed, and pulled his gloves tighter over his hands. Vigilante? Yes. Mostly. "You're in for a long day."
Midnighter's first day in the City had felt like it had taken years. He frowned slightly, absently, a flicker of static that he didn't understand running through his mind. It wasn't important. Sort of like how telling this guy that he looked kind of awful in that shade of blue wasn't important.
"Figured it wasn't Hell, by the smell." Sulfur and burger grease. That's what he associated with the smell of Hell. Jesus. He was alive? He ran a hand through short brown hair, that sometimes looked copper in the right light, and heaved his breath. It didn't make sense, it didn't work in his head; it just didn't add up. "Post human? Like meta human?" The guy reminded him of someone, he couldn't put his finger on it, however...
"I'll shoot," Ted grumbled, "Where's 'here'? Doesn’t look like a city I might know… reminds me of a few.” Had to get in contact with someone, anyone. Booster to let him know he was okay, tell the JL about the information Max had, maybe Diana, maybe…
"It's called the City," he said with a little snort. "That's about all I can glean from the people here. They're shit dumb and don't care there's no way out of this place."
Midnighter arched an eyebrow for a moment, sizing up Ted.
"What shade is that? Robin's egg blue?" He snorted, and shook his head. "You're gonna have to look a lot tougher."
Ted made a face about the apparent name of the city. “The city? Jesus… if you’re gonna be stuck somewhere forever—“ He sighed, pinching his nose and scowling. “You’re telling me there’s no way back? Goddamn it,” He rarely swore, but this time, the crime fighter thought it would be allowed, “Booster is going to do something stupid if I don’t get back.” He then gave the stocky man a scowl. “And pardon me that I didn’t get a chance to change into something more suitable. What do you want? Me in a el matador mask with a giant metal beetle attached to my back?” He couldn’t fit into the ‘newer’ uniform, the dark blue-black one with baby blue lines, it was too big on him, now.