The Innocent Never Sleep [open]

[Dick Grayson]

Nothing made Dick Grayson feel more like a piece of trash than when he had to come here of all places. It was degrading and he could practically see specters of his parents shaking their heads at his actions. Dealings with the mob, executing them as Nightwing later. It was all just a bit too much for Dick at times. He was an officer of the law and he had gone into this to help people that were like him as a child. Instead of aiding the casualties of Gotham’s corruption, he was right there with the corrupt; pocketing cash to ensure smooth sailing for the very people that ruined his life the first time.

With the hood to his sweatshirt drawn up, he continued along the subway tunnel. The coward in Dick Grayson whispered “run” but he couldn’t bring himself to gimp his way back above grown. Like always, he’d gone to far and was too stubborn to turn back now. With his alumni sweatshirt hugging his shoulders and hanging loosely on his form, he appeared in a mix that said he belonged here and that he was a foreigner. He would never accept this as a place where he belonged, but Dick Grayson’s actions said otherwise. He was miserable and he deserved to be underground. Preferably six feet. Unfortunately, his objective wasn’t complete and Nightwing would continually loom over him like a vulture’s shadow; ready to pick apart his carcass.

He expelled a slow sigh; feeling that pick on his person that signified that Nightwing should really be down here, cutting the throats of the monsters of organized crime. Alas, Dick was here for an exchange and he would have to wait before unfurling the masked freak that lurked beneath Dick Grayson’s cool exterior. He limped along until he found a door marked with an X in spray paint. He took another breath as his hand found the handle and forced it open. Inside, the room looked absolutely nothing like the path it took to get there. It was rich looking; too rich for the likes of a former carnie. He kept his hood up as he took a seat at one of the tables; waiting his turn to do whatever the hell these bastards wanted him to do. He was given a bottle of beer and all he could do was look at it. He couldn’t drink. Not right now… or ever again.

He glanced from the limited field of vision of his hood; trying to look at the people around that were in this fancy waiting room. How many of them were cops or public servants? How many of them were doing this because they had no other options? How many were doing this because they were truly gutless pieces of garbage that wanted a name affiliated with theirs to lord over anyone that glanced their way? Which category was Dick Grayson under? He felt disgusted with himself as he slid the beer away from him, across the table a few inches, before slowly drumming his fingers along the table. He could never sit still. He glanced at the clock; hating waiting even more.

[Ruby Ryder]

The underground bar was opulent enough in its decorations to hide the dirt that crept through the x-marked door night after night, and unobtrusive enough so that those that had business to get down to could make use of it when flashy restaurants were too good for the company they would keep here and private residences just weren’t an option. On any given evening there was a real mix of people who frequented the establishment, which was run by one of the bigger crime families in town. They all had their designated ‘territories’; the Falcones, the Patrellis and the rest of them. Tonight, Dick Grayson was on Ruby Ryder’s turf.

The brunette in question had spent most of the evening in one of the more private rooms out back, holding court with her various advisors and informants and generally keeping tabs on her various operations within the city. Her accountant had put her in a good mood by giving a favourable report on her investment returns, and it never ceased to amuse the woman how money begot money. If you didn’t have it to begin with, then you were pretty much screwed. There were those that would argue that money, in turn, was power. She supposed in part that they were right. Money opened a helluva lot of doors that were more apt to slam in your face if you had moths fluttering from your pockets. But in Ruby’s mind, the real trick to power was being the only one who had it.

Even since her chance run-in with the inebriated moron Falcone and his mugs, she had been stewing in her elegant, custom-made heels. The mere thought of him was enough to set her blood to boiling and the mention of him while the spitfire Italian mobette was in earshot was to take your chances with pretty poor damn odds. The news that someone had ‘vandalised’ her husband’s grave had been taken with stone-faced resolve on her part. She knew it had to have been Falcone, and assumed that the action was supposed to be funny or a warning, more than likely both knowing that nutcase. If he thought she would cower at the thought then he was more in need of a shrink than everyone said he was. Her husband, God rest his soul, would have struck back fast for such an insult. Ruby’s retaliation would be slower to release but white hot.

When her valet informed her that Detective Grayson had arrived, she had been discussing her stock options with her broker. Twenty minutes after that, she had been outlaying unmarked bills for various ‘operational costs’ that needed her final word and, of course, her financial support. Finally and nearly an hour after his arrival, Ruby nodded to her valet to have Detective Grayson brought through to her – after he had been checked for the usual wires and other novelty accessories the Gotham Police Department wasted their money on these days.

[Dick Grayson]

Dick Grayson felt enough like a piece of trash as he waited within Ruby Ryder’s waiting room. As he was padded down for any wired and other accessories, his blue gaze rolled skyward. He had been doing deals in these tunnels for years. The only thing he ever brought, as a sign of some dirty form of faith, was his badge. To think he would have the balls to have a change of heart without the mask and hood would be ludicrous. “We done yet?” he asked childishly as they further searched him. He expelled a low sigh as he was ushered into the office.

“You know,” he started as his hands found his pockets while he limped further into the room and the door shut behind him, “you could at least give me some crayons or something to do in there.” His lips lifted into a light smile as he tried to remind himself he was playing a part of an easy going, dirty cop. He was a performer and this was a role he was all too used to. His shoulders folded into a shrug. He had no idea really why he was there. He got a phone call and voila. He was here and now trying not to look at Miss Ryder. Mob bosses were easier to deal with when they were old, fat, Italian jack offs that said things like ‘yous guys’ and ‘mook’. Unfortunately, Dick Grayson had to actually apply himself not to look at this mob boss too long because, alas, she was actually hot.

Sigh.

His gaze traveled along the office before settling on her as he almost cautiously found the seat across her desk that was typically saved for whoever she spent her time paying out or threatening. He sat down and his hands left the pockets of his sweatshirt to clasp his hands together as he looked across the desk. “What can I do you for?”

[Ruby Ryder]

Crooked cops never failed to amuse her. By day there were respectable, upstanding members of Gotham’s police service, their uniforms a shining example of the law in this town. By night, however, they belonged to her or one of the other bosses in town. A very few – with too much dick and too little brains – flittered between the bosses like high-priced hookers, carrying diseased information along for the ride. This one, Grayson, served his purpose well. He was efficient and did her bidding. It was these two saving graces that meant she put up with his swagger and a certain level of crap from him that others wouldn’t get away with in a pink fit.

“Falcone,” was the first word to come to mind, and consequently the first that left her well-painted lips. She was sitting in the chair opposite her tame cop, a small white Chihuahua on her lap. Bubbles, Ruby’s pride and joy, wore a thin and elegant collar encrusted with real diamonds and rubies. She was catered for by Ruby’s chef. She slept in a miniature version of Ruby’s bed. In many ways, she replaced the baby girl that had been swelling Ruby’s belly all those years ago when Don Falcone – and she used the term lightly – had seen all of that cruelly ripped away from her.

You’ll have to excuse the woman for holding a grudge.

“Carmine Falcone. You got any contacts that can get to him in Arkham?”

[Dick Grayson]

Honestly, it was night like this where he was in this creepy underground that he was just a bit thankful he dabbled in dishonor. Actually it was the coward in him that was. After all, unless being on the payroll the only way a cop was down here was against their will and they probably wouldn’t be leaving alive and if they were lucky they would be dumped out but without the use of their legs for several months. So, he decided to agree with his inner coward as opposed to the snarling cowl in the back of his head that berated him for the work he was doing here.

Dick flinched a bit when she dropped that name. That was a family not to generally fuck with. Then again, Ruby Ryder wasn’t a fuckable name either. (It was if he wanted to compare the woman to a porn star, but Dick Grayson liked having his penis in place, thank you.) Regardless Dick Grayson’s attention was piqued. The only thing he could really think of was a pending mob war and while he wanted to cringe, intrigue kept him listening.

“I have a few. Will take more than a few strings to be pulled for that one Ryder.” His eyes narrowed as he was almost intrigued to know what her price was on this. “You want him out, want to pay a visit, want him dead? Need specifics here.”