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✖ PLAYER:
Name & DW Journal: Sae | screw
Birthdate & Age: Feb 10 1990, 23
Characters played in Zodion: Jack Frost (Rise of the Guardians | icepact), Dean Winchester (Supernatural | arighteousman)
✖ CHARACTER:
Name: Bruce Wayne
Canon: Batman (Nolanverse)
PB/Image:
Info links: http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Batman_Begins and http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/The_Dark_Knight_%28film%29
Canon Point: At the very end of The Dark Knight
Gender & Sex: Male
Age: Approximately twenty-eight
Birthdate/Sign: February 19th (canon), Pisces
Tattoo: A small version of the Pisces symbol on the side of his left thigh.
Suitability: n/a, he's well of age
Power: Bruce is useless in canon. I mean. Magically/powerfully speaking, so. Gonna go with the power of Water: Healing: Cleansing.
Personality: There are quite a few layers to Bruce Wayne, but let's start with the top and work our way down—he's like a taco salad in that way. Who doesn't want to start with the less-than-dense upper layer of sour cream and sprinkled cheese?
Which is a really good way to describe Mr. Wayne upon a first meeting; he comes across as a shallow, flimsy man—all filler without the spice. Gotham's most renowned playboy, Bruce is a friendly guy who leaves the running of his company to more 'competent' individuals (while he sleeps during board meetings and confers with those loyal to him on private terms). He's irresponsible and mostly interested in charity drives for the chance to chat up a beautiful lady-benefactor who might want to speak 'ethics' in the privacy of Bruce's bedroom. That's the face shown to the world—the pretty boy. The possible sex addict. The man whose only plan is apparently to spend his money equal parts on renovating Gotham and elevating his own pleasure.
That isn't even the half of it. While Bruce carries the façade of a happy-go-lucky man without a care in the world—the kind who doesn't watch the news but is concerned with who becomes the next state attorney—that isn't who he is on the inside. Not even close. From the death of his parents (which took place at a considerably young age) onwards, Bruce has been a man fueled by one ultimate goal: to wipe Gotham clean of every crook, criminal, rapist, and thief—no matter what he had to do to accomplish it. While it all started with wanting to hunt down his parents' killer, an effort that proved fruitless when he was taken out through mob action, it's since moved on. Bruce has toured the criminal underbelly, he's traveled the globe and he's trained himself to peak physical condition.
Batman is the accumulation of everything Bruce believes Gotham needs until a better, more just system can be put in place. He's an antihero—a weapon of a man who only has one rule between him and condemning all the chaos the city holds: thou shalt not kill. A mandate that began when he was given the option by the League of Shadows, a group led by Ra's al Ghul. While several years before, he'd thought he was capable of destroying the man who had left him an orphan, Bruce realizes that death is not a punishment to dull out lightly. That he will not become the darkness that has taken over the city he yet calls home. So, Batman won't kill, but he will do what he must besides. The police might call him a vigilante and the definition sticks, but the point isn't to run around in a cowl and gain admiration—it's to strike fear, like a damn bullet, into the gut and heart of any ne'er-do-well that dares threaten Gotham. He could care less if you're a paltry thief or a sociopath done up in pasty white and smeared red makeup—you're going down. You're going down hard and Mr. Wayne will donate some extra green to Arkham Asylum to keep the doors locked tight.
Besides the split between Bruce Wayne and Batman, the in-between figure isn't a difficult guy to get along with. Bruce has a thin strain of a martyr complex, but around his confidantes (Alfred, Lucius, etc.), he can be both overbearing and charming. Not all the jokes he tells in 'polite' society are byproducts of the role he's aiming to portray—Bruce is a man with a good sense of humor when yours doesn't involve blowing up innocents. He's stern and doesn't often listen to reason (Alfred's, Lucius', etc.), but he's not a man blind to his own faults—in fact, he blames himself for things that he couldn't have done much for. His parents' deaths. Joker killing Rachel Dawes, the only woman he'd ever seriously come to love. And as these wounds within him fester, Bruce Wayne takes a backseat to Batman—to the darkness that haunts him. What can be said is his intentions are always good, but they aren't always noble. Batman's done some pretty disgusting things—thrown people out of buildings, let Harvey Dent take the rap—but it was all to provide Gotham with a safer tomorrow.
That's what he tells himself to sleep an hour per night, anyway.
Oh, right, Harvey Dent. Villains in general, really. Okay. Theeerreee are some interesting feelings. See, Bruce believed in Harvey. He believed that Harvey was the deserved hero, the one who could make that valuable positive difference via legislation. He could right laws, write wrongs—something like that, and even though he was Bruce's romantic rival, he did well by Rachel. He was a solidly Good man. Then Rachel dies, an event that Bruce takes unwarranted credit for, and Harvey literally becomes someone else. Two-Face. A villain. An evil motherfucker that lets the Joker get to him and proves that anything is corrupted. No one is sacred. This ties back in to Ra's al Ghul—who was never the man Bruce thought he was. When he reappears (not so dead) as a water poisoning douchebag in Gotham, it's to reveal himself as fact Henri Ducard, Bruce's past mentor. Yanno. The one who taught him to embrace fear—who inspired Batman's entire existence.
Basically, everything Bruce believes in turns bad—just. Everything. And that takes its toll. Joker tells him they're two sides of the same coin (get a room, you tool), and Bruce doesn't want to believe it. He would rather be his own darkness, and he would rather have that darkness contained. He doesn't want chaos, he doesn't want people to turn on him. What he wants is for someone to take up the mantle for real, and for him to be able to protect dear Gotham long enough to see it happen.
But, to end on a happy note—there's at least Alfred. The manservant. The wonderful guy who is willing to put up with all of Bruce's shit and re-write a dead woman's letters to keep him from folding like a card table. Alfred who manages his estate, who tells Bruce what he needs to hear and… most importantly? Is the only one Bruce trusts. So. At least there's some hope, right? There's. This guy. This old man. That probably won't be in Zodion ever. The end.
✖ SAMPLES:
"Zodion" First-Person Network Entry:
[Bruce Wayne does not appear all that happy or grateful. C'mon, Bats, you could've been kidnapped somewhere much worse. This is more of an impromptu vacation in a beautiful city, really. Har har, not. He's scheduled those purposeful weekend getaways. He knows what they look like. This? This isn't it. See, when Bruce Wayne is spirited away by whimsy, he's doing it with a couple fashion models. He's doing it with martinis—hold the olives, if you please. He enjoys himself. He doesn't wake up on a stone slab with an obscure phone in his hand. There shouldn't be a crick in his neck, or a tattoo on his ass (well, his thigh, but that's not the point.)
But he's Bruce Wayne, so he should be laughing at it all. Vaguely nervous. Kinda darting his gaze—not staring straight at the gadget. Not waiting for something, anything, with a half-sneer on his lips. That's the Bat—that's the ever vigilante guardian side of him that doesn't like being fucked with. He doesn't need his secret identity figured out, and he's not convinced these gods or Zodion even exists. This could be a simulation. A new tonic tested on his system. Worse—a figment of his mind, finally cracked down the middle.
He pulls himself together at the last minute. He's all perfect composure when he turns the video on—er, composure mixed with just enough confusion and masculine charisma to hit the mark. That's the show. It's going on. And on.]
Hello, this is Bruce Wayne. I hear I'm not in Gotham anymore. Would anyone care to enlighten me further or should I start guessing on my own?
[He read the letter. He actually knows enough, but sometimes it's good to play dumb, and he's got the smile of a man who does it a lot. Only the truly well-versed in body language will notice it doesn't meet his eyes.]
I'll say—this… isn't my usual Saturday. [Chuckle, chuckle, ain't he cute?]
"Zodionlogs" Third-Person Prose Entry:
The city needed him. Didn't want him, but needed him, and as far as he can tell, this is another version of the same. Because—okay. Let's just say he believes any of this. Say this isn't some masterminded scheme by a villain even more imaginative than the Joker, more vindictive (and hard to get rid of) than Crane. That would mean he woke up with his left thigh on fire until he took note of a newly forged tattoo, because gods really exist. Twelve of them, in fact, and all Twelve are in danger and require his unique brand of help.
It's really not the most outlandish—no. No, actually this kind of trumps the psychopath in a clown suit. This takes the cake, tears it apart to its base components, and forges a new one.
Bruce could use a something for the migraine building up at the very forefront of his skull. He could really stand to have Alfred there to tell him he's merely hallucinating.
There's none of that. Only cold and silence and a mirror he has no use for.
It's a trap. These sorts of things don't exist. Fantasy, magic, it's a fool's game. There's always a reason behind it. There is that one story in all the interchangeable ones that's true—there is logic. And science. And technology. There are no gods, merely mortals who play at their rules, like a rebellious billionaire who secretly thwarts villainy in the night. He is no real guardian, these are no true lords of magic anymore than a bunch of teenagers playing Dungeons and Dragons.
He crumples the letter up in his hands and breathes. He has to show restraint. Should this be a ploy to get him to expose himself, to admit that he is 'The Bat,' he's not going to make it an easy one. They have to believe they misunderstood. They screwed up. He is an innocent. He is Bruce Wayne and nothing more.
But what if it's real?
There is no way this is real.
"Sounds like…" he doesn't get to 'fun,' because the bitter anger at having been taken somewhere against his will momentarily chokes him. He covers it with a cough, but it isn't his best acting. He has to at least leave this room. That—that is step one in a long list of steps that ends in flipping this entire place upside down to escape. Should he have to.
Name & DW Journal: Sae | screw
Birthdate & Age: Feb 10 1990, 23
Characters played in Zodion: Jack Frost (Rise of the Guardians | icepact), Dean Winchester (Supernatural | arighteousman)
✖ CHARACTER:
Name: Bruce Wayne
Canon: Batman (Nolanverse)
PB/Image:
Info links: http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Batman_Begins and http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/The_Dark_Knight_%28film%29
Canon Point: At the very end of The Dark Knight
Gender & Sex: Male
Age: Approximately twenty-eight
Birthdate/Sign: February 19th (canon), Pisces
Tattoo: A small version of the Pisces symbol on the side of his left thigh.
Suitability: n/a, he's well of age
Power: Bruce is useless in canon. I mean. Magically/powerfully speaking, so. Gonna go with the power of Water: Healing: Cleansing.
Personality: There are quite a few layers to Bruce Wayne, but let's start with the top and work our way down—he's like a taco salad in that way. Who doesn't want to start with the less-than-dense upper layer of sour cream and sprinkled cheese?
Which is a really good way to describe Mr. Wayne upon a first meeting; he comes across as a shallow, flimsy man—all filler without the spice. Gotham's most renowned playboy, Bruce is a friendly guy who leaves the running of his company to more 'competent' individuals (while he sleeps during board meetings and confers with those loyal to him on private terms). He's irresponsible and mostly interested in charity drives for the chance to chat up a beautiful lady-benefactor who might want to speak 'ethics' in the privacy of Bruce's bedroom. That's the face shown to the world—the pretty boy. The possible sex addict. The man whose only plan is apparently to spend his money equal parts on renovating Gotham and elevating his own pleasure.
That isn't even the half of it. While Bruce carries the façade of a happy-go-lucky man without a care in the world—the kind who doesn't watch the news but is concerned with who becomes the next state attorney—that isn't who he is on the inside. Not even close. From the death of his parents (which took place at a considerably young age) onwards, Bruce has been a man fueled by one ultimate goal: to wipe Gotham clean of every crook, criminal, rapist, and thief—no matter what he had to do to accomplish it. While it all started with wanting to hunt down his parents' killer, an effort that proved fruitless when he was taken out through mob action, it's since moved on. Bruce has toured the criminal underbelly, he's traveled the globe and he's trained himself to peak physical condition.
Batman is the accumulation of everything Bruce believes Gotham needs until a better, more just system can be put in place. He's an antihero—a weapon of a man who only has one rule between him and condemning all the chaos the city holds: thou shalt not kill. A mandate that began when he was given the option by the League of Shadows, a group led by Ra's al Ghul. While several years before, he'd thought he was capable of destroying the man who had left him an orphan, Bruce realizes that death is not a punishment to dull out lightly. That he will not become the darkness that has taken over the city he yet calls home. So, Batman won't kill, but he will do what he must besides. The police might call him a vigilante and the definition sticks, but the point isn't to run around in a cowl and gain admiration—it's to strike fear, like a damn bullet, into the gut and heart of any ne'er-do-well that dares threaten Gotham. He could care less if you're a paltry thief or a sociopath done up in pasty white and smeared red makeup—you're going down. You're going down hard and Mr. Wayne will donate some extra green to Arkham Asylum to keep the doors locked tight.
Besides the split between Bruce Wayne and Batman, the in-between figure isn't a difficult guy to get along with. Bruce has a thin strain of a martyr complex, but around his confidantes (Alfred, Lucius, etc.), he can be both overbearing and charming. Not all the jokes he tells in 'polite' society are byproducts of the role he's aiming to portray—Bruce is a man with a good sense of humor when yours doesn't involve blowing up innocents. He's stern and doesn't often listen to reason (Alfred's, Lucius', etc.), but he's not a man blind to his own faults—in fact, he blames himself for things that he couldn't have done much for. His parents' deaths. Joker killing Rachel Dawes, the only woman he'd ever seriously come to love. And as these wounds within him fester, Bruce Wayne takes a backseat to Batman—to the darkness that haunts him. What can be said is his intentions are always good, but they aren't always noble. Batman's done some pretty disgusting things—thrown people out of buildings, let Harvey Dent take the rap—but it was all to provide Gotham with a safer tomorrow.
That's what he tells himself to sleep an hour per night, anyway.
Oh, right, Harvey Dent. Villains in general, really. Okay. Theeerreee are some interesting feelings. See, Bruce believed in Harvey. He believed that Harvey was the deserved hero, the one who could make that valuable positive difference via legislation. He could right laws, write wrongs—something like that, and even though he was Bruce's romantic rival, he did well by Rachel. He was a solidly Good man. Then Rachel dies, an event that Bruce takes unwarranted credit for, and Harvey literally becomes someone else. Two-Face. A villain. An evil motherfucker that lets the Joker get to him and proves that anything is corrupted. No one is sacred. This ties back in to Ra's al Ghul—who was never the man Bruce thought he was. When he reappears (not so dead) as a water poisoning douchebag in Gotham, it's to reveal himself as fact Henri Ducard, Bruce's past mentor. Yanno. The one who taught him to embrace fear—who inspired Batman's entire existence.
Basically, everything Bruce believes in turns bad—just. Everything. And that takes its toll. Joker tells him they're two sides of the same coin (get a room, you tool), and Bruce doesn't want to believe it. He would rather be his own darkness, and he would rather have that darkness contained. He doesn't want chaos, he doesn't want people to turn on him. What he wants is for someone to take up the mantle for real, and for him to be able to protect dear Gotham long enough to see it happen.
But, to end on a happy note—there's at least Alfred. The manservant. The wonderful guy who is willing to put up with all of Bruce's shit and re-write a dead woman's letters to keep him from folding like a card table. Alfred who manages his estate, who tells Bruce what he needs to hear and… most importantly? Is the only one Bruce trusts. So. At least there's some hope, right? There's. This guy. This old man. That probably won't be in Zodion ever. The end.
✖ SAMPLES:
"Zodion" First-Person Network Entry:
[Bruce Wayne does not appear all that happy or grateful. C'mon, Bats, you could've been kidnapped somewhere much worse. This is more of an impromptu vacation in a beautiful city, really. Har har, not. He's scheduled those purposeful weekend getaways. He knows what they look like. This? This isn't it. See, when Bruce Wayne is spirited away by whimsy, he's doing it with a couple fashion models. He's doing it with martinis—hold the olives, if you please. He enjoys himself. He doesn't wake up on a stone slab with an obscure phone in his hand. There shouldn't be a crick in his neck, or a tattoo on his ass (well, his thigh, but that's not the point.)
But he's Bruce Wayne, so he should be laughing at it all. Vaguely nervous. Kinda darting his gaze—not staring straight at the gadget. Not waiting for something, anything, with a half-sneer on his lips. That's the Bat—that's the ever vigilante guardian side of him that doesn't like being fucked with. He doesn't need his secret identity figured out, and he's not convinced these gods or Zodion even exists. This could be a simulation. A new tonic tested on his system. Worse—a figment of his mind, finally cracked down the middle.
He pulls himself together at the last minute. He's all perfect composure when he turns the video on—er, composure mixed with just enough confusion and masculine charisma to hit the mark. That's the show. It's going on. And on.]
Hello, this is Bruce Wayne. I hear I'm not in Gotham anymore. Would anyone care to enlighten me further or should I start guessing on my own?
[He read the letter. He actually knows enough, but sometimes it's good to play dumb, and he's got the smile of a man who does it a lot. Only the truly well-versed in body language will notice it doesn't meet his eyes.]
I'll say—this… isn't my usual Saturday. [Chuckle, chuckle, ain't he cute?]
"Zodionlogs" Third-Person Prose Entry:
The city needed him. Didn't want him, but needed him, and as far as he can tell, this is another version of the same. Because—okay. Let's just say he believes any of this. Say this isn't some masterminded scheme by a villain even more imaginative than the Joker, more vindictive (and hard to get rid of) than Crane. That would mean he woke up with his left thigh on fire until he took note of a newly forged tattoo, because gods really exist. Twelve of them, in fact, and all Twelve are in danger and require his unique brand of help.
It's really not the most outlandish—no. No, actually this kind of trumps the psychopath in a clown suit. This takes the cake, tears it apart to its base components, and forges a new one.
Bruce could use a something for the migraine building up at the very forefront of his skull. He could really stand to have Alfred there to tell him he's merely hallucinating.
There's none of that. Only cold and silence and a mirror he has no use for.
It's a trap. These sorts of things don't exist. Fantasy, magic, it's a fool's game. There's always a reason behind it. There is that one story in all the interchangeable ones that's true—there is logic. And science. And technology. There are no gods, merely mortals who play at their rules, like a rebellious billionaire who secretly thwarts villainy in the night. He is no real guardian, these are no true lords of magic anymore than a bunch of teenagers playing Dungeons and Dragons.
He crumples the letter up in his hands and breathes. He has to show restraint. Should this be a ploy to get him to expose himself, to admit that he is 'The Bat,' he's not going to make it an easy one. They have to believe they misunderstood. They screwed up. He is an innocent. He is Bruce Wayne and nothing more.
But what if it's real?
There is no way this is real.
"Sounds like…" he doesn't get to 'fun,' because the bitter anger at having been taken somewhere against his will momentarily chokes him. He covers it with a cough, but it isn't his best acting. He has to at least leave this room. That—that is step one in a long list of steps that ends in flipping this entire place upside down to escape. Should he have to.