Commissioner Gordon: If I shine this light into the sky, a man dressed like Dracula shows up.
Internal Affairs Investigator: I’m not sure how that’s a good use of tax doll-
Commissioner Gordon: He brings us lots of inadmissible evidence.
Are you fucking kidding me? You know how this would actually go?
Commissioner Gordon: *slaps roof* You know how much overtime I don’t have to pay on account of this bad boy?
Internal Affairs Investigator: Yeah, but still–
Commissioner Gordon: I just turn it on, and instead of paying a whole precinct time-and-a-half to never see their families, a guy dressed as a bat punches whoever we’re looking for a bunch of times and dumps them in the parking lot.
Internal Affairs Investigator:
That’s not–
Commissioner Gordon:
Sometimes I fire it up just to see who we get. It’s like having a cat that brings you guys with twenty warrants out for their arrest instead of dead birds.
Internal Affairs Investigator:
Okay, but you can’t tell people that. Like, we can’t say it out loud.
Commissioner Gordon:
So I shouldn’t have told the FBI they could borrow it if they ever feel like clearing their most-wanted list?
You’re a regular office worker born with the ability to “see” how dangerous a person is with a number scale of 1-10 above their heads. A toddler would be a 1, while a skilled soldier with a firearm may score a 7. Today, you notice the reserved new guy at the office measures a 10.
You decide it’s best to find out what you can about this person. Cautiously, you approach his desk. He’s a handsome man, tall, but with a disarming smile. How could such a friendly guy with such cute, dorky glasses be dangerous?
You extend your hand. “I noticed you’re new here. What’s your name?”
He shakes your hand warmly. His gaze is piercing, as if he’s looking right through you. “The name’s Clark,” he says. “So, how long have you worked for the Daily Planet?”
This one wins.
It’s been a few weeks, and one of Clark’s friends shows up. She’s pretty and all, enough muscle that she must work out. First thought would be that she should be maybe a 6.
Clark’s introducing her around. “This is my good friend, Diana, she’s in from out of town.”
You blink, and take a step back in fear. You’ve never seen an 11 before.
The day Bruce Wayne shows up for his long promised interview with Lois Lane, you can’t help it, the mug your holding drops from your fingers and sends a shock of hot coffee and ceramic shards across the floor.
Clark stops a few feet away and squints at you worriedly from behind those ridiculous glasses you’re 99% sure he doesn’t actually need, and asks tentatively, “Everything all right?”
You ignore him in favor of staring at the inky dark numerals hovering over the beaming fool gesticulating some fantastic yacht story for a gaggle of secretaries and minor columnists.
That’s it. Your gift has officially gone haywire. There is no other explanation. Because there is absolutely no way that Brucie Wayne is a 10.
why does anyone in Gotham even bother doing crime like you KNOW the second you leave the bank with the money you just stole Bruce Wayne is gonna be chilling on a bench on the other side of the street in his bat fursuit like “hey bitch u better not be breaking the law”
ofdreamsanddragons 