What happened

It had begun like any other trial. Smoothly. Calmly. The judge entered and the people silenced. The baliff called for everybody to stand, and they did so, respectably. They sat just as silently, just as calmly when the judge called for them to do so. Judge Scott McRiley presiding...

It was just as the judge was settling in that the first mishap occured.

Jack Napier stood up to introduce himself to the court. And to the audience of people attending. He did so with a flourish and a bout of laughter so nerve-wracking that it took Judge McRiley a good ten minutes to quiet everybody down again.

"That is the last we'll have of that, I hope." He stated, looking Jack directly in the eye as he spoke.

Little did the poor judge know that this was only a pre-cursor to the sorts of things that could go on in a trial like this. A trial against Jack Napier. Maybe the only truly insane genius The City had ever seen. The misguided fellow might actually mistake to think he'd be able to control The Joker.

Jack himself spent a good few moments blowing kisses at Harvey Dent while Judge McRiley tried to call for order and the beginning of the trial.

He looked out at the lawyers and nodded. "Prosecution? You may begin."

And then he sat back, ready to hear this fantastic case.

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Harvey Dent began to wonder if perhaps he was going overboard in preparation for this case. He knew Murdock was a great defense lawyer - he'd sat in on portions of the attorney's cases since being instated as DA - but was it really necessary to go to such lengths? He had contacted no less than four doctors, collected mountains of physical and photographic evidence, expected to call on the testimony of everyone from the arresting officer to the asylum janitor, and he had constructed opening and closing statements that would make Inherit the Wind look like schoolyard namecalling.

To be fair, he couldn't remember the last time he'd had a really juicy case like this. He was so excited he hadn't slept in a couple of days, and had only showered once in the interim. Maybe he was making up for losing that CX debate in the final round at the High School National Championships. That smug little jackass ... he could just rip that kid's eyes out ... cut off his nose ... bite his fingers off one at a ...

Focus, Harv.

He walked briskly down the hall to the meeting room at City Hall to prepare for his guests. One last big meeting with his team before the trial.

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There was nothing to do but worry about John. The only bit of action they'd had since being in The City was there little encounter with Progo, as strange as that was, but since then? Nothing. And so the Winchester boys were left with endless time to worry about their dad. They had yet to find a way out of this place, but were still working on that. Hopefully John was okay. Actually, Dean was sure his dad was okay, it was more him wanting to be with him and working again. It'd been 24 years since he'd had a home, and honestly? He hated it. He was restless, and it was rare that he was in that apartment more than four hours while he was awake.

Like right now. Dean was looking for something, ANYTHING to do. Lately he'd resorted to girl watching across the street from the school, but he realized how creepy that was and looked for something better to do.

Too bad he couldn't think of anything. He lifted his arm too look at his watch, and smirked, reaching into the small bag of popcorn he'd gotten from a corner store on his way. 12:15pm, a half a day of classes for the college level students was over, and the show would be begin.

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Dropping Jack off at the station, Sara had made sure the Joker was identified and secured before even moving from the place. He was under high security and passed along to the local jail. Whatever happened to him from there, Detective Pezzini could have cared less. She had a job to do, couldn’t just baby-sit and escort some psycho. And knowing how the prison facilities worked in her world, she could guess that some of the procedures were the same. Solitary confinement would hold him, more than likely.

Her partner was left to escort Jack along with the other choice officers sitting around. Though she wasn’t supposed to go anywhere without him, Sara really wasn’t one to follow orders so well.

Going against the orders to sit still and wait around for news of what had happened, Sara got right up from behind her desk and headed for her squad car. No way was she going to let some other homicide detective steal her case. Thundering down the stairs of the department, she loaded into her car. Moments later she was on her way back to the Asylum, speeding as always.

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The screams still rang out every so often and unspeakable smells floated on the air. The gothic, stone structure of Arkham Asylum, straight out of some centuries-old nightmare, was surrounded by modern police vehicles, flashing their lights. Cars on the bridge and boats in the water shined spotlights on the walls and blared warnings and reassurances. Harvey stood on the single bridge to the island, just behind the formation of riot trucks. "They must be terrified in there," he heard himself say.

He had already read enough police reports to know the usual routes for escape from Arkham. He doubted the city's SWAT team was as familiar with the building's history. If he could get inside, he might be able to calm some of these people down. He had personally processed almost half of them, and was familiar with the cases of several more. No sense getting the SWAT team excited about a back entrance they could use to assassinate the poor nutcases.

Resolving himself, he quietly slipped over the side of the bridge and into the water.

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WHO; Dean and Sara
WHAT; dean's distracted, coffee getting, arguing, etc.
WHEN; when pigs flew
WHERE; a few places?

It had just passed noon when Dean Winchester, the older, and more ruggedly good looking of the two brothers who'd been pulled into the city, sat down in the drivers side of the dark green Impala. The sound of the car starting made him grin, and he leaned over the passengers seat to reach for, and open the glove compartment.

S didn't know what he was talking about. The quality of his cassette tapes just made listening to the music on them even better. At least that's what Dean thought. He pulled out Fire of unknown origin and popped the tape into the deck before tossing the case into the seat. The end of the title song played while he checked his mirror and pulled out of his parking space.

Just as he started driving, the opening to I'm Burnin for you started, and he couldn't help but j. "AhhhHHHhhhh," ba dum dum, goes Dean while he's driving down, whatever street he's on, not really paying attention at all until he sees someone in front of his car. He slmed his breaks, hearing the tires scre, he winced and looked out of the windshield to see who was flipping him off.

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Sara Pezzini wasn’t exactly addicted to caffeine, per say... She just really, really liked having something to pick her up when she hadn’t had slept enough the night before. Well, actually, she’d get some caffeine pumping in her even if she’d gotten enough sleep. But that’s beside the fact. If anyone were to suggest that she were addicted to coffee, or really caffeine in general, the woman wouldn’t have much to say to them. But she’d get the point across, oh yes:

Sara Pezzini wasn’t addicted to anything.

Standing in the line-up at her favourite cafe, Sara sighed and tapped her foot. It wasn’t like she was late for anything, but she really hated standing in line. In truth, Sara really just hated waiting for anything. She was a true hot-head, impatient like no other, which had given her a reputation of rushing headlong into things with little to no thought for the consequences. She wouldn’t deny that it was true. Sara had ended up in the hospital too many times to count on one hand, thanks to the rush that she was always in.

Finally a sigh escaped her. She was getting pretty angry, and hell, this was her day off! Turning hear head a bit, she glanced to the clock and rolled her eyes. It was taking far too long (five minutes) for her to even get to the front of the line. Can we hurry up, people?!

“Jesus. You’d think people could hurry it up or something.” An angry mumble and a glance to whoever was standing behind her.

[open]

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WHO; dean, sam & sara.
WHAT; Investigation of, several things.
WHEN; Uhm. Yesterday...
WHERE; Somewhere in The City :O

Investigating homocide cases wasn't really something you might expect a beautiful girl such as Sara might be doing for a living, but hey. There's always some sort of surprising quality about a beautiful girl. Sara had always been a good cop, and was especially fascinated by the inner workings of the police system. With her father's name in front of her, she'd been granted her wish of investigating the truly wicked and creepy.

Today was just another day on the job, though this case was a particularly messy-looking one. When she went in to see what had gone down, Sara had been surprised to feel a slight bit nauseous. The sole owner of the apartment had been ripped to shreds, to put it as settlingly as possible, like an animal had gone loose in the apartment and just gone ballistic on the guy. Thank God Sara wasn't religious, or else she might have had to say a prayer or two while checking the scene. Rest in peace, man.

Stepping outside the apartment building in her fine, but as usual sexy business suit, Sara glanced up at the crowd that had formed around the caution tape that kept them away from the crime scene. It was always like that, though, and she didn't seem phased by those who were curious and concerned about the recent murder. She stopped at her patrol car, tossed hair from her features, and started to pull at her rubber gloves. They'd been thorough in their search. No need to keep those on with the amount of evidence they'd picked up; or lack thereof.

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The first thought Kyle had when he felt the earth shake was, 'Damn. There aren't any signs up about how to handle earthquakes. We never had earthquake drills'. Then he looked at his light board which had fallen off of his desk smashed to the floor, and thought, 'Fuck.'

Then he saw the smoke.

That was when he finally thought to stand up and look away from his desk. How were his coworkers handling the impromptu earthquake. Or whatever it was. They weren't handling it very well at all, actually. For all he could see, they were running through the resulting smoke like chickens with their heads cut off. Kyle couldn't really blame them; they probably weren't used to stuff like this. Hell, he wasn't even completely used to stuff like this.

The art department for The City's newspaper was on one of the lower floors, so when Kyle finally got his wits together and started yelling and ushering people out of the doors, he could at least have some comfort in knowing they all had a good chance of getting out safely. No one seemed to notice when he backed away from the stairwell and ran back into the main area of the floor where all the artists had their desks set up.

He moved slowly through the smoke, making sure no one else was trapped in the room and once he was relatively sure, he raised his hand. A green gas mask covered his face, and Kyle took a deep breath, hoping that he hadn't already inhaled too much smoke. Next he created a lantern, which shined brightly through the smoke, allowing him to move quickly to the large windows.

Where was the smoke coming from? Kyle wasn't immediately sure, but he was definitely leaning more towards an explosion now. He just didn't know from where. Looking out of the windows, he could see smoke pouring from some of the lowers floors as well, and a slightly grey tinge in the air above make him think that something had to going on on the higher floors as well. Across the street people were pouring out of another office building and onto the street, pointing up at both buildings. Grey smoke was pouring from their windows as well.

The building shook again, and this time Kyle could hear an explosion coming from upstairs. It was time to get out.

Kyle backed away from the window, back into the smoke where he was sure no one would be able to see him as a green glow engulfed his body. When it died down, he was suited up completely, mask included. He had to help somehow.

Though, as he started breaking through the window so that he could fly out, Kyle couldn't help but hope that some of the other heroes in this place had heard the explosions. Because he was pretty damn sure that alone he wasn't going to be much good.

OOC: Just a note, as stated before, everyone can participate in this, whether your character wants to be a bystander or wants to try to rescue people or even wants to try and make the situation worse. Any of those options is cool! NPCs may even come and interact with your characters.

Don't worry. Something will come of this. So yes. Post!

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Lt. Cooper pushed the forensic files at Sara and she glanced over, seeing glossy full color pics of Iron's hand. Her hand went up to her neck, remembering the tug she'd felt just as he'd done it.

"You've had your time off, Detective. Now, think you can explain this ? Our CI guys have been all over that place, there's no body anywhere. Just a hand. And I've checked our files, there's not an open case on Irons Investments, so what the hell were you doing on the roof ?"

Munch had coached her on this. Well, as much as he could as she hadn't even told him the full truth. It didn't matter that he could see the Witchblade. That was the Blade's decision, not hers. She wanted to keep her head down and lie low in this place. But that meant not explaining much of what had been going on right before she'd ended up in the City. Unfortunately it wasn't the first time she'd had to fudge things.
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The house where Munch had dropped her was nothing like she'd been expecting. First of all, she hadn't been expecting a house. She'd been expecting her apartment. Though why she should in a world with Superman, she didn't know. But it was home.

Except in this place home was the house she'd once lived in with her and her dad and her sister, Julie. The red brick house in Brooklyn, with the black chain link fence and gate, and the red painted front steps and the bay window and the tiny front yard and the grey painted back court-yard. The house that had been only a few blocks away from her elementary and high schools.

She'd even found her mother's wedding dress, in it's garment bag hanging up in the back of her father's closet. Her father's closet. His room. His uniforms. His clothes. Even his spare gun.

It had been as surreal as anything she'd experienced before. And she didn't think one day was going to be enough to wrap her mind around it all. But it looked like one day was all she was going to have.

Munch had left late that first night, after telling her all he could about this place. Though it had taken getting up in the morning and finding a school and not an apartment building across the street from her house for her to believe him about the buildings moving. And that had immediately sent her inside to pack and sort. If this was where she was going to be living for a while, she needed to get rid of more than a few reminders.

Now however, more than half a day into packing, shifting, moving, re-organizing and seriously thinking about re-painting, she found herself outside, wrapped in one of her Dad's big bulky NYPD blue coats, a cup of coffee warming her hands, trying to put some type of scope or sense to everything; trying to decide if she really wanted to act like this was permanent.

"Here, kiddo, drink this."

Sara looked up into a wrinkled, well worn face and a seeming sympathetic smile. She tensed. She'd seen that smile before. She'd used that smile before, on suspects.

"There are easier ways to get my DNA." She said coolly, before sipping from the cup. It was warm, some kind of tea, lightly sweetened. She looked up again, not hiding her surprise at that. She'd have expected coffee or plain water.

The man in front of her shrugged and grinned. "More pleasurable ways too, but that's no way for me to be talking to my partner."

Sara frowned, running a hand through her hair and trying to think back over the list of people who'd been assigned to her in the past two years. "I've had a couple, but you're not on the list." Her voice was huskier than usual, both from the soreness of her bruised larynx and from the tight coil in her stomach that would brook no bullshit.

The man sat down and held out his hand. "Detective John Munch, formerly NYPD: Special Victims Unit, formerly Balitimore PD; Homicide."

Sara looked at his hand. "Formerly ?"
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She could feel it, like an itch or a barely there touch; Ian Nottingham's presence behind her. Not helping, not hindering. The wind was whipping her hair. It was cold up on the roof of the high-rise and it made goosepimples rise all over her body. Sara wished for the umpteenth time that this thing that was bonded to her wouldn't shred her clothes every time it manifested to protect her.

Kenneth Irons had eyes like ice, little chips of glacier and he held her close in a mock lover's embrace, gun to her stomach, hand at her neck. He laughed, looking over at Ian. Ian who wasn't helping her.

"You're mine." Iron hissed. "Both of you. I made you."

Sara struggled to free herself, but the Witchblade was still, it wouldn't tendril, wouldn't move. She was going to die, the gun was too close, Irons knew too much about how the Witchblade worked. The bullet would be treated with something, somehow. It'd pierce the shield. Kill her.

"I have slipped my leash. Father."
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