Fandom Belle Reve Means "Sweet Dreams" // Suicide Squad RP // RP Thread

[Jigajig]

Levina
Location : Belle Reve
​

A few moments before Cyrus entered her office, Levina heard Shine's voice speaking to her. <<Captain. Shine here. We almost at your location. I'll send Cyrus in. Just note. I haven't done the ritual to reconnect him to comms but he's a bit... he seem a bit 'disoriented' after this latest Jump. Cuz yeah, Cy don't be acting like himself. Like I think something happened over there. But I'll be here in the hallway just in case. Oh! Xenolith just arrived on scene. So whatever you need, we here, Cappy. Shine out.>> Levina rose an eyebrow to herself at that. From what she knew from his previous jumps Cyrus he did not tend to get disoriented, but then again there's always a first. She replied back just before the door opened up. <Thank you for the information Shine. I will be sure to call upon if need be.> And with that said and done in walked Cyrus. Cyrus Erasmus Njeri. Much like herself, Cyrus was one of the newer guards at Belle Reve, having joined a few months back. She had read abit about him in one of her many files she had on the staff at Belle Reve. She had a file on all the inmates too. It was well within her nature to know about those she worked with and those she kept in check.

Looking to Cyrus when he entered she motioned for him to have a seat opposite her. "Welcome back Cyrus, please do have a seat. I hope the mission and jump was a success?" From under her helmet, Levina's gaze lingered ever so slightly upon the man before her, before she leaned backed into her own chair. "I presume Shine has gotten you up to speed about what's being going on since you left?" Levina's voice was calm and somewhat soothing on the ears and yet still had a sense of authority puncturing through.

"Ah let me just.." She picked up a small remote and turned off the TV, so now the only sound in the room would be their voices. "Have you been back long? You just missed out on all the fun. Small riot, nothing we couldn't handle of course. It was getting a little bit boisterous so I stepped in." She chuckled lightly at that, waving her hand nonchalantly. "But enough about that" She straightend up in her chair, the old leather squeaking slightly against her armour as she leaned forwards, her gaze fully boring down upon Cyrus now as she rested her chin upon her hands as she brought them together under it, in a classic villian style pose. "Tell me all about how the jump went. I'm sure it was... interesting yes?"

 

[Aviator]

Azrael Emery // “the Conjurer” // Age 28 // Sixth Prince of Castillon // Illusionist
​

On the other side of the door was one of the biggest women Azrael had ever seen, which was not immediately obvious until she spoke. Her face was obscured by a helmet that had been wrought from crude steel, with just a horizontal slit across the eyes that crackled ominously with a cosmic-blue glow. After seeing New whip off her sunglasses to reveal solid-blue orbs with no discernible irises or pupils, Azrael was not particularly alarmed by this; perhaps it was a common genetic trait among the women of this universe. The helmeted woman—Cappy, Azrael assumed, though he figured it best not to use the nickname to address her—sat in an office in which wealth had been subtly splashed around. Portraits of individuals whose identities he hoped he wouldn’t be quizzed on but assumed to be previous captains lined the walls. The desk was big and mahogany with brass fittings and an inlay that would have been fashionable one-hundred years ago. Behind Cappy, a fire glowed in a hearth despite it being July—at least, it had been July in Castillon at the time of Azrael’s departure. Dressed all in black, silhouetted against flame, the captain looked rather like a demon, raised from the dead, trading for souls on the other side.

He noted with interest that she was all eyes for him as he and New entered, barely sparing the blue-haired girl a greeting. Was Lieutenant Njeri really a higher rank than her, after all? And he lets her call him stank and then say she’s not on his roster? he thought incredulously. Perhaps the operatives were equivalent ranks, Azrael reasoned with himself, but because Njeri was supposed to have just returned from a multiversal diplomatic venture, he was the man of the hour in the captain’s eyes. The captain gestured at a pair of seats in front of her desk, and Azrael nodded his thanks as he and New settled in. Then again, perhaps manners just weren’t considered all that important in a maximum-security prison, because Cappy did not so much as inquire as to whether she could procure a beverage for her guests before getting down to business. How rude. Whenever hosting meetings at the Citadel, Azrael always offered coffee or tea, even when his appointments were not ones he was looking forward to. Which was most of them, if he even cared at all.

Cappy had an annoying penchant for saying statements with an upward tic at the end, as if they were meant to be questions. Unsure if he was supposed to answer, Azrael opened his mouth to field the first one, when the big helmeted woman fired off another. Shine? Was that another nickname for the small bronze girl who had retrieved him from the depths outside the Pit, whom the stone man had called New? What was it with these odd names? At least Cyrus sounded fairly normal, if somewhat uncommon. Azrael forced a smile, dissolving the irritation that was building up inside him. “Oh yes, I got the full story about the cafeteria brawl,” he said amiably. And then, remembering that his character was supposed to be a hardened former soldier—whom New had referred to as “Pirate” more than once—Azrael cut the smiling and rolled his neck, like a boxer stretching out after a punch to the jaw. “It’s a good thing I wasn’t here to see it. There likely would have been a mess of paperwork and the unpleasant task of acquiring a casket to deal with.” He raised one corner of his lips meanly.

Cappy made a small noise of appreciation, as if admiring the lieutenant’s spunk, while New—Shine? Whatever her name was—failed to fully suppress a sigh, as if fed up with his overinflated ego. Azrael happily accepted the mixed approval; it was far preferable to shifting, suspicious eyes. Compared to the hot and humid and filthy mess that was the Pit, he felt considerably calmer; the office environment was one that was familiar to him, and with two companions, he felt like the attention could be more easily diffused among the group. Just then, as if his renewed confidence had tempted fate, the inexplicable happened; his coat seemed to develop a mind of its own. The long, black trench coat shifted, seemingly retracting into itself as it shortened, withdrawing from Azrael’s knees and ending at his hips. It faded from the black of a raven’s wing to charcoal, and then to a misty gray, until finally it was white, the color of a virgin’s sheets and chaste kisses. Six dark buttons manifested, and the collar, previously hiked up high, flattened out. The material turned from sleek, shiny leather to the soft, warm wool of a peacoat.

Both Cappy and New’s gazes tracked the transformation, but neither of them commented on it immediately. With an effort, Azrael cast aside the alarm rising inside him, deciding to play this development off as if it were completely normal, like a moon cycling through its various phases. What the hell was this? An enchanted coat? Did its transformations mean something, convey some kind of secret information that could be used against him? Or did it change by the hour? Azrael had never recalled such a phenomenon happening during his biweekly negotiations with Njeri. Could it be possible that the coat sensed its owner was near, and that’s why it had changed? Azrael’s heart sank as he considered the possibility. The only way for Njeri to be near was if he’d woken from the tranquilizer that Azrael had given him—though Azrael was certain that, with the exception of some kind of supernatural interference, it should still be effective for another five or six hours—and had freed himself from that cell in the Pit.

The mystery of the shifting coat would have to wait. Cappy shut off the television droning in the background and swiveled back to Azrael, asking about the jump. New had used that terminology too; Azrael inferred that it meant Njeri’s interdimensional travel from one universe to another. So he really wasn’t a spy for the European Union or Chinese Federation, Azrael admitted to himself, thinking that his father was a fool to be led astray by such a far-fetched sham. Cappy’s voice was light and friendly, but when she leaned forward in her seat and stared at him with eyes that were hidden behind her helmet, the effect was rather unsettling. Azrael wondered at the presence of the helmet in her own office; did Cappy expect to be suddenly attacked while she was filing paperwork? Was she horribly deformed beneath it? Njeri’s coworkers were so bizarre; it made the janitor whose breath could bake bread and the secretary who could read the history of an object with a touch at the Citadel seem mundane.

Azrael cleared his throat. For once, he felt prepared for one of the obstacles that had been thrown his way in this new world. His task seemed deceptively straightforward; all he had to do was describe his meetings with Njeri from the lieutenant’s perspective. Just make it seem like any other appointment, he told himself. Revealing the destruction of Castillon was out of the question; finding out that a potential trade partner had been obliterated via alien invasion might trigger some lockdown security protocol in the prison, and then Azrael would never escape. The only hard part of the task ahead would be to speak carefully enough as to not betray his ignorance of the workings of this world, as every meeting had been on Castillon soil and his only knowledge of it came from what Njeri had said and this brief soiree into the prison.

“On behalf of the emperor, the Castillon prince shows reluctance to trade viridium for anything we’ve offered yet, which includes precious metals like gold and silver, chemical formulae for weapons of mass destruction, various pharmaceuticals and narcotics, the complete boxed set of The Twilight Zone, and a duck that ostensibly predicts the future,” Azrael reported truthfully. “Viridium is a precious stone that is Castillon's ultimate driver of GDP. It is a closely-guarded government secret from other worldly nations, as it is not only exorbitantly expensive and a coveted architectural and fashion material for the wealthy, but it is believed to have magical properties. While studies differ and there is little certainty, there have been correlations that those who live in close proximity to large sources of viridium have a higher chance of developing…” Here he stumbled a little, because he was unsure if there was a scientific term that New had used that, if he failed to invoke it, would make him lose credibility. Giving up, he eventually settled on “...supernatural abilities. Thus, viridium is valued as a priceless weapon, because if it falls into enemy hands, Castillon fears it may have a supernatural army to deal with. We must try a new tactic if we wish to acquire it,” he finished.

Cappy did not immediately reply, and Azrael smothered a proud smile, speculating whether his market analysis had gone over her head. Clearly she was a soldier and not a businesswoman for good reason. It was one of those moments where he was immeasurably thankful that he obsessed over files and records enough to say the name of that old-timey black-and-white television show with confidence. Njeri had once insisted on playing an episode for Azrael, like a birthday-party magician trying to mesmerize a child with a magic trick, as if its entertainment value was a fair trade for state secrets and billions of kruge in assets.

Given the alien invasion, Castillon was now a defunct nation, so Azrael felt little guilt in breaking down its economics for military officials from the next universe over. The information was nearly worthless now, and he needed to toss in a few pearls of real wisdom to sell his role as a diplomat. Besides, drowning them in technical details would detract from the attention they paid to him specifically. He had just opened his mouth to continue when the television behind Cappy crackled with static. He sat very straight to stare over Cappy’s massive shoulder as gray flakes danced over it, occasionally broken by bits of color as it sputtered to life. Seeing his and New’s distracted glances, Cappy spun around just as an image resolved. A jolt went through Azrael, like a missed stair. It was too late to recover his surprise, the expression of heart-stopping fear that had crossed his features, but fortunately, the women’s attention was riveted on the screen that had sprung to life of its own accord.

Staring at them was the man who had upended Azrael’s life less than a day ago. The man whose forces had invaded a viridian ballroom of expensively-clad nobility with champagne flutes in their hands and slayed most of its occupants before the current orchestral number was out. The man whom Azrael himself had invited to Castillon in an attempt to trade viridium for blood and a throne. General Zod. The alien commander’s face was as expressionless as the granite face of a mountain, his eyes black and opaque as twin caves.

“Children of man,” Zod began. The silence that followed reminded Azrael of the moments when a hurricane was about to descend on New Reynes. “I send this message as a courtesy, as the meaningless slaughter of Earth’s civilians is not my goal. However, any military resistance my forces meet will be annihilated without mercy. Please be advised that, within the next twenty-four-hour span, we the Kryptonian people shall begin our occupation of your planet. Our technology and physical capabilities exceed yours hundredfold. Fighting us is certain to result in your demise. For your own safety, we recommend your immediate surrender or evacuation to another planet. Please do not act rashly; the last nation we seized had a survival rate of less than one percent.” Less than one percent. Azrael shivered, as if ghosts were stroking his shoulders with cold fingers, knowing that the nation Zod was alluding to had been his own. “May your gods watch over you,” General Zod said by way of farewell. And the feed cut out.

 

[TobiornotTobi]

Rodrick Unger​

Belle Reve Penitentiary​

"...Sod it all."​

---

After a brief hiatus, Rodrick's bad mood was back in full force. Here he was, forced to the sidelines yet again. The whole ordeal reminded him of when he first arrived in this hellhole. As Liling and Violettin stared each other down, the blonde inmate's mind wandered. He hadn't felt this bad since he first arrived at Belle Reve.

...

It was anyone's guess as to what was next for Rodrick Unger. What he initially thought was the end of the road turned out not to be. He had no clue how long the yanks had him locked in that basement, getting beaten like a piñata. Typically, if the interrogee didn't have the information you wanted, you disposed of the bloke. Rodrick knew that from his time as an officer of the Australian Federal Police. Apparently, things worked differently in the land of the free. Rodrick was tied up in his chair, trying to catch some miniscule amount of sleep before the next round began when the lights in the basement came to life and a black sack was dropped on his head. The bruised and blinded Australian was then led out of the room and into the back of an automobile. After a long drive, Rodrick was lead out of the vehicle and found himself blinded again, this time by the shining of the sun. After a bitter divorce, Rodrick and fresh air were back together, but the relief was only temporary. Towering before him was a building his police officer mind recognized as a prison. Two guards quickly intercepted and before Rodrick knew it, he was being herded inside and placed at the back of a line consisting of other criminals. In front of them, a tall guard built like a brick wall was in the middle of giving a lecture.

"All of you standing here have shown that you cannot exist in civilized society," He recited to the new arrivals. He began pacing up and down, laying eyes on every single one of his wards. "As such, this is your home now. You will walk when we tell you to walk, you will eat when we tell you to eat, you will sleep when we tell you to sleep. For those of you lucky enough to have a release date, keep your head down, stay out of trouble, and learn from your mistake. Your time will come. But for those of you who have performed crimes heinous enough to earn you a life sentence, this prison will be your home and your grave. You made your bed, now lie in it."

To the more hardened criminals out of the new batch, the introduction speech was little more than background noise. But to Rodrick's, it was devastating. He looked around his surroundings, at the concrete walls already suffocating him with their blank, grey color. The long hallway before him, filling him with dread, and the layered doorway that was slowly being closed, giving him a chance to give a final farewell to the sun. The sun, the brightest star in the sky that he spent years running under, chasing after prey. And when the door closed with a resounding thud, Rodrick found himself wincing, as if a body part was caught in the doorway. Then he really did wince, as he felt himself getting shoved from behind. Distracted, Rodrick failed to see that the others had begun moving down the hall.

"Get moving, prisoner," The other guard barked. The Australian reluctantly shuffled his feet, beginning the final descent into the land down under.

...

Rodrick was once more feeling like a caged animal. Caged and powerless. Powerless to do anything about his circumstances. His freedom taken from him, forced to exist on the whim of somebody else. Forget dying of old age, Rodrick was already dead. Dead by drowning in a cesspool of stagnation. So like a corpse, he sat completely still in his chair. Nothing could rouse him from his gloom, not even Rachel getting up and entering the ring. Her speech about 'more than one way for a person to be unable to go further' immediately made Rodrick aware that whatever she was going to do was going to make the aforementioned pendulum swing back with a vengeance. He then remembered Missy Kimmy talking about a supposed task of organizing a team, but Rodrick's usually imaginative mind could only muster up images of him and the therapy gang being assigned kitchen duty, like Jupiter mentioned earlier.

Speaking of the only other guy in the room, Rodrick heard him talking, but still kept rigid. "Bloody oath. It shoulda been us throwin' down, but Missy Kimmy wouldn't know a good time if it hit her in the face, so here we are."

And then, pretty boy started chatting smack on par with the big man himself. What was that? Rodrick might get a few shots in? Jupiter would have him on the floor without a scratch? This bloke has to be as high as the planet he named himself after, spoutin' off fightin' words like those! Rodrick let out a single 'hmph' in response to the charged statements. Then another, and another in rapid succession. And like a car starting up, the pitch of Rodrick onomatopoeia increasing until he was full-on laughing. With fire in his eyes, significantly weakened but burning nonetheless, he turned to face his rival.

"Mate, you must have a few kangaroos loose in the top paddock if you think you'd beat me!" Rodrick declared, punctuating his sentence with a thumb pointing at his chest. "It takes a lot more than just strength to survive a hunt, much less bag ya prize! I've taken out beasties bigger and stronger than you out in the bush!"

His excitement rising, Rodrick took a deep breath and shrugged. "Yeah, you laid a beatdown on those two rabble-rousers before therapy. Impressive? Sure, but I'm not some meathead doin' 10 years for breakin' and enterin'! I wiped the floor with a guy who was shootin' fire outta his hands, remember?" The hunter then pointed at Jupiter's power suppressing jewelry. "Whatever your gimmick is, it doesn't faze me a bit! Off or on, I'm still moppin' the floor with ya like I did ol' smokey!"

Rodrick crossed his arms as he continued to look at Jupiter. Who was this guy before Belle Reve? Could they be ex-military? No, they looked too young for that. Certainly had the build of a guy who slapped around people for a living. Getting to fight Jupiter would be a fun match, one that would take more than strength to win indeed. But alas, this was all seated squarely in theory. Unless Belle Reve started a fight night tradition, any attempt to settle the score with the other blonde would be quashed and the lot of them sent to solitary. Or worse, more therapy. Out of the corner of his eye, Rodrick watched as Shi got up and began creeping behind Missy Kimmy. What was that pinball planning to do?