Doctor Disharmony
Senior Member
Okay, you impatient bubs, here's the role play itself. You know the drill, so I'll just jump right into the role-playing itself. I will not make a post for Harley until a post for Joker is made, being that she'll be at least attempting to follow him around like a lost puppy.
A very anxious, attached, emotionally disturbed stalker puppy, at that.
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Gotham was notorious for its darkness. Between every crack in every street, every corner in every alley, every slab in each section of pavement, shadows crept forward. It seemed as though the entire city itself was the product of darkness, a creeping spawn from the very nightmares of its inhabitants. And who could blame them for having nightmares? The city itself was only a reflection of the horrors layed out by those who separated themselves from society in order to take upon a nearly demonic identity. Yet....the seemingly naive citizens but on a mask of ignorance and continued to call this place home. Deathstroke supposed that even the darkness welcomes unsuspecting being into its fiery grasp, if they were willing to pay the price, of course. And if any price was right, he was more then willing to do whatever it was that needed to be done. In fact, it was because of that very price that he was here now, back in the very hellhole he had sworn his undying hatred to so long ago. But business was business, and where the tide of this vast ocean of plots chose to take him, Slade Wilson usually allowed those very waters to accompany his journey. It seemed like the entire world now only consisted of blackness and water, at that. Because as he skillfully crouched beside the cover of this massive skyscraper, shadows from neighboring settlements entwined with the pouring silver droplets of rain that fell from the sky. Yet, the mercenary was unfazed. So while the trickling liquid trailed down the infamous orange and black mask containing his face, the single eye which revealed itself squinted with peering and deductive intelligence. It's striking gray pupil seemed to dilate in this lack of light, providing no reflection from the dim binoculars positioned before it. He was on a hunt, a massacre, if you will. Not only did he have a famous target with a bucketload of payment held over his head, he also had four famous targets with a bucketload of payment held over their heads. It was delightfully cunning, so precisely planned was his scheme. Of course, it was always like that. Being that failure was completely unacceptable, not composing the most brilliant of ideals was unthinkable.
His gloved hands removed the spying equipment from over his eye. The device then found itself easily clipped upon the thick battle belt across his waist. Many might find it not plausible that such a large man with so much technological accessories could remain hidden. Deathstroke found his ability to hide, and watch, from the shadows to be a second nature to him. He was practically invisible, even to the trained eye.
Yet, he was always watching.
Always in the shadows.
And as mentioned before, he was always on a hunt.
So now it was time to bring in the catch of the day.
A very anxious, attached, emotionally disturbed stalker puppy, at that.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Gotham was notorious for its darkness. Between every crack in every street, every corner in every alley, every slab in each section of pavement, shadows crept forward. It seemed as though the entire city itself was the product of darkness, a creeping spawn from the very nightmares of its inhabitants. And who could blame them for having nightmares? The city itself was only a reflection of the horrors layed out by those who separated themselves from society in order to take upon a nearly demonic identity. Yet....the seemingly naive citizens but on a mask of ignorance and continued to call this place home. Deathstroke supposed that even the darkness welcomes unsuspecting being into its fiery grasp, if they were willing to pay the price, of course. And if any price was right, he was more then willing to do whatever it was that needed to be done. In fact, it was because of that very price that he was here now, back in the very hellhole he had sworn his undying hatred to so long ago. But business was business, and where the tide of this vast ocean of plots chose to take him, Slade Wilson usually allowed those very waters to accompany his journey. It seemed like the entire world now only consisted of blackness and water, at that. Because as he skillfully crouched beside the cover of this massive skyscraper, shadows from neighboring settlements entwined with the pouring silver droplets of rain that fell from the sky. Yet, the mercenary was unfazed. So while the trickling liquid trailed down the infamous orange and black mask containing his face, the single eye which revealed itself squinted with peering and deductive intelligence. It's striking gray pupil seemed to dilate in this lack of light, providing no reflection from the dim binoculars positioned before it. He was on a hunt, a massacre, if you will. Not only did he have a famous target with a bucketload of payment held over his head, he also had four famous targets with a bucketload of payment held over their heads. It was delightfully cunning, so precisely planned was his scheme. Of course, it was always like that. Being that failure was completely unacceptable, not composing the most brilliant of ideals was unthinkable.
His gloved hands removed the spying equipment from over his eye. The device then found itself easily clipped upon the thick battle belt across his waist. Many might find it not plausible that such a large man with so much technological accessories could remain hidden. Deathstroke found his ability to hide, and watch, from the shadows to be a second nature to him. He was practically invisible, even to the trained eye.
Yet, he was always watching.
Always in the shadows.
And as mentioned before, he was always on a hunt.
So now it was time to bring in the catch of the day.