Post by Dick Grayson on Jan 30, 2009 10:32:55 GMT -5
Nightwing
Dick Grayson never appeared to be an angry individual or even all that focused. But with a mask placed firmly over his eyes and a hood drawn over his head and the guise what “Nightwing” (he himself never really knew how to react to having a name that he hadn’t picked), it would seem that Dick could very easily slip into the cloak of wrath and have an extreme amount of focus when doing so. Hell, it was better than any therapy session that he had attended after the murder of his family (all of that ‘tapping in to your repressed emotions’ crap)! He leapt across the alleyway from which he was perched to the next fire escape, which he scaled as if he were again doing the act in front of a packed house, as if it were no big thing. Dick Grayson spent years playing up an injury; faking it down to the slight limp in his gate during the days. He still favored his right as opposed to his left in a dismount, but he was, probably the closest to being in perfect health (aside from a slight allergy to soy) that he had been since being shot in the leg.
He stole a glance at his watch. 12:53. It should be any time soon. Vaulting himself to the roof of a building, Dick took a moment to quietly catch his breath; controlling his breathing the best he could in case it could call attention. He slowly paced around the roof. Luciani’s limo and caravan of thugs would be by in about five minutes. After observing countless times and riding in that damned limo himself when Officer Dick Grayson dealt under the table, he guessed that the sunroof would be open to allow Luciani fresh air while polluting his lungs with endless cigars. He attached a silencer to his gun. Glancing again at his watch, he approached the ledge. He hurdled to the next building, grabbing on to the ladder that lead to the next rooftop. He scaled the rungs quickly, choosing a spot where could get a decent view of the posse and follow them to the docks.
A frown creased his features and his teeth grit behind his lips. They were late! Damn it! He stowed his gun away as he rushed and dove from the roof of the building to grab hold to the bar of a streetlight. He lifted himself to a crouched perch on the narrow support under him and watched again for Luciani’s caravan. He snarled in frustrated impatience before he leapt to the next lamp the way the gymnast took to the uneven bars. He gripped the bar to swing to the next with an agile turn only to continue to the next.
He tucked as he heard the approach of car engines and chopped his maneuver and landed (favoring his right) on to the top of the van of Luciani’s entourage with a smirk. He crouched low, intent on surfing through the street on top of the van; unaware that he wasn’t the only one with an unscheduled appointment with Luciani. He was too brash to think anyone else would be following and only paid mind to getting a clear shot while he braced himself for the turns and caught his breath.
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Batman
Crime was relentless. It fed off of all things tangible and ripped them to shreds from the inside out. Resolve was tattered from it, hope was diminished by it and it sank its yellowed fangs into everything good and just and right with equal gluttony. The only things it could be acknowledged to perpetuate are fear and apathy, and those were things Gotham could have done very well without. Never sleeping but always rolling in like a sempiternal fog is enshrouded people with its tempting, enchanting fingers and soon it was impossible to tell who rebelled against it and who had fallen prey to its mastery. One man, determined to seek out the unfortunate wrong-doers of the city, stood against a moonlit sky. His shadow-hued eyes kept constant nocturnal vigil over the decent citizens of Gotham and he felt, in a large way, that this penance was deserved.
Like a party of snails heading for a tasty rose-bush, a convoy of black limousines pulled onto the causeway from the underside of the city. The cars trailed onto the main streets and began a indeterminable march towards a destination unknown to the Bat, and he watched for a long as he could whilst remaining still. As the line of stately vehicles turned a side street he took a deep pre-emptive breath before rocketing from the platform he had been standing upon. Unlike his normal escapades he had no desire to make this a quick snap. He needed information, and tonight the svelte black cars belonging to Renato Luciani were going to provide it in spades. His wings flicked out quicker than he would normally employ them and Batman coasted like a gigantic specimen of his icon as he leisurely followed the funeral-like procession of the mobsters’ cars.
A tiny flicker of movement in his peripheral vision made him want to take a closer look. Swooping closer, he noticed that someone had landed on the roof of a black van at the end of the snail trail; a figure crouched and hooded. Refraining from exhaling with a mixture of irritation, anxiety and curiosity, Batman guided himself to a position a hundred yards or so above the van and followed along. He took stock of the character’s height, build, manner of movement and the weaponry about his person that was readily visible. When he was certain that he presented no immediate threat, Batman decided to effectively pull rank. He dove, landing just as soft as the first man had done on the roof of the van behind his new acquaintance. Steadying himself and preparing to fight should the hooded man make a move, he struck out with one of his interruptive cheesy lines.
“Cabs are just so hard to catch in this city.”
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Nightwing
Dick Grayson had always reminded himself that eventually he would run into the one and only Batman. Be it as the cop he was so disgusted with or as the masked assassin that he was cloaked as now. Dick couldn’t help but thank god that it was the latter as he turned to face the other masked man atop the unmarked black van. That way, he could at least sneer at the caped crusader to effectively hide his secret impulse to piss his pants. He brought himself to stand, gun pointed away from Batman, as his face snarled into a frown. His glacial gaze bore into the taller caped figure. It was like looking into a blurred, nobler reflection. The similarities could have been stark to any average masked Gothamite. Intent was the thing that blurred them the most. While Batman was there for the betterment of the city, Dick wholly accepted his less than noble cause for self-redemption. He made no move to lower his hood or remove his mask. The only muscles that twitched were the ones that maintained his balance.
He stared at Batman, evaluating him for any sign of aggression before turning back around to watch the car. Dick was plagued not only by curiosity, but by the determination to go one more step towards salvation and his ultimate outcome. He took aim at the tire of Luciani’s limo. “Forgot my cell, otherwise I would have called for one,” he stated dryly; ready to fire.
His curiosity, however, won out. He lowered his weapon and glowered at the other masked man. “Not all of us can fly,” he added bitterly. He raised the other gun that did not have the silencer attached and pointed it at Batman; silently acknowledging that he knew what kind of threat Batman posed but made no move to pull the trigger. If an advance was made on him, he would let Gotham hear the kill shot that brought down their beloved and hated Batman.
“What do you want?”
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Batman
The gun pointed away from him was an instant reassurance to Batman. This was not to say things didn’t have a habit of getting really ugly really quickly whenever he was involved, but at least for now the intent was slightly less murderous. He respected that. His murky eyes met the arctic stare of his companions without flinching, and wondered at yet another citizen of Gotham who had taken to wearing a mask and prowling the streets at night. With his previous experience with Catwoman in mind this made two new supposed ‘fiends’ on the beat. If he’d thought that donning a mask and keeping to the shadows would become a trend he might have well listened to Alfred’s advice in the beginning. There was a new epidemic.
He watched calmly as the youngster took aim at the car leading the procession. If he blew out the tyre the whole damn motorcade would squeal to a halt. When the glock was lowered the relief felt on behalf of the original vigilante was palatable. He wanted Luciani, and he wanted him tonight. One less mobset on the street meant one less mobster who would be foolish enough to hire the likes of The Joker again. The other gun leveled at his chest didn’t pose an immediate threat as of yet. He was still mystical enough in this new persona that those who would wish to harm him weren’t knowledgeable to the chinks in his armor so to speak. He continued to stare at the kid with a deadpan expression showing on the expose parts of his face.
“The same thing you want,” he growled. “Luciani.”
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Nightwing
Beneath the mask, he arched a brow. Nightwing was a masked street prowler, but he wasn’t out to clean up the streets or mug anyone. He was simply going by the agenda he made. He really saw Batman as a potential ally or setback. If he could get Batman to possibly help, it could at least shorten the list. But then again, Dick Grayson was also somewhat foolish. The Batman would probably never aid him. He held his gun steady as he kept his eyes on the Caped Crusader, trying not to look absolutely fascinated by him. And somewhat afraid.
Dick maintained his composure as he glanced over his shoulders at the moving cars. “First come first serve,” Nightwing said with a smirk as he turned back around, leveling the glock with the silencer and putting the one aimed at Batman in its harness. “You might want to clear out,” he warned. “You already have enough on your wrap sheet.”
With a muted noise through the silencer, he fired at the back tire of the limo and watched with a look of almost sick satisfaction beneath the mask and hood as the tire blew out. He removed the silencer and clicked the safety on to put the gun in its holster. As the car screeched to a halt, he bolted off the front of the van and launched himself to perch on a street light, hoping that Batman had taken the hint and let him do this alone. As he balanced on the rail, he drew out his gun again and re-attached the silencer as the door of the van that he had been surfing opened and a few thugs started filing out. He glowered at the caravan that stopped, waiting for Luciani to exit his car.
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Batman
The ‘ping’ of the projectile forced through the silencer gave him a split-second’s notice. The screeching of tyres caused the cars in the procession – including the van – to jerk to a halt with the acrid smell of burning rubber billowing behind them. If he hadn’t already been braced for the action, Batman may well have tumbled down the nose of the van like some absurd over-sized gnat adhering to the windshield, but as it was, he was prepared. The stupidity of this ‘new breed’ of renegade was sempiternal is seemed, and he was as annoyed with the hooded man as he was at himself for not having stepped in sooner.
With no other option readily available, Batman aimed and fired his ever-ready grappling hook to his left, where it wrapped around the thick frame of a fire escape. Knowing full well it would leave him immediately in the mobster’s sights but seeing no real alternative open to him, Batman swung his heavy form in a bid to use the remaining force from the stopping of the van. He reached the fire escape and retracted the hook as dozens of car doors began to collectively open. An open window to his left appeared to be sent from heaven and without any further thought Batman dove through, rolling over himself to a stop on the floor of the room he had just entered.
It was obviously a little girl’s room. If the candy-cotton pink walls hadn’t tipped him of the hundreds of dolls stacked on the shelves would have. The usual occupant of the room had sat up in bed clutching a well-worn favorite teddy-bear, squinting at the intruder in the dim illumination from her nite-light. The absence of gunshots from the street below was reassuring. The fact that any minute he was about to be blasted with a child’s earth-shattering scream was not. The little girl, however, acted more mature than her young age (which little girls have an uncanny habit of doing).
“Batman?” she asked, incredulously.
Stunned, a pair of widened eyes that were vivid behind his black mask blinked. “I’m not here to hurt you,” he stated in a soft undertone. More in Bruce’s voice than that more abrasive, rugged tone employed by Batman. The girl raised an eyebrow. Her brown hair was long and fell in cork-screw girls over her shoulders. She struck him as the argumentative type, and pretty soon she confirmed his assumption.
“I know that,” she said. “Did you hear me talking about Billy Reynolds? Because,” she said, sitting back on her mass of pink pillows and hugging teddy resolutely to her chest. “I didn’t really mean that I wanted you to beat him up. He was just having one of those days.”
“One of those days?” he repeated, without thinking.
“Oh, you know,” she replied in a conversational tone. “One of his ‘jerk’ days.”
For a masked vigilante who was rarely stunned by the psychopathic killers he attempted to protect his city from, it was amazing at how stumped Batman could be by one small child. He blinked again and looked towards the window urgently. It was still open. Nothing seemed to be happening. Luciani must have still been inside his car for protection.
“Okay,” he finally responded for lack of anything more productive to say to her.
“So I hope you haven’t already beaten him up. Mommy says he can’t help it and that some people are just born jerks. Although Mommy doesn’t like you. But I do,” she added quickly.
“Thanks,” he finished wryly before moving back towards the window. “Be quiet.”
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Nightwing
"What the hell was that?"
"Don't know... you check the tire?"
"It's flat."
"Really!?! That's why the tire gave out? You're a real goddamned genius, you know that?"
Dick snarled in impatience. He just wanted Luciani! He didn't want to have to take care of the entire caravan. Hell, if the small mob whacked him just after taking care of their boss, he would have been absolutely fine with that. He did feel a bit of relief as he assumed Batman had taken off (or at least gotten a bit out of his hair). He vaulted himself from his previous perch to a new one on the edge of a fire escape before sliding down an awning to hide behind a dumpster. Now at the ground level that his target was at, he trained his chilly colored eyes on the limo, waiting for the door to open.
"C'mon," Dick muttered to himself, "get out of the freakin' car," he coaxed to no one in particular as he aimed the gun with the silencer at the door.
"Alright, what's the fuckin' hold up?" came the voice of Luciani as he stupidly peered out of the car. Of all places, he did so from the sun roof! The hooded vigilante smirked at how easy this could potentially be.
He clicked the safety off as he took his opportunity to retake his aim. He bit the corner of his lip, poising himself to shoot as his other hand snagged his other glock into his grasp. While Dick Grayson was not new to the "hero" thing (even though the masked man considered himself anything but, he did know what happened with gang shootouts. For the sake of Batman, Gotham's real hero, Dick hoped that he had cleared out. He pulled the trigger just as Luciani's attention was drawn to a thug showing him the bullet. Instead of the intended target of his head, he had hit his shoulder.
God Damn it.
Dick swore as the entire mob pulled their weapons, only a few rushing to the car to check on their boss and get him out. A few shots rang out from the mob as "Nightwing" waited for a decent opportunity to shoot again. All the while with the following mantra in his head: Crap-crap-crap crap-crap-crap-crap Crap-crap!
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Batman
“What was that?!” the little girl asked in a small, paniced voice. It was time to make an executive decision. Turning to look at her over one shoulder, Batman lifted a finger to his lips in the internationally known symbol of silence.
“I need you to do me a favor. Will you do it?”
The little girl nodded.
“I want you run and jump into bed with Mommy and Daddy. Go!”
He waited until she had fled the room before he swept aside the pink curtains covering the window, his feet landing softly on the otherwise noisy fire escape. He closed the window behind him and peered down to survey the carnage in the street. The first thing he noticed was the wannabe clingingint to a streetlight on the opposite side of the avenue. Letting his eyes fall into a downwards spiral he took in the rest of his surroundings with a calculated ease; Three cars and the limo left. Four thugs each car. That meant twelve to take down in an impossibly short time before the kid went ahead and totally screwed up. When the arrogant, dulcet tones belonging to Luciani himself erupted from the sunroof of the long black limo like lava spewing from an enraged volcano, Batman knew that the excrement had just hit the fan. He had once been immersed deep enough in underworld happenings to know what went down in situations like this.
As if in slow motion he watched the kid take his aim and squeeze off a round. Before he could even throw himelf off the fire escape he saw Luciani go down, slumping over the roof of the limo clutching his wounded shoulder. His blood was all over the roof of the Escalade like damned turtle wax. With a rushed intake of breath that clearly betrayed his frustration Batman opened his arms, flicking out his wings to their impressive 5 metre full span even as the mobsters took aim on the kid atop the streetlight. He only needed one thug to hear the snap of the material becoming rigid. Luckily one obliged, obviously thinking it was the click of a safety catch from another gun to their rear. As the fat man in a tacky suit pivoted to provide backup, his eyes widened and the sideways hold on his piece faltered. “Holy shit!” The previous rounds echoed through the empty street into oblivion as the majority of the gangsters stupidly turned to see what the fuss was about.
It was now or never.
Springing from the fire escape, Batman twisted his encased form as he fell. He knew his weaknesses and he had no doubt that within record time bullets would rain on his parade. He felt the existing wound under his armpit stretch painfully as he maneuvered his arms to provide balance, holding in the resounding grunt he longed to let free when he landed on his feet in front of the gangsters. There was no time. A spatter of semi-automatic gunfire crackled through the atmosphere and he held his arms staunchly across his chest; a look that was practical as well as intimidating. Luciani had been retracted into the limo and it was attempting to pull around the first goon car in the motorcade. With a quick dip of his hand to his utility belt, a bat-shaped shuriken was sent shimmering towards the clunking vehicle. It sank hungrily into another of the tyres, making the car effectively immovable. He hoped this kid in the mask wasn’t completely useless. Twelve gangsters was pushing his luck a little.
“Don’t just stand there!” one of the more seasoned thugs screamed to the guy closest to the Bat Man. “Get him!!”
Batman began advancing on the mobster on his right. There was no accounting for incompetence, however, and after a handful of rounds fired at the approaching Bat the clip clicked futilely. With two more broad steps Batman pulled his fist back and smashed it into the mobster’s face. Now that he was in closer quarters and was able to engage the guns in hand-to-hand combat things got a lot easier. The occasional projectile bounced off his suit but for the most part he took down two more guys; one with a sweep-kick and another with a brutal looking –and sounding- head butt.
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Nightwing
As the first car had been stopped from transporting Luciani to the hospital, Nightwing was faced with a stalemate. Stay and help Batman and lose Luciani for another week of tracking, or go after the mobster and put Luciani's hold on Gotham's upper East side as well his influence in the city's law enforcement to an end. He hesitated (and would never deny doing such), weighing his options before turning to Batman from his perch in the alley. He pulled off the silencer, holstered his glock and pulled out his club. He leaped up to the fire escape; leaping one set to the next before diving into the scuffle.
He landed post flip in a crouched position and readied his current weapon of choice. "C'mon boys, that just don't seem fair," he snarled just before springing toward one of the bigger thugs; hitting him square in the back of the head with the butt of his nightstick. As the somewhat disoriented man turned, Nightwing quickly cracked the club across his face and swung a knee to the man's gut. He elbowed him at the base of his skull, finally letting the man finish his fall without further interruption. As he hit the pavement, Nightwing's features contorted with rage still as he crouched low again.
He swung a leg to sweep the feet from beneath another. As the man fell, Nightwing sheathed his club to pull both his forty-fives and held them threateningly with the safeties off. "Calvary's here," he informed Batman dryly even though Dick Grayson would later make a note of how sorry a Calvary Batman would probably consider him. He snapped his gun across the face of another one of Luciani's boys. He turned the gun in order to smack the handle square into his nose. He fired one of the glocks at one of the thugs heading for Luciani's car and fired another at the same target, getting each of the mans legs before placing the weapons back into their concealed holsters.
As he turned in hopes of taking on another, a fist cracked across his face, snapping Nightwing's now blurry gaze to the side before he was tackled to the ground. Damn! There almost wasn't enough time to get his bearings as he felt the butt of a gun crack into his ribs. Letting out a grunt of pain, Nightwing took a chance in bringing a metal coated hand straight into his attacker's face, trying to at least loosen the thug's grip on him.
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Batman
It wasn’t until his gloved fists closed around the shirt collar of another thug and he had hoisted the understandably gibbering man from his feet that Batman noticed his unsolicited counterpart was experiencing difficulties. Having only briefly paused to consider the notion of the kid as any form of ‘cavalry’, sorry or otherwise, before continuing on with the barrage of mobsters vying for a chance to show their ‘lesser’ companions that they could take down the Batman, the caped crusader continued to bust through the melee leaving a trail of sore heads and broken bones as he went. He shook the man now in his grip with an uncharacteristic ferocity, glaring into the guy’s puffy brown eyes. “When is the next shipment coming in?” he growled. The man gibbered. “Wrong answer,” snapped the Bat, head-butting this guy like his had done to his friend. “When!?”
“I don’t know!” the thug bleated. “Luciani’s got the 411.”
Dropping the crook like the sack of excrement that he was, it was only as the lump of human waste hit the pavement that Batman noticed the other masked defender was experiencing difficulties. Setting his jaw and striding to where the kid was being grappled on the ground by another of the vermin-like perps, he recoiled slightly when the brass knuckles busted out one of the mobster’s teeth without warning. He had to hand it over, the guy had nerve. He didn’t really agree with his methods, but since when had Bruce Batman been perfect? Pulling the crook off of his fallen disguised companion, Batman tossed him casually to one side. “Sure,” he shot back, every inch as dry as the original comment had been in its delivery. “Some cavalry. Leave the rest. I need your help with Luciani.” He held a hand out to the mysterious fighter, intending on making sure they were still on the same side.
Dick Grayson never appeared to be an angry individual or even all that focused. But with a mask placed firmly over his eyes and a hood drawn over his head and the guise what “Nightwing” (he himself never really knew how to react to having a name that he hadn’t picked), it would seem that Dick could very easily slip into the cloak of wrath and have an extreme amount of focus when doing so. Hell, it was better than any therapy session that he had attended after the murder of his family (all of that ‘tapping in to your repressed emotions’ crap)! He leapt across the alleyway from which he was perched to the next fire escape, which he scaled as if he were again doing the act in front of a packed house, as if it were no big thing. Dick Grayson spent years playing up an injury; faking it down to the slight limp in his gate during the days. He still favored his right as opposed to his left in a dismount, but he was, probably the closest to being in perfect health (aside from a slight allergy to soy) that he had been since being shot in the leg.
He stole a glance at his watch. 12:53. It should be any time soon. Vaulting himself to the roof of a building, Dick took a moment to quietly catch his breath; controlling his breathing the best he could in case it could call attention. He slowly paced around the roof. Luciani’s limo and caravan of thugs would be by in about five minutes. After observing countless times and riding in that damned limo himself when Officer Dick Grayson dealt under the table, he guessed that the sunroof would be open to allow Luciani fresh air while polluting his lungs with endless cigars. He attached a silencer to his gun. Glancing again at his watch, he approached the ledge. He hurdled to the next building, grabbing on to the ladder that lead to the next rooftop. He scaled the rungs quickly, choosing a spot where could get a decent view of the posse and follow them to the docks.
A frown creased his features and his teeth grit behind his lips. They were late! Damn it! He stowed his gun away as he rushed and dove from the roof of the building to grab hold to the bar of a streetlight. He lifted himself to a crouched perch on the narrow support under him and watched again for Luciani’s caravan. He snarled in frustrated impatience before he leapt to the next lamp the way the gymnast took to the uneven bars. He gripped the bar to swing to the next with an agile turn only to continue to the next.
He tucked as he heard the approach of car engines and chopped his maneuver and landed (favoring his right) on to the top of the van of Luciani’s entourage with a smirk. He crouched low, intent on surfing through the street on top of the van; unaware that he wasn’t the only one with an unscheduled appointment with Luciani. He was too brash to think anyone else would be following and only paid mind to getting a clear shot while he braced himself for the turns and caught his breath.
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Batman
Crime was relentless. It fed off of all things tangible and ripped them to shreds from the inside out. Resolve was tattered from it, hope was diminished by it and it sank its yellowed fangs into everything good and just and right with equal gluttony. The only things it could be acknowledged to perpetuate are fear and apathy, and those were things Gotham could have done very well without. Never sleeping but always rolling in like a sempiternal fog is enshrouded people with its tempting, enchanting fingers and soon it was impossible to tell who rebelled against it and who had fallen prey to its mastery. One man, determined to seek out the unfortunate wrong-doers of the city, stood against a moonlit sky. His shadow-hued eyes kept constant nocturnal vigil over the decent citizens of Gotham and he felt, in a large way, that this penance was deserved.
Like a party of snails heading for a tasty rose-bush, a convoy of black limousines pulled onto the causeway from the underside of the city. The cars trailed onto the main streets and began a indeterminable march towards a destination unknown to the Bat, and he watched for a long as he could whilst remaining still. As the line of stately vehicles turned a side street he took a deep pre-emptive breath before rocketing from the platform he had been standing upon. Unlike his normal escapades he had no desire to make this a quick snap. He needed information, and tonight the svelte black cars belonging to Renato Luciani were going to provide it in spades. His wings flicked out quicker than he would normally employ them and Batman coasted like a gigantic specimen of his icon as he leisurely followed the funeral-like procession of the mobsters’ cars.
A tiny flicker of movement in his peripheral vision made him want to take a closer look. Swooping closer, he noticed that someone had landed on the roof of a black van at the end of the snail trail; a figure crouched and hooded. Refraining from exhaling with a mixture of irritation, anxiety and curiosity, Batman guided himself to a position a hundred yards or so above the van and followed along. He took stock of the character’s height, build, manner of movement and the weaponry about his person that was readily visible. When he was certain that he presented no immediate threat, Batman decided to effectively pull rank. He dove, landing just as soft as the first man had done on the roof of the van behind his new acquaintance. Steadying himself and preparing to fight should the hooded man make a move, he struck out with one of his interruptive cheesy lines.
“Cabs are just so hard to catch in this city.”
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Nightwing
Dick Grayson had always reminded himself that eventually he would run into the one and only Batman. Be it as the cop he was so disgusted with or as the masked assassin that he was cloaked as now. Dick couldn’t help but thank god that it was the latter as he turned to face the other masked man atop the unmarked black van. That way, he could at least sneer at the caped crusader to effectively hide his secret impulse to piss his pants. He brought himself to stand, gun pointed away from Batman, as his face snarled into a frown. His glacial gaze bore into the taller caped figure. It was like looking into a blurred, nobler reflection. The similarities could have been stark to any average masked Gothamite. Intent was the thing that blurred them the most. While Batman was there for the betterment of the city, Dick wholly accepted his less than noble cause for self-redemption. He made no move to lower his hood or remove his mask. The only muscles that twitched were the ones that maintained his balance.
He stared at Batman, evaluating him for any sign of aggression before turning back around to watch the car. Dick was plagued not only by curiosity, but by the determination to go one more step towards salvation and his ultimate outcome. He took aim at the tire of Luciani’s limo. “Forgot my cell, otherwise I would have called for one,” he stated dryly; ready to fire.
His curiosity, however, won out. He lowered his weapon and glowered at the other masked man. “Not all of us can fly,” he added bitterly. He raised the other gun that did not have the silencer attached and pointed it at Batman; silently acknowledging that he knew what kind of threat Batman posed but made no move to pull the trigger. If an advance was made on him, he would let Gotham hear the kill shot that brought down their beloved and hated Batman.
“What do you want?”
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Batman
The gun pointed away from him was an instant reassurance to Batman. This was not to say things didn’t have a habit of getting really ugly really quickly whenever he was involved, but at least for now the intent was slightly less murderous. He respected that. His murky eyes met the arctic stare of his companions without flinching, and wondered at yet another citizen of Gotham who had taken to wearing a mask and prowling the streets at night. With his previous experience with Catwoman in mind this made two new supposed ‘fiends’ on the beat. If he’d thought that donning a mask and keeping to the shadows would become a trend he might have well listened to Alfred’s advice in the beginning. There was a new epidemic.
He watched calmly as the youngster took aim at the car leading the procession. If he blew out the tyre the whole damn motorcade would squeal to a halt. When the glock was lowered the relief felt on behalf of the original vigilante was palatable. He wanted Luciani, and he wanted him tonight. One less mobset on the street meant one less mobster who would be foolish enough to hire the likes of The Joker again. The other gun leveled at his chest didn’t pose an immediate threat as of yet. He was still mystical enough in this new persona that those who would wish to harm him weren’t knowledgeable to the chinks in his armor so to speak. He continued to stare at the kid with a deadpan expression showing on the expose parts of his face.
“The same thing you want,” he growled. “Luciani.”
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Nightwing
Beneath the mask, he arched a brow. Nightwing was a masked street prowler, but he wasn’t out to clean up the streets or mug anyone. He was simply going by the agenda he made. He really saw Batman as a potential ally or setback. If he could get Batman to possibly help, it could at least shorten the list. But then again, Dick Grayson was also somewhat foolish. The Batman would probably never aid him. He held his gun steady as he kept his eyes on the Caped Crusader, trying not to look absolutely fascinated by him. And somewhat afraid.
Dick maintained his composure as he glanced over his shoulders at the moving cars. “First come first serve,” Nightwing said with a smirk as he turned back around, leveling the glock with the silencer and putting the one aimed at Batman in its harness. “You might want to clear out,” he warned. “You already have enough on your wrap sheet.”
With a muted noise through the silencer, he fired at the back tire of the limo and watched with a look of almost sick satisfaction beneath the mask and hood as the tire blew out. He removed the silencer and clicked the safety on to put the gun in its holster. As the car screeched to a halt, he bolted off the front of the van and launched himself to perch on a street light, hoping that Batman had taken the hint and let him do this alone. As he balanced on the rail, he drew out his gun again and re-attached the silencer as the door of the van that he had been surfing opened and a few thugs started filing out. He glowered at the caravan that stopped, waiting for Luciani to exit his car.
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Batman
The ‘ping’ of the projectile forced through the silencer gave him a split-second’s notice. The screeching of tyres caused the cars in the procession – including the van – to jerk to a halt with the acrid smell of burning rubber billowing behind them. If he hadn’t already been braced for the action, Batman may well have tumbled down the nose of the van like some absurd over-sized gnat adhering to the windshield, but as it was, he was prepared. The stupidity of this ‘new breed’ of renegade was sempiternal is seemed, and he was as annoyed with the hooded man as he was at himself for not having stepped in sooner.
With no other option readily available, Batman aimed and fired his ever-ready grappling hook to his left, where it wrapped around the thick frame of a fire escape. Knowing full well it would leave him immediately in the mobster’s sights but seeing no real alternative open to him, Batman swung his heavy form in a bid to use the remaining force from the stopping of the van. He reached the fire escape and retracted the hook as dozens of car doors began to collectively open. An open window to his left appeared to be sent from heaven and without any further thought Batman dove through, rolling over himself to a stop on the floor of the room he had just entered.
It was obviously a little girl’s room. If the candy-cotton pink walls hadn’t tipped him of the hundreds of dolls stacked on the shelves would have. The usual occupant of the room had sat up in bed clutching a well-worn favorite teddy-bear, squinting at the intruder in the dim illumination from her nite-light. The absence of gunshots from the street below was reassuring. The fact that any minute he was about to be blasted with a child’s earth-shattering scream was not. The little girl, however, acted more mature than her young age (which little girls have an uncanny habit of doing).
“Batman?” she asked, incredulously.
Stunned, a pair of widened eyes that were vivid behind his black mask blinked. “I’m not here to hurt you,” he stated in a soft undertone. More in Bruce’s voice than that more abrasive, rugged tone employed by Batman. The girl raised an eyebrow. Her brown hair was long and fell in cork-screw girls over her shoulders. She struck him as the argumentative type, and pretty soon she confirmed his assumption.
“I know that,” she said. “Did you hear me talking about Billy Reynolds? Because,” she said, sitting back on her mass of pink pillows and hugging teddy resolutely to her chest. “I didn’t really mean that I wanted you to beat him up. He was just having one of those days.”
“One of those days?” he repeated, without thinking.
“Oh, you know,” she replied in a conversational tone. “One of his ‘jerk’ days.”
For a masked vigilante who was rarely stunned by the psychopathic killers he attempted to protect his city from, it was amazing at how stumped Batman could be by one small child. He blinked again and looked towards the window urgently. It was still open. Nothing seemed to be happening. Luciani must have still been inside his car for protection.
“Okay,” he finally responded for lack of anything more productive to say to her.
“So I hope you haven’t already beaten him up. Mommy says he can’t help it and that some people are just born jerks. Although Mommy doesn’t like you. But I do,” she added quickly.
“Thanks,” he finished wryly before moving back towards the window. “Be quiet.”
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Nightwing
"What the hell was that?"
"Don't know... you check the tire?"
"It's flat."
"Really!?! That's why the tire gave out? You're a real goddamned genius, you know that?"
Dick snarled in impatience. He just wanted Luciani! He didn't want to have to take care of the entire caravan. Hell, if the small mob whacked him just after taking care of their boss, he would have been absolutely fine with that. He did feel a bit of relief as he assumed Batman had taken off (or at least gotten a bit out of his hair). He vaulted himself from his previous perch to a new one on the edge of a fire escape before sliding down an awning to hide behind a dumpster. Now at the ground level that his target was at, he trained his chilly colored eyes on the limo, waiting for the door to open.
"C'mon," Dick muttered to himself, "get out of the freakin' car," he coaxed to no one in particular as he aimed the gun with the silencer at the door.
"Alright, what's the fuckin' hold up?" came the voice of Luciani as he stupidly peered out of the car. Of all places, he did so from the sun roof! The hooded vigilante smirked at how easy this could potentially be.
He clicked the safety off as he took his opportunity to retake his aim. He bit the corner of his lip, poising himself to shoot as his other hand snagged his other glock into his grasp. While Dick Grayson was not new to the "hero" thing (even though the masked man considered himself anything but, he did know what happened with gang shootouts. For the sake of Batman, Gotham's real hero, Dick hoped that he had cleared out. He pulled the trigger just as Luciani's attention was drawn to a thug showing him the bullet. Instead of the intended target of his head, he had hit his shoulder.
God Damn it.
Dick swore as the entire mob pulled their weapons, only a few rushing to the car to check on their boss and get him out. A few shots rang out from the mob as "Nightwing" waited for a decent opportunity to shoot again. All the while with the following mantra in his head: Crap-crap-crap crap-crap-crap-crap Crap-crap!
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Batman
“What was that?!” the little girl asked in a small, paniced voice. It was time to make an executive decision. Turning to look at her over one shoulder, Batman lifted a finger to his lips in the internationally known symbol of silence.
“I need you to do me a favor. Will you do it?”
The little girl nodded.
“I want you run and jump into bed with Mommy and Daddy. Go!”
He waited until she had fled the room before he swept aside the pink curtains covering the window, his feet landing softly on the otherwise noisy fire escape. He closed the window behind him and peered down to survey the carnage in the street. The first thing he noticed was the wannabe clingingint to a streetlight on the opposite side of the avenue. Letting his eyes fall into a downwards spiral he took in the rest of his surroundings with a calculated ease; Three cars and the limo left. Four thugs each car. That meant twelve to take down in an impossibly short time before the kid went ahead and totally screwed up. When the arrogant, dulcet tones belonging to Luciani himself erupted from the sunroof of the long black limo like lava spewing from an enraged volcano, Batman knew that the excrement had just hit the fan. He had once been immersed deep enough in underworld happenings to know what went down in situations like this.
As if in slow motion he watched the kid take his aim and squeeze off a round. Before he could even throw himelf off the fire escape he saw Luciani go down, slumping over the roof of the limo clutching his wounded shoulder. His blood was all over the roof of the Escalade like damned turtle wax. With a rushed intake of breath that clearly betrayed his frustration Batman opened his arms, flicking out his wings to their impressive 5 metre full span even as the mobsters took aim on the kid atop the streetlight. He only needed one thug to hear the snap of the material becoming rigid. Luckily one obliged, obviously thinking it was the click of a safety catch from another gun to their rear. As the fat man in a tacky suit pivoted to provide backup, his eyes widened and the sideways hold on his piece faltered. “Holy shit!” The previous rounds echoed through the empty street into oblivion as the majority of the gangsters stupidly turned to see what the fuss was about.
It was now or never.
Springing from the fire escape, Batman twisted his encased form as he fell. He knew his weaknesses and he had no doubt that within record time bullets would rain on his parade. He felt the existing wound under his armpit stretch painfully as he maneuvered his arms to provide balance, holding in the resounding grunt he longed to let free when he landed on his feet in front of the gangsters. There was no time. A spatter of semi-automatic gunfire crackled through the atmosphere and he held his arms staunchly across his chest; a look that was practical as well as intimidating. Luciani had been retracted into the limo and it was attempting to pull around the first goon car in the motorcade. With a quick dip of his hand to his utility belt, a bat-shaped shuriken was sent shimmering towards the clunking vehicle. It sank hungrily into another of the tyres, making the car effectively immovable. He hoped this kid in the mask wasn’t completely useless. Twelve gangsters was pushing his luck a little.
“Don’t just stand there!” one of the more seasoned thugs screamed to the guy closest to the Bat Man. “Get him!!”
Batman began advancing on the mobster on his right. There was no accounting for incompetence, however, and after a handful of rounds fired at the approaching Bat the clip clicked futilely. With two more broad steps Batman pulled his fist back and smashed it into the mobster’s face. Now that he was in closer quarters and was able to engage the guns in hand-to-hand combat things got a lot easier. The occasional projectile bounced off his suit but for the most part he took down two more guys; one with a sweep-kick and another with a brutal looking –and sounding- head butt.
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Nightwing
As the first car had been stopped from transporting Luciani to the hospital, Nightwing was faced with a stalemate. Stay and help Batman and lose Luciani for another week of tracking, or go after the mobster and put Luciani's hold on Gotham's upper East side as well his influence in the city's law enforcement to an end. He hesitated (and would never deny doing such), weighing his options before turning to Batman from his perch in the alley. He pulled off the silencer, holstered his glock and pulled out his club. He leaped up to the fire escape; leaping one set to the next before diving into the scuffle.
He landed post flip in a crouched position and readied his current weapon of choice. "C'mon boys, that just don't seem fair," he snarled just before springing toward one of the bigger thugs; hitting him square in the back of the head with the butt of his nightstick. As the somewhat disoriented man turned, Nightwing quickly cracked the club across his face and swung a knee to the man's gut. He elbowed him at the base of his skull, finally letting the man finish his fall without further interruption. As he hit the pavement, Nightwing's features contorted with rage still as he crouched low again.
He swung a leg to sweep the feet from beneath another. As the man fell, Nightwing sheathed his club to pull both his forty-fives and held them threateningly with the safeties off. "Calvary's here," he informed Batman dryly even though Dick Grayson would later make a note of how sorry a Calvary Batman would probably consider him. He snapped his gun across the face of another one of Luciani's boys. He turned the gun in order to smack the handle square into his nose. He fired one of the glocks at one of the thugs heading for Luciani's car and fired another at the same target, getting each of the mans legs before placing the weapons back into their concealed holsters.
As he turned in hopes of taking on another, a fist cracked across his face, snapping Nightwing's now blurry gaze to the side before he was tackled to the ground. Damn! There almost wasn't enough time to get his bearings as he felt the butt of a gun crack into his ribs. Letting out a grunt of pain, Nightwing took a chance in bringing a metal coated hand straight into his attacker's face, trying to at least loosen the thug's grip on him.
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Batman
It wasn’t until his gloved fists closed around the shirt collar of another thug and he had hoisted the understandably gibbering man from his feet that Batman noticed his unsolicited counterpart was experiencing difficulties. Having only briefly paused to consider the notion of the kid as any form of ‘cavalry’, sorry or otherwise, before continuing on with the barrage of mobsters vying for a chance to show their ‘lesser’ companions that they could take down the Batman, the caped crusader continued to bust through the melee leaving a trail of sore heads and broken bones as he went. He shook the man now in his grip with an uncharacteristic ferocity, glaring into the guy’s puffy brown eyes. “When is the next shipment coming in?” he growled. The man gibbered. “Wrong answer,” snapped the Bat, head-butting this guy like his had done to his friend. “When!?”
“I don’t know!” the thug bleated. “Luciani’s got the 411.”
Dropping the crook like the sack of excrement that he was, it was only as the lump of human waste hit the pavement that Batman noticed the other masked defender was experiencing difficulties. Setting his jaw and striding to where the kid was being grappled on the ground by another of the vermin-like perps, he recoiled slightly when the brass knuckles busted out one of the mobster’s teeth without warning. He had to hand it over, the guy had nerve. He didn’t really agree with his methods, but since when had Bruce Batman been perfect? Pulling the crook off of his fallen disguised companion, Batman tossed him casually to one side. “Sure,” he shot back, every inch as dry as the original comment had been in its delivery. “Some cavalry. Leave the rest. I need your help with Luciani.” He held a hand out to the mysterious fighter, intending on making sure they were still on the same side.
