- this is a roleplay account. i am not my character and my morals does not always align with theirs.
- 20+ interactions only. this account will bring up topics such as: drugs, self-harm, sexual assault and general nsfw topics.
- don't write for my character and i won't write for yours.
- i write in a semi-paragraph format with dialogue. i always try to match lengths but i don't expect people to do the same back.
- i am super ok with random starters and tags! plotting are always welcome - my dms are open.
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β β β Silently, the dark knight turned in the direction she was looking, the sleek and slender silhouette of the batmobile almost shimmering in the dim light of Gotham's street lights. The moment seemed to linger for far longer than the pair would have been comfortable with, vengeance slowly turning back around to face the woman.
β β β Silence.
β β β A cold, undeniable sense of "you pressed the wrong button" hovered in the air.
β β β The tension was palpable. You could cut it with a knife. Just what was the dark knight thinking? He was impossible to read, unless he was angry-- but even if he was angry now... Binary wouldn't be able to tell. β β β β β β β β β β β β
β β β Without another word, Batman had grabbed Bianca's wrist, dragging her over to the Batmobile by force. He wasn't exactly scared of her, despite her desperate attempts to strike fear into his heart. He was fear, he wasn't about to be scared by this goth girl with too much time on her hands.
β β β Shoving her to the passenger side, he gestured to the seat, before slipping into the driver's seat beside her. Glancing over at her, his eyes narrowed to thin, white slits.
β β β "Don't ever ask me anything so stupid ever again. Save us both the trouble and just forget about driving this car." Kicking the engine into life once more, vengeance's knuckles whitened beneath his gloves, leather creaking quietly as he gripped the steering wheel. He paused, remaining silent for a moment, before he returned his gaze to his passenger.
β β β "...However, as for the rest of your demands? Fine. I'll play along, Binary. When I'm in the cowl, you'll refer to who you see, understood? Batman. Not Bruce Wayne. Never while I'm in the cowl." β β β β β β β β β β β β
>. "---P l e a s e . I'm not an idiot. I know what to say when."
She definitely shouldn't have been so giddy right then -- but even someone as otherwise stoic as Binary had a hard time containing her excitement as she was suddenly shoved right to the Batmobile by the much larger man. And since she was so happy to oblige, she took her seat -- strapping in with a smug smirk on her lips.
The 'car' looked more like a spaceship with the amount of buttons and cranks to pull -- and it suddenly made all the more sense how Batman kept showing up with the latest tech if he 'borrowed' it all from Wayne Tech.
---- Clever little Bat.
"Has someone ever told you you got serious anger issu---"
The vigilante didn't even get the chance to finish her sentence before Batman stepped on the gas and sped up -- the seatbelt pressing her into the seat by the raw force, shooting them ahead like a missile.
"C-Christ!"
Okay, so maybe asking to drive had been a bad idea. Good call on letting her remain his passenger princess for now -- although Binary planned on acting like anything but a princess while she was in his vicinity. Batman simply brought out something primal in her -- although she couldn't pinpoint why.
"Where --- Where are we going---?"
To her, it was obvious that the Batman had some sort of plan here -- unless he was planning on getting rid of her himself now that both identities were exposed to one another.
"Also -- Why do you always drive like you stole the damn thing? It's a miracle you haven't hit someone by the way you cruise around."
Clearly just a jab -- because the amount of control he had on the wheel was a skill she never had and never would again.<
He was to a hydrophobic molecule as the building up of her tears was to water. He was repelled instantly. The quivering, malformed thing living inside him recoiled from them with physical disgust. Sympathy was laborious, an invitation to expose wounds that had never healed correctly in the first place. That creature had suffered too. More than suffered. It had clawed its way through miles of barbed labyrinths, dragging itself over broken terrain until the flesh hanging from its bones scarcely resembled what it had begun as. Every escape had merely opened into another corridor. Every victory revealed another lock. Starved thing. Beaten thing. It had never possessed the luxury of a family waiting proudly at the finish line. No reassuring hand. No voice promising it had done well. Only demands, conditions, and usefulness.
And so, as Bianca spoke of betrayal, the crueller facet of him immediately began measuring suffering like a competition he refused to lose. One man had ruined her. Crane could name several. His father. His professor. Men whose fingerprints had been pressed so invasively into his development that even now, their voices occasionally surfaced from the sediment of his thoughts like bloated corpses rising through dark water. She spoke of exploitation. Perhaps they both knew what it felt like to mistake attention for love. But could anyone know the extent of it he endured, being raised where affection was a rationed commodity, awarded only for prodigious performance?
His own father tolerated him only insofar he remained useful. Cold nights curled around an empty stomach that cannibalised his muscles until they ached. A throat, scraped raw, and a throbbing headache from crying into the darkness that disregarded his pleas. Food was a privilege, and existence was a debt.
Then prowled his professor. The first to ever recognise him beyond utility. Not as a burden, nor a problem to be managed, not even as an inconvenience to be tolerated until it became someone elseβs responsibility to tame. The potential his professor saw in him, when no one else at the institution would defend his work, actuated praise and encouragement of his theories. And because he had been starving for it his entire life, he lacked the palate to distinguish being noticed from being valued. The distinction had not seemed important to enlighten himself with at the time. Not while the approval kept being awarded. Not while he was being told he was exceptional. Special. And for once, praised for being different from everyone else.
The trap had never announced itself through cruelty. He would have recognised cruelty. A trap built from iron jaws is easy enough to identify, especially when one has spent a lifetime stepping around them. The one designed by his professor had been baited with warmth and affection, carefully portioned small enough to keep him hungry. The mechanism had been concealed. A hunting pit disguised as a sanctuary. Every compliment was another layer of leaves spread neatly over the hole, camouflaging it with the intimacy that convinces a person they are participating in something mutual while every vulnerable piece of them is being weighed for their pounds of flesh to be manducated.
And he had surrendered himself willingly. His work. His loyalty. His trust. Harvested pieces, excised in ragged strips. Hooks sunk beneath the softer tissues of him and pulled until something vital tore loose. Even now was the phantom ache of those missing pieces, organs that had been removed without anaesthetic and the cavities left behind had simply learned to imitate being whole. But they had been offered freely, because he believed they were being received by someone who genuinely indulged in them, and who would feed him in return with the slices of their own vulnerability. By the time he understood otherwise, the damage had already been done.
He had been useful. Useful intellectually. Useful professionally. Useful emotionally. Useful physically. Useful in every capacity except the one that had actually mattered. Affection was simply the appetite of another. A mouth grinning ear-to-ear before it fed on the most ambrosial delicacy prepared by the expert artistry of exploitation.
Even now, the memories remained stuck inside him, a rusty blade in scar tissue, where flesh healed around it, and nerves had learned to grow between its edges. Too buried to remove. Too jagged to stop hurting. The humiliation of discovering that the person whose approval you wanted most had never truly seen you at all. Only the pieces of you they wished to keep. And the pieces they intended to consume.
The creature inside him had recoiled, yes, but as a maimed thing flinching from the sight of injuries too like its own. Those membranes were splitting. Fresh blood threatened to well up through places he preferred to believe had healed.
But Jonathan Crane had learned long ago that exposing vulnerable parts of himself to another person was functionally equivalent to laying his own organs into their hands and trusting them not to squeeze. So, he remained composed. Still seated, watching, his finger resting loosely intertwined in his lap while his pale eyes followed her with that same clinical attentiveness.
When he finally spoke, his voice returned as smooth and measured as ever. Β
βMister Heckland.β Β
One eyebrow flicked up as his head tilted. One of the few expressions he possessed that was more instinctive than rehearsed.Β
βWhere is he now?β Β
The people who had betrayed Crane tended to not remain in his life for very long afterward. His father had died clutching at his chest. His mentorβs ending had been considerably messier. Crane rarely examined either memory with much remorse. So, the question lingered because he found himself wondering whether Bianca had arrived at the same conclusion that he had once or twice undertaken.Β
He gestured toward the tissue box placed on the edge of his desk.Β
βTissues. If you find them necessary.β Β
His eyes briefly met her face before retracting again.
"Though water is generally more effective. The body struggles to maintain both responses simultaneously."
Craneβs gaze shifted briefly toward the office door. Β
"I can have some brought up."Β
The words shifted awkwardly in the room. He could feel it there, tugging at his attention. A small irritation beneath the surface of his thoughts, like discovering an obvious error in a calculation he had attempted to solve quickly. A sense that he had overlooked something obvious. Missed a necessary step somewhere between observation and response. Crane paused, examining the exchange with the same scrutiny he would apply to a patient exhibiting unexpected symptoms. Then, after a momentβs consideration, he identified the omission. Β
βOr retrieve it myself.βΒ
The amendment emerged with visible effort. The rusted mechanism inside him, neglected through years of disuse, had been forced into motion and protested every inch of the movement. An attempt, however underwhelming, at deliberate solicitousness.Β
>. "...Alive. Safe and secure in his castle. Unfortunately."
Wishing he had killed me sooner rather than later.
"...Whatever."
But it wasn't whatever. And that box of tissues called for her attention more than anything in that moment. As the patient shifted towards it, the direction of her gaze lingered in his direction -- but too ridden with shame of her dreary state that she couldn't look him immediately in the eyes.
As quick as she retrieved the tissue, she paced back where she had originally been standing -- only the silhouette of her back directed towards him as she dried her tears.
Even now, she couldn't allow him to see her more vulnerable than she already was.
"Everyone wants to talk about fairness. About fate. That karma finds its way when needed. But --- Where's the karma where the man who ruined my life is put on an untouchable pedestal? Too wealthy for law to touch him, too important to our society to fade away ---`"
Her fists clenched again, undeniable rage spreading inside her small frame --- eyes staring up at what looked like a dark spot in the very corner of the doctor's office. Fixating on it until it grew, larger and larger -- spreading like mold in her imagination.
"...I'm going to take justice into my own hands one day. I don't care what you do with that information, Doc ---"
Then, the female patient turned. The tears turned dormant, emotions twisting in mere seconds from grief to pure and raw anger. Her arms hung on each side of her -- clear dissociation hanging over her whole aura like a fog.
"--- But I will kill Roy Heckland."
He could try to stop her. All of them could. But Binary was no longer human, no -- she was a vengeful ghost. An apparition manifested from rage and torment.<
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64 days since Monica R Fitzgerald had been in the United States. She moved over here from England as she wanted a fresh start from her family life and feeling like she did not belong over there. And since coming over, she has felt like a accomplished and proud woman. Having her own apartment, Living her own life not under her fmailes roof. Life was good.
And now she had a new job doing what she loved. Helping people. And with how stressful the corporate world is, she thought she'd give it a shot. And somehow, she got a job at Grandtech.
Her first day. She arrived early. Twenty minutes before. She knew this was big and needed to be on her A game so the nervous brit was adjusting her collar of her suit as she entered the building. And as she approached the front desk, she heard a voice call for her. She stopped, turned, and smiled. Offering a hand to shake. She shook Bianca's hand.
Neither woman knew it but they just met a friend for life. One through thick and thin. Soon to be reborn and made anew through tragedy and pain and fire.
"Hi Bianca! Monica, yes, that's me!" She replied with a big smile and a slight nervousness in her tone.
"Here for HR. Are you here to give me the tour. Hope I am not too early. Early bird catches the worm and all that and... sorry. I'll stop."
>. "Can never be too early -- so don't you even worry! Being well-prepared and punctual are qualities that are always appreciated at this company. Please -- this way!"
Bianca took the lead heading up towards the big spiral staircase located at the very middle of their lobby -- sure, they could've taken the elevator, but then they would've missed the view as they ascended the steps -- a wonderful, exquisite view over the outside yard beautifully encapsulated by the grand neighboring buildings that made up GrandTech HQ.
"We're going to start off doing the general tour -- and since you've already seen the reception and visitor center we'll be starting with the second floor -- sales and marketing."
Holding the tablet close to her chest, the brunette took the very last step -- guiding Monica across the long glass-covered hallways that separated the different rooms of operation.
"You'll be spending more time on the floor above with HR, obviously -- but I think you'll find the tour helping you navigate in the future. It's a biiiig building, trust me -- it took me w e e k s to even find my way to the breakroom. This place can be a bit of a maze!""
Despite of the joke, the assistant continued to hold her poise -- never showing an inch of letting her private self shine through. Just the way she had been taught.
"Out of curiosity -- what made you apply? I always enjoy hearing new employees' stories -- it reminds me why I started here myself." .<
Whenever someone is at their most raw and vulnerable, it gives the air around them a sort of aura- a quality like paper. So much potential for expression and change in those moments, the way graphite or ink could make picture or story appear. Yet, in equal measure, the delicate quality of something that could crumple, tear, and be permanently changed with just one careless gesture. Helena was learning to navigate these moments with more and more delicacy. This case, in particular, demanded her very best.
And she'd be damned if she didn't give it to Bianca.Β
Wordlessly, the nursing student offers a gentle smile while shaking her head at the incessant apologies- unneeded, but they would be present until her patient felt more secure. The brunette understood this, and didn't scold her. It wouldn't be comforting to be scolded unless it was someone known and trusted. Helena still posed a threat in this moment. Instead, she quietly moves to the hygiene and storage station on the left side of the room, speaking when she moves across the midline of Bianca's vision.Β
βThe only way you'll adjust is if you practice. I don't mind cleaning you up. As long as you keep trying, I'll pick up after you as many times as it takes,β Helena turns on the sink so that the water rushes audibly, squirting soap onto her palms before beginning to lather them. βIt'll be that way with a lot of things. Walking, dressing, even choosing. So if you're up for the work, then I'll be your cheerleader, your janitor, your maidβ¦ whatever gets you through, alright?βΒ
When the sink turns off, Helena makes a point of tugging paper towels from the metal wall dispenser without any delicacy, so that the noise clearly signals to Bianca she is still in the room, even as she dries her hands and tugs gloves from a box pinned to the wall with plastic holders. Then, she finds a fresh box of tissues from one of the cabinets, and paces back across her patients mid-line of view, back to the table set up on her right side. The nursing student peels away the center panel that blocks the tissues from access, and tugs a few out.
Wordlessly, the brunette gently dabs at the front of Bianca's gown, pulling the fabric a bit taut with one hand so that she puts no actual pressure on the short-haired woman's body when she cleans the peanut butter away. The silence is broken by Bianca's sniffling, and then by her voice croaking out the nursing student's name.
Helena pauses, and gazes into her patient's eye with a gaze that can only be described as attentively worried. She takes the tears and rawness seriously. It does not get past her how pried-open and raw the short-haired woman must feel right now.
So, she does something she normally wouldn't do. She moves the rail guard on the right side of the medical bed down, and perches on its edge with her right thigh. She places her hands on her knee, giving Bianca her undivided attention as she reaches to gently dab at her patient's weeping eye. "You were in a car accident. From what we know, you crashed into the side of an electrical station, going first through the fence and then into the steel walls. Electrical wires fell in. There were bullet holes in the side of your car." Helena says all of this slowly, and as gently as possible. No particular emotional tone, no special emphasis. An even and steady cadence. Β
No. It didn't make any sense. Why would her car be shot at? She had never done anything wrong -- never involved herself with the wrong kind of people, said nothing to warrant an attempt on her life.
"I-I don't understand."
Bianca kept holding on to the tissue Helena had just given her, cramp-like tension showcasing in the prodded veins that had been stabbed time and time again by IV's -- looking like they could pop any second if she just breathed the wrong way.
Inside, the turmoil of lost memories had begun to sway her already fragile psyche -- battling for clarity. It came in, but not whole -- fragments fighting for dominance.
Her reflection in the rear-view mirror.
Breathing heavily.
Scarf around her neck to cover the yellow and purple bruises worn like a choker.
A male voice in her ear.
Yelling. Insulting her.
Blame. Confusion. Pain.
Then ---
"There --- There was someone in the car with me---"
Oh god. She had killed someone, hadn't she? That's why she had seen police officers patrolling outside her room. Her brain, still lost in translation, grappled to comprehend what the flashbang of memories meant.
"I--I didn't do it. I didn't---"
Who was it? Who had been talking to her? She knew the voice so intimately, but yet couldn't place it. Her frantic gaze immediately turned to the nurse again, one hand clutching her chest and one her filfthy, unwashed brown locks.
"I---I killed someone -- that's why they want to lock me up. Oh-Oh god. What have I done?"
Bianca searched Helena's eyes for forgiveness -- knowing damn well she couldn't even give her an ounce of it. That voice, although she didn't know it, refused to shut up. Calling her names, slapping her -- forcing her body out of mind. And she needed a way out of the storm unraveling inside quick.
It was slightly bittersweet leaving him hanging all alone in that dark alleyway, but Binary believed sweet things came to those who patiently waited for it.
She gave little room to let any more words hang in the air before fully making her leave -- but secretly already planning what to wear, what to say -- all those little things that would make for a relaxing work-related dinner.
ooc; ive commissioned like 30 pieces of binary since half a year back i got problems
its kinda funny because so many people ask why i commission other artists when im an artist myself and i just ??? because in this house we stan supporting each other??? smhhhhh
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Anya is live and ready to show you everything. Watch her strip, dance, and perform exclusive shows just for you. Interact in real-time and make your fantasies come true.
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Free to watch β’ No registration required β’ HD streaming
