<div class="floatleft">(http://i952.photobucket.com/albums/ae5/Warden_Ice/AnarchyCom_zpscb026296-1_zps75b35b60.jpg) </div><strong>Character:</strong>Anarchy<br/><strong>Location:</strong>Gotham City<br/><strong>Time:</strong>Monday<br/><strong>Tagging:</strong>None<br/><hr/><br/>Anarchy comes in many forms. There are many interpretations and beliefs concerning what anarchy is. It may come in the form of individualistic anarchism, anarcho-pacifism, anarcho-capitalism… Many discard it as only being related to chaos, and nothing more. But there’s more to anarchy then what others would label it to be. Here is one of the faces of anarchism.<br/><br/>The smoggy clouds of the city hung low over the slums, reflecting the sickly orange-red of the running lights. It was never truly dark in this section of the city, and the litter-choked streets trapped the residual heat from the outdated house webs that still crawled sluggishly under the concrete and premaform shells of the crumbling tenements. They threaded the grimy windows and spidery black lines, ancient history compared to the current standard of building systems. The carcasses of long-dead vehicles rotted on the sies of the roads, their bodies eaten away by rust and corrosion. The vehicles in the slums were long since defunct, and any that attempted to navigate the hazardous streets had to do so on its own power. The street lights, too, were mainly out, blinking in eerie, irregular patterns -- easy and cheap to fix if anyone had an interest in doing so. The slums, however, were the exclusive realm of the deadheads and squatters and the gang violence. The city government liked to pretend they didn't exist, and law enforcement presence of any kind was practically nil.<br/><br/>Only deadheads and the insane walked the streets of the slums alone after the sun went down; even the cockiest of gangers went in twos and threes. It wasn't clear which of the two categories the woman coming down the street fell into. Her steps were too steady for the first, carriage too erect for the second - a predatory awareness and unmistakable subtle warning. Much more telling was the way her heavy boots were completely silent over the broken glass and loose rubble of the street, and she never missed a step even when she passed through the deep black shadows thrown by the buildings. It was enough to warn off the slum residents, who either developed an instinctive and finely-tuned sense for danger or didn't survive for long.<br/><br/>Veronica stands 5’7’’ tall. Onto this height sits a metaphorical crown. A crown of black, which takes the form of a short mohawk resting onto the side of her head. A rarely seen hairstyle among her profession, which only makes her stand out further. Anarchy’s eyes are protected by a black mask, formed into three points; two such edges extend out from her eyes and upward, while the third comes down to cover the tip of her nose. White lens integrated to her mask keeps the windows of her soul, her eyes, from being revealed. Amongst the shaved hair, a pair of almost unnoticeably pointed ears stands vigilant to sounds. Her lips are sometimes adorned in snakebites piercings, but don’t misunderstand them; she doesn’t need these to bite.<br/><br/>Her torso is covered from neck down with a sleeveless button up militaristic styled shirt, which flares out in a folded collar travelling all the way back around her neck, all of which follow a black and goldenrod colour pattern. The slight bulk of protective gear doesn’t go unnoticed to the trained eye, as a ballistic vest protects her vitals while being most discreet the majority of the time. This, however, doesn’t stop anybody from noticing her athletic and curvy forms – and certainly doesn’t cover her arms. From shoulder down to wrist, her left arm is completely visible, showcasing her tattoos, an artful pattern revealing much of her life to those who would know how to read the cryptic message. This left shoulder is makes with graffiti style anarchy A, but reversed upside down with chains crawling out from it and under her shirt. The rest of her arm, a garden of roses whose stems and spines are as black as her hair is. The  petals, of a rich deep red. A black glove conceals her left hand, a part of it being folded onto itself at her wrist, as if intending to show as much of her arm as possible while still hiding away the rest.<br/><br/>Her right arm, only shows so much of a shoulder, where a tattoo of another A for anarchy lays upon. This one, thought, seemingly has been branded directly onto her skin, while it actually only is her art showing once more. The chains that began from the left shoulder, came a stop here, connecting both upside, and upside down symbols together. Beneath the A begins a lengthy gauntlet. A black, technological piece of equipment made out from metallic plating, all assembled together in order to fold and overlap, making it possible to produce natural movement, unimpeded. The gauntlet itself possesses pistons that can be used to add a massive amount of extra pressure to her punch – as if her formidable right hook needed more power. However, it’s also more then meets the eye; the gauntlet is also a multi-tool, capable of holding several useful items and use such items conjoined with it.<br/><br/>Fastened snugly around her hips, a red-brown belt with a steel buckle adds a somewhat retro feel to her costume. Fair sized pouches line the belt’s sides, their goldenrod buttons holding them all tightly shut, to contain what all extra items Anarchy might need into them, or what items she needs to store, temporarily or otherwise. What lies inside them, however, is a mystery. This belt holds onto a pair of white jeans, offering a contrast with the majority of her dark coloured equipment. Sometimes, forms would suggest that her jeans contain items within the pockets, but nobody has tempted their luck with picking those pockets. Yet. However, the jeans pockets aren’t the only spots where hidden items could be sighted by a trained eye; at her knees, she wears protective steel plates, to keep her knees safe. Or to deliver pain in the form of a knee strike.<br/><br/>And then, her feet and shins are covered by another set of black coloured items. A pair of heavy, steel-toed boots. Laces are tightly tied in order to secure the militaristic looking boots onto the woman’s legs, being all she needs in durability and comfort ability to stride undaunted towards her foe, with scarce a sound to be heard. This is one of the faces of anarchy. You only see what she wants you to see, as the rest is well hidden beneath the surface, a surface which few have really ever peered into. Yet, a face that many of the underworld know and learned to fear. While others have learned to  love or appreciate as a friend or ally, respectively. How you perceive anarchy, however, is in the end, on you.<br/><br/><br/>She knew exactly where she was going, barely glancing at the abandoned apartment houses that hulked along the sides of the street like jagged, broken teeth. Even when she passed the threatening maws of the alleyways, with their dark promise of unseen dangers, she didn't hesitate at all. Her steps finally slowed in front of one derelict building even more run-down than its neighbors. It was ancient by city standards, with old gothic cornices over the tall windows, and the walls were of actual stone that was worn and pitted with age. What little glass remained in the windows bore a black tracery in an ornate, repeating pattern -- old symbols of luck and blessing that hadn't been in vogue for at least a century. The ancient remnants of care and craftsmanship gave the building a tragic and ghostly appearance, so at odds with the permaform projects that surrounding it that it was physically unsettling.<br/><br/>The unlit, broken windows under their corroded stonework looked like eyes, and a dark stain descended from one of the upper windows like the track of a tear-- as if the building itself was weeping. Carefully she picked her way up the worn steps to the door, avoiding the garbage that choked them. The antique swinging door of the building was barred with a pipe that had long since rusted into place. The woman wrapped her fingers around it, her shoulders bunching with the effort. The wire that ran down the back of each finger within his glove whispered faintly with force as he pulled. Abruptly the pipe gave, the metal twisting and breaking where the rust had weakened it. The woman put her shoulder to the door, and it moved with groaning slowness under the pressure, granting reluctant access to the interior.<br/><br/>The lobby beyond echoed the exhausted elegance of the facade, with an abnormally high ceiling and sculpted walls. The pattern from the house web in the windows repeated itself in the grimy mosaic tiles that covered the floor, although many were missing or broken, and dark holes interrupted the design where various unknown fixtures had once been. There were no lights; pockets of illumination seeped through the broken windows, leaving much of the room in thick shadow. Dust particles hung suspended, drifting. Towards the ground they swirled and eddied as thickly as a mist, and a strange electric charge prickled the air, interrupting the senses and creating a profound sense of unease.<br/><br/>The woman walked forward soundlessly. The curving stairs to the upper floors she navigated carefully, as if unsure of their soundness. she skipped stairs seemingly at random as she went, but the dust drifting in her wake revealed low, barely visible wires that stretched across the stairs. A faint voice seemed to hover on the edge of hearing, weaving in and out of the hum of the old house web but never quite emerging into audible words. It had no discernible source-- it was like the echo of a man's voice, resounding eerily in the dark corners. Midway up the stairs the woman paused, her progress interrupted by a faint releasing click from above. she dropped down to the floor in an outward billow of dust as something unseen whistled through the air where her chest had been, then swung back again when it reached the apex of its arc. A winch mechanism somewhere in the darkness above whirred to life, hoisting the blunt scrap-metal pendulum to reset the primitive trap, but it caught in the process and the motor choked, wheezed, and then gave up.<br/><br/>If there were other traps, either the woman avoided them or they didn't activate. The stairs gave way to a dark, narrow hallway on the top floor, but her steps never hesitated despite the lack of light. She stopped at a scarred, twisted door forced shut in a frame it no longer fit. The metal had buckled around the ancient jam, and heavy dents scored its surface. A primitive knob was fixed to it, but twisted by some unknown force, and it broke off in the woman's hand. She set her shoulder to the door without success, then stepped back and kicked viciously at the ragged crack along its edge with the hollow boom of metal on metal. The door shuddered and gave way with a final outraged protest on the third kick, swinging inwards on bent but somehow still functional hinges.<br/><br/>As the sound of the resulting crash died away a faint melody played from a tiny hidden speaker, tinkling a gentle song in the air. The entrance way was empty and dark, thick with drifts of dust, but dim light fell into the room beyond. The woman finally spoke as she carried herself once more confidently from the shadowed embrace of the unlit section of the room. "I believe you're coming with me one way or another." Her tone demanding and stern, a small hint of irritated angst resonating beneath her already contralto voice. Her quarry before her was a man in a large, flowing crimson rob draped over a matching red jumpsuit. The wide-brimmed hat bearing the circle-A insignia; a golden metallic face mask; and red hood. She knew the purpose the mans robe. Concealed beneath its sanctum were various weapons and gadgets, most notably projectiles and electrical stun batons. She dared not enter a confrontation without knowing full well what her opponent was capable of if it was optional.<br/><br/>The incessant vicious assault on the door leading to the room had given her presence away if the triggered trap had not prior, and thus the man stood at the ready crouched slightly with the left shoulder forward. Half of his face was concealed by the brim of the hat at first in a dumbfounded expression, but it quickly shifted into a cocky malicious smirk upon recognition. "My, my, my, what do we have here? Could it be? do my eyes deceive me? Are you the young woman going around laying claim to my name? Are you this 'Anarchy' I keep hearing so much about lately?" He spoke as he rose into a passive stance, reaching into the crimson robe's interior to grab hold of his dual electrically charged batons twirling them once counter clockwise as they emerged from obscurity. The woman approaching still with an undaunted swagger said nothing more, reaching for no melee weapon nor the pistol to her side. A simple stride of convicted dedication to ones goal, and an intimidating stride as well. It did not go unnoticed by the man in red as he took note of the woman's lack of approach, prompting him to step back himself. "You aren't going to hear me out at least? I must say, its rather rude of you."<br/><br/>Her approach came to an abrupt halt, an audible faint thudding upon the floor's surface. With one quick motion an approaching assortment of conjoined filament wires were cast from the armored gauntlet upon the woman's right arm. Before the man could fathom the possibilities he felt a tug at his wrist where the wires has entangled themselves and began to bear down his arm. Caught with surprise he was forced only to try and step back once with a forceful yank of his arm to try and free himself. The wire gave way and slithered itself slowly back into the hidden internal panel it emerged from. He exhaled and recomposed himself before speaking once more. "If that's how its going to be, then by all means, lets tango."<br/><br/>. . .<br/><br/>Twenty minutes later upon the entrance of the Gotham City Police Department, the building's doors abruptly swung upon as the woman stepped forth a few steps in only, dropping the man she was dragging. The stares and agape jaws almost made her smirk but she kept her composure to only state one sternly said fact. "I am not in league with him. Anarchy has a new face and its one of vigilant protection. Lock this man up." And from there she turned and began walking back within Gotham night's embrace.