#dc comics#batman#dc#bruce wayne#dick grayson#tim drake#batfam#batfamily#dc fanart
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HEY SORRY FOR LIKING EVERYTHING IN YOUR MOIRA TAG I JUST LOVE YOUR ART FFFFFFFF
Ur beautiful and valid
@aninterestinghypothesis // [ x ]
In reality, it’s hard to follow what Moira tended to ramble about-- primarily because his area of expertise was QUITE FAR from the realms of biology and genetics; NEVERTHELESS, he calmly observes the other scientist as she goes on her tangent, and although he’s still quite alert, bright, grey eyes were halflidded as he listens to Moira drone on, the sound drowning out most of the STATIC that tended to fill his overactive mind.
At one point, he zones out, vacantly allowing her voice to drone in one end and simply pass through to the other side, unhindered by any direct thought as he nurses his first cup of coffee in... years. His eyes drift downward to her corrupted hand, curious about the strange lines that seemed to snake up the back of her hand and disappeared beneathe the sleeve of her lab coat, prompting his own to delicately cup it so that he can inspect it slightly closer.
When he finds he’s accidentally disturbed her from her train of thought, he frowns apologetically, though when she doesn’t pull away, he hesitantly keeps his hand where it was.
“.... Sorry, was that rude?“
“-- I-I’m all right...”
Hide~
Baptiste crouched in a dark alley, focusing on keeping his breathing steady. The shadows did absolutely nothing to help him stay calm. Occasionally he would peek his head out to watch as people watched by, but then quickly shrink back into a ball.
Why was he hiding? He didn’t exactly know. He had gotten the sudden feeling that someone was there, watching, and so here he was. He mumbled curses to himself as he sat, waiting for whoever or whatever he thought was there to move along.
🍷🍷🍷🍷🍷 Time to loosen up, doctor!
“Are you suggesting I’m tight? I’ll have you know that I’ve been relaxing all day. In fact, I’ve been reworking a molecular strain in my most recent experiment since this morning. It’s quite riveting work I’ll have you know,” She says while reaching for her faithful brandy bottle and pouring a rather sizable glass of the amber drink with a single ice cube. The petite blonde swirls the liquor to and fro with a flourish of her wrist before downing the thing in one go. Despite drinking brandy on occasion, Angela’s nose scrunches up albeit a determined smile remains on her lips. “If you’re so keen to watch me drink, perhaps you should join me, Doctor O’Deorain.”
@aninterestinghypothesis // ♥
FREEDOM WAS... Not what he had imagined it to be.
He finds himself in another facility-- but this one... This one allows him to move around, to remain UNRESTRICTED from his bed. One that allows the lights to remain OFF, to offer him minimal comforts like blankets and water; food, even.
He’s very weak, they found, due to living a life strapped to a bed for the last decade or so, rarely removed from it and never ever allowed to simply wander. But although his muscular structure had atrophied extensively, it’s slowly begun to return with some minimal physical therapy, and as he begins to familiarize himself with the GRAVITIC ANOMALY present within him, it aids in his slow recovery, taking strain from his weakened legs and back. When Moira enters his room, he’s floating a few inches from his bed, lethargically lifting a hand to influence the plastic tray from his supper some hours ago, which tumbles weakly in the air, as crystalline hues narrow with SIEBREN’S attempt to focus, quietly muttering to himself as he occasionally loses and regains control of it.
Ultimately, however, it comes clattering to the ground when he notices O’Deorain’s presence within his clinical suite, a rasping apology falling from thin lips as it’s stammered free. His body hits his hospital bed delicately, some of the various equipment around his room shudder as his influence retracts from it and he attempts to SUBDUE the urge to negate gravity, trying to ignore the discomfort of being pulled DOWNWARD, as if he were restrained by the Earth’s gravity itself.
“-- A-ah... Professor O’Deorain! I, er... I wasn’t expecting company...”
“I... I’m feeling MUCH better, th-thank you...“
“-- Is.... there something you need...?”
@aninterestinghypothesis; He would find something had been surreptitiously added to his private accomodations during his last session of therapy. A record player of a vintage style, secured to a shelf, attached to which was a rack housing a few records. "Chopin's Nocturnes", "Mozart's Requiem In D Minor", and "The Rise and Fall of Ziggy Stardust and the Spiders from Mars." The attached note simply read: "Let me know if you require other records. Happy Holidays. ~Moira."
Having taken a small nap in between the end of the session and Moira’s departure, he doesn’t immediately take notice of the object until his eyes drift over it upon giving his environment a lethargic, cursory glance.
Where had been blank space now sits something NEW.
It isn’t immediately recognized, nor does it stir much in him other than confusion as he puzzles it together. If it had been meant for him, wouldn’t it be closer...?
Or maybe this was Moira’s way of encouraging him to leave his bed-- after all, even with moderate muscular atrophy, his ANOMALY allows him more freedom, and although it’s rather early to be trying to focus on it when he’s woken up no more than a few minutes ago, his weight is negated entirely, allowing him to sit up more easily than before and upon taking the edge of his bed with large bony hands, he delicately lurches himself forward-- and for a moment, he fears that he may have overestimated his capabilities, until, as if he were still upon one of the shuttles that had ferried him to the LUNAR POINT, he drifts harmlessly towards the shelf, allowing him to better inspect the item. It isn’t until he glances at the names of the records does it come FLOODING BACK.
It’s been so long since he last heard any pieces by Chopin-- how she had known him to be one of SIGMA’S favorite composers, he isn’t very sure, but one thing was for certain, and that was that he’d be able to listen to music... Real music...
For the first time in over two decades.
Uncertain, trembling fingers reach out curiously, softened grey eyes half-lidded as he pulls each record’s case out of the stack to leaf through them-- really, he hadn’t expected anything like this, but upon recognizing Chopin among the titles, he LIGHTS UP, shakily removing it from the record sleeve in favor of carefully placing it upon the player’s base. Then, with even more care, he lifts the stylus as if it were made of glass to place upon the record.
Granted, he’s never used this particular kind of player-- actually, he’s fairly certain he’s never owned a record player in his life, but he can’t really remember if that was t r u e . It takes him a good ten minutes of cautiously pressing buttons, mumbling in Dutch under his breath as he takes time to familiarize himself with the unit-- and, after tinkering with it in silence, the FLUX that kept him suspended nearly dropped him some five or so feet when MUSIC finally pierced the air.
So LOUD, yet when he hastily checks the volume, SIGMA realizes it isn’t the volume of the player. In fact, when he turns the dial, the sound cuts completely-- and that’s when he realizes that it isn’t the sound that’s so JARRING.
Rather, it was the absence of SILENCE.
Conversation could only fill it so well-- between the articulation of words and processing of shared information.... There were simply too many pauses, and it was simply too arbitrary to properly break this twenty year long SILENCE he’s found himself steadily suffocating beneathe. The music, however.... it’s startling, and it makes his heart rate spike with apprehension that it could be taken back if he were to be too loud-- but it’s so genuinely filling. It’s sudden, abrupt, and it makes him feel so.... so.... p r e s e n t in reality for the first time in YEARS. .
SIEBREN might have cried if he felt particularly capable of it-- it tended to come and go with his mood swings, but never really aligned with his real, very unstable emotions-- but although his heart felt as though it were sinking, the feeling... It’s unmistakable.
For the first time since... Since what?
At what point in his life... had he ever felt this... relief?
He can’t remember.
He can’t remember.
He can’t remember.
Do you believe in God?
“G-God?”
Siebren asks, chuckling a bit to tone down the embarrassment welling up in his chest.
“Oh, Heavens. No, I don’t. The Universe is far too vast and complex for a singular benevolent being to be in control of all of it, isn’t it?”
On purpose mistletoe~
The clang of her heels against the steel floor announce her arrival before anything else. Click, click, cling! Her footfalls are heavy and inelegant, completely unlike the normally composed woman Angela typically was. It was nearing midnight by the time Angela arrived at the undisclosed facility within Oasis. What brought her to this jewel in the desert wasn’t the sightseeing, rather, a disturbing message from her long time friend and rival, Moira. It was a cryptic distress call, holding only an address with alternating shades of purple, yellow, and black. That color choice along with the address leading her to Iraq could only be from the fair skinned geneticist.Now here she was, racing down an underground hall that seemed eerily empty, armed with only her blaster for protection. After all, she couldn’t go racing in full regalia and draw unnecessary attention. Reaching the end of the long hall, Angela’s eyes scanned the plate on the door, recognizing the name engraved upon it. It glinted dully in the fluorescent lighting, reflecting the one and only name that had been on the tip of Angela’s tongue for hours now.“MOIRA!!” Angela shouts thunderously, emotion dripping from her words as she sprinted through the sliding doors. Coming to an immediate halt, the breathless blonde was left peering inside the dimly lit office, dumbfounded. Within wasn’t Moira’s dead body--just Moira, smiling a devilish grin back at Angela as if in mockery of the blonde’s exasperated state. “M-Moira? What--” Before she could interrogate the ginger further, the geneticist gestures upward, causing Angela to follow her guiding hand toward the ceiling. Mistletoe? By the time her blue eyes returned on Moira, the taller scientist had approached her space, slender hands already cupping Angela’s cheeks. Huffing loudly--both from catching her breath after sprinting so long and also from realizing she’d been hoodwinked--the Swiss doctor leans in close enough for their noses to brush. “Fröhliche Weihnachten, Moira, mein Herz...”
