the apartment

This wasn’t neo-gotham and this wasn’t metropolis and frankly, Terry was trying to take this all into stride as best as possible.

Trying of course, being the operative word here, as his head throbbed with pain and the presence of someone else -- someone named Antonio seemed to rattle around his head in a panic. Thinking around that and trying to get a handle on things definitely not being what he last remembered made the nausea, the paranoia worse.

The dog whining at the bathroom door as he heaved into the toilet? Wasn’t helping.

You fucking kidding me? Antonio pushed against what Terry supposed was his own thoughts, making the pain arc. How the hell are you here?

“Pal,” Terry breathes through his nose, shaking on the floor, “I don’t know. Don’t ask.”

Antonio rattled angrily around, confused, and Terry breathes and breathes as best he can trying to remember everything Bruce had taught him around the need to be sick again. Even tried to remember if he’d ever learned anything from the myriad of magic users he knew (known? Aw hell--) to figure out what was going on, if this Antonio person was real.

I’m right here.

Fine. He was real enough to be a pain in Terry’s head and ass. Everything else…

He leans his head back, and Terry tries to get their bearings.

This wasn’t going to be a good day.

Pris is the dog that watches him after he brushes his teeth, and starts to search the apartment. It looks expensive -- more than he or his mother could afford but not exactly something Bruce Wayne would pay for in good taste.

There’s a vindictive jab in his head from Antonio.

He ignores it, and opens the nearest closet. It’s a mish mash of clothes -- some of which are schway and the others are so dated that Terry expects to find a floppy disk in the pockets. What’s most interesting is a safe, tucked up at the top of the closet, and while his cracking skills seem to be inadequate, Terry knows that something about it is off. He leaves it there, and makes his way into the main bedroom.

This is the moment where the unease coming from Antonio feels closer to something like dread -- and then it peters off to static. Nobody home.

Terry doesn’t like it. Doesn’t like anything about this -- doesn’t like the face that isn’t his, this body that isn’t his, the lack of easy information anywhere.

There just isn’t any choice at the moment except to figure out his environment.

The floorboards to someone else, aren’t obviously amiss. Terry, though, after a bit of prodding, can see where it dips just slight enough to suggest something beneath. He crouches down, and Pris starts to wag her tail almost expectantly.

His fingers find the side panel, and with some movement, he’s able to pull open the panel. It reveals a clear hiding place: bills rolled up neatly in various currencies ranging from pounds to Euros upon closer inspection; a stack of five different passports, all with Antonio’s face but with varying names; and two guns: one Beretta, one Browning; and two phones.

Neither of the phones turn on when he tries to get them to work; he assumes it’s drained batteries, and checks to be sure. Numbers are taped on the back; burners.

Despite the fact that Antonio is keeping him in the dark, Terry knows what this spells out, clear as day. Even before he’d been Batman, he was a Jokerz. Gangs, even unorganized shitty ones on the Gotham streets, were organized a certain way. And the higher up you went… He puts the phones on the bed, and leaves the money and guns where they are. Pris follows after him daintily as he goes to the drawers next: one cellphone is on, displaying the time and several phone calls from someone simply listed as “M.” Next to it is another phone, already on -- and one that looks several years older. Terry flips it open, any amusement in how old it was quickly brushed aside at the appearance of text messages.

“Groceries on Sixth. Picked up groceries. Groceries on Main,” he mutters them out as he goes through them. It doesn’t take a genius to figure it out -- it’s code. All of it.

Fuck.

Terry closes the phone, tosses it on the bed. He tries to weigh his options here: live as Antonio here, do this. Figure out how to get back in contact with home from wherever the fuck this place was. Or--

There's a clang, and Batty yelps from the kitchen. Instantly, Terry is on his feet, saying, "Stay." It's probably more firm than it has to be, as Pris whimpers, sitting back on her haunches. To make it up, he pets her head, wondering if he'd see Ace soon.

Quickly, he makes his way to the kitchen, calling out, "Hey, Batty--"

And he does not expect to see a green goblin there, cackling madly as it zooms high in the air, holding the bag of dog food above, Batty erupting in annoyed barks. Terry freezes -- and then another goblin emerges from the sink, and another pushes open the cabinet doors, and there's a lurch as a hand pushes open the refrigerator door from the inside.

Yeah. This wasn't his day.

The goblin drops the bag of dog food, and focuses it's eyes on Terry. The familiar adrenaline spikes up in him, and all thoughts of figuring out this world flew immediately out of his head. Right now, he had to figure out how to get past the ugly green thing in front of him, and the other ones that were quickly filling up his -- Antonio's -- apartment.

So he goes with his insctinct, hand grasping the nearest object he can find, and throws it with as much accuracy as he can manage at the damn thing.

The object turns out to be a kettle. and it turns out, while his aim was good, the kettle wasn't good enough to take down a goblin, only make it madder. It snarled at Terry, and well. Terry would have to find his way out of this, fast, with not batsuit and no help.