THE STAR-MAKER SAYS IT AIN'T SO BAD //private

[BRUCE H]

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As much as Win would later had to admit this, identifying with this guy in any way, he's not the only person around here making stupid decisions for the greater good. Well, to be entirely honest, he can't quite call them stupid when they make someone else's life better. He was a self-sacrificial person (there's always a sting that comes with that thought now, some pulsing ache that he can never fully rid himself of), someone who would give blood and more for a total stranger, but he can't quite decide why. There was no gain for him, though there was something he got every time he helped. Not redemption. It just felt nice, that was really it. That was ridiculous, but it was him. The world left its mark no matter what side you were on. There was nothing kind about this, and while many would like to consider that a feature of the apocalypse, hell fucking no it wasn't. You got less physical marks before all of this, but you still got all of those internal breaks, black bruises on the very center of your being. Your soul, though Bruce had never quite accepted the idea of that. He kept an open mind through his studies, but in the end, he was still himself. Surprising, wasn't it? Maybe he just didn't care for spirituality.

The key to surviving in this world was to adapt to it. You couldn't change it, nobody could. As someone with a long-term goal to do exactly that, it's probably strange of him to think it, but people didn't get far on inflexibility. (And he's the most inflexible asshole he knows, but he'll still follow the flow of the water until he decides he needs to get to the bank. Moving with the world is not a weakness until you let it be.) Today is one of those days where Win would love to have a minor rebellion of sorts, though it would mostly result in going back to sleep. Today is a cold one, cutting even inside the lodge. Don't get him wrong of course, it's a million times warmer in here, and they have blankets if they need them, but... He's still cold. It has a way of making him lethargic. Too long in the sun would be his guess, too many years of being excited to feel it on his skin. And now here he is, because this place was supposed to be safe, or something like that.

But there's a guy. That's not really scary, especially considering that he's on the floor with a rabbit in his arms and Win easily has twenty pounds on the guy now that he's recovering. Even with the bomber jacket obscuring most of his build and his decision to sit down obscuring almost everything else, he's confident that he wouldn't be the one still on the floor if they fought. So consequences, right? Time to deal with them. (It might as well be Win's middle name, after all.) In some effort to ensure that this wasn't a fucked up hallucination, he scrubs at pale blue eyes until spots blur his vision, clears his throat with that decisive scowl, and moves farther into the rabbit room. He doesn't much like this place. The smell of it, or something, but it's one of Dick's spots when he's brooding, and a chore is still a chore. That combination only serves to make him more pissy about this entire situation, but he's exhausted. Maybe later he would be kind of ashamed of it, but the first words out of his mouth are a half-raspy, "Put down the bunny." A short pause, where he realizes that he sounds more like a petulant two-year-old than a grown fucking man who would be all too happy to kick this guy's ass. "Who are you?"

[div style="width: 517px; text-align: justify; font-family: helvetica; font-size: 9.5pt; line-height: 1.3;"][spoiler=NEVER PLAY BY THE FIRE, ITS A DANGER TO YOUR HEALTH | 03/22/2017]‣ Bruce Gideon Holloway / Usually Introduced as "Win" / Cisgender Male [He/Him]
‣ Gray-Biromantic Bisexual / 89% Monogamous / Possessive / Taken by Dick Holiday
‣ ½ Boysoldier [OTP] / Father & ⅙ of the Batfam [Dick, Damian, Camael, Meg, Stevie]
‣ Twenty-Four / Feb. 19 / NPC x NPC; Deceased / Brother to Jason / Father of Damian
‣ Commander of Flintlock Lodge / Sometimes Wanders?? / Biography / Pinterest Board

‣ Important Tropes: Death Glare, Disapproving Look, and Faces Death with Dignity
‣ 6'3 & 180-210 lbs. | Muscular, solid build, well-defined and heavy but not overwhelming.
‣ Slightly wavy hair, between dark brown and soft black. A bit shorter on the sides. messy.
‣ Pale steely blue eyes. | Usually scowling or at least looking unhappy. Smiles very rarely.
‣ Warm but pale skin with the cold. Usually tanner and lightly freckled from sun exposure.
‣ Wears layers. Achromatic undershirt, long sleeved overshirt, and a hoodie or field jacket.
‣ Always wears a black promise ring on the ring finger of his left hand. Reference.
‣ 9mm pistol; carries holster on left thigh. | Strider SMF Framelock Folding Knife; favored

‣ HEAVILY INJURED & STRUGGLING TO RECOVER; RESTLESS AND RECKLESS.
‣ Various cuts and bruises over his torso, mostly the front. Almost all stitched and healing.
‣ One long cut across his left thigh, recently stitched. This makes walking tiring and tough.
‣ Broken and bruised ribs, healing fracture; his left arm. Green, fading bruise; right cheek.

‣ ATTITUDE. [b]Broken Ace, Friend to Children, Deadpan Snarker, Defiant to the End.
‣ Abrasive and domineering, tends to dislike taking orders from anyone he doesn't trust.
‣ Disciplined, seems calm. Can sometimes seem blank or may hyperfocus on one thing.
‣ Oddly gentle, particularly with young kids who have been through some sort of trauma.
‣ Borderline playful with people that he actually likes; tends to smile only around them.
‣ Measured, collected, steady. Holds himself and those around him to high standards.
‣ Would die for a stranger, but particularly overprotective of his family and close friends.
‣ Can be incredibly charismatic when he needs to be. Typically can't hold a conversation.
‣ Struggling to get his life back together. More paranoid than usual, and may self-isolate.

[ALLOY]

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His lip stung where it'd been split by a well-timed fist, and the snow wasn't making it any better, harsh wind whipping against his bruised face. Believe it or not, he had actually won that fight, but as with any victory, he didn't come out on the other side without a few marks to show for it. The same went for defeats, though, and it seemed like the scars on his forearms pointedly scratched against his jacket as a reminder of how possible it was to leave a fight even more empty-handed than when he'd gone in, even if it hadn't technically been a battle. The one he'd just left had sparked at the wrong comment to the wrong people, although to be fair, Hal had wanted this outcome, because it allowed for the kid they'd been shaking down for "milk money" to get the hell out of dodge. That was worth the resulting scuffle, even if it was only an impermanent solution; the kid would find more trouble later, undoubtedly, and Hal wouldn't be around to intervene. That was just how the world worked these days, wasn't it? Shit caught up to everyone eventually, and they didn't always pull through, except that wasn't all that different from how things had been before the so-called apocalypse hit. Life always had curveballs, no matter if people had constant electricity or not.

Folding his arms over his chest to brace against the cold, Hal peered through the snow, knowing that the low visibility had to mean other people wouldn't be able to see him so well either. He exhaled heavily, wincing a bit when his chest ached from a kick he'd been too distracted to dodge quickly enough. The snow he trudged through was becoming increasingly more difficult to lift his legs through, and he was half-convinced that he was going to die out here when he caught sight of the building sitting isolated in this rough climate. There wasn't a door he could see, so he figured he'd come from the back; he wouldn't have planned to go in through the front anyway. He just needed to slip in and rest for a bit, and then he'd be gone- no reason to go through interacting with the people here. Was that a bad idea? Probably. He'd deal with the consequences when they came.

Pressing up against the back of the building, shuddering all the way, he dragged himself along the wall until he bumped into what was definitely a window. Maybe his luck would, for once, hold true, and Hal was surprised to find that it was unlocked. That's a first. Usually, one thing would go well and everything else that followed would go to shit, which meant that either he could expect double the shit-storm or a turn of tables. He'd learn that eventually. For now, he focused on crawling inside without making too much noise, so of course he ended up falling on his ass and knocking into a- cage? When he righted himself, he came face to face with a bunny, its nose twitching, fur rippling in the wind the still open window allowed in. Hal hurriedly closed that, blowing on his fingers afterward to try and coax feeling back into them. He eyed the rabbit in its individual cage, and managed to unlock it, pulling the warm ball into his hands. It squirmed, but it seemed used to human contact, so it settled fairly quickly, allowing for Hal to sink down to sit against the wall, bunny cradled to his chest. Fuck, he was cold. 
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[spoiler=info (3/29)]GENERAL
-Harold "Hal" Jordan | Introduced as Hal only | 28 years old | No residency atm
-Who even knows his sexuality | Single, and too much of a mess for mingling
-The Determinator | Jerk With A Heart of Gold | Rebellious Spirit | Pinterest

PHYSICALITY
-Rich brown hair, artfully tousled (if he wakes up in time to bother with fixing his hair)
-Tanned skin from sun exposure | Mostly unblemished, save for burn scars on his forearms
-Stands at an even 6'0, weighs 186 lbs. | Lean and trim build, but appears a little underfed
-Soft walnut brown eyes | Always wears a bomber jacket with "JORDAN" on the chest (dad's)
-Keeps two sets of brass knuckles in his pockets (both are dark green and, as a joke, glittery)