The Changing of The Guard
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its sunset over Gotham’s streets. Her city windows all burning with the golden sun’s dying light.
the dayshift is ending, as the day fades ever closer into the night. Gotham is nocturnal. The smog blanketing the city makes time rather irrelevant. Crime doesn't sleep, and so niether does its city. The rest of the nation blinks in surprise as though it didnt name her ‘City of Crime’ without a second thought. Merely setting up signs on her bridges telling anyone inbound to turn back around. She’s not worth it.
Yet still, Gotham is nocturnal by nature. Perhaps a quirk of the geography or maybe the stubbornness of her people to carve themselves into the dark, or maybe its the gods who spread their wings over the city, making the night ever more comforting. but not everyone comes awake at night, not everyone, not everything, and not every god.
Laura is yawning as she heads to the roof. The little coop of pigeons that she’s been helping take care of sits up there on the concrete, she’s been up since six rushing from her work at a little convenience store, to her college classes then to her other job as a clerk at a retailer. feeding the birds is her last task of the day, then she’s going home and crashing into bed.
her hand curls gently around the doorknob at the top of the stairs as she hefts the sack of grain higher on her hip. She eases the door open, cursing under her breath as she hears what sounds like laughter. Rolling her eyes.
her neighbor in the flat across from hers has a pair of teenage daughters who tend to get into places they’re not supposed to. Like messing with the coop of pigeons that the landlord trusted Laura to look after while he was visiting family up in Metopolis.
she opens her mouth to scold them but her voice doesnt leave her throat. She goes still.
slinking over the roof, towards the figure sat on the side, is a slim creature. Dressed in black and blue, pale as death yet armored in chains and shadow. Its hair is blue flame, glittering like starlight even as the setting sun sets the sky ablaze in red. the sun itself frames the other figure. Wrapped in blacks and golds like some sort of eclipse come alive.
slowly, making no noise, Laura shuts the door, leaving it just barely ajar so that she can peer through the crack.
Bluebird, for it must be Bluebird, approaches Signal. Whistling in a tune that Laura almost finds familar, in a way she cant quite place. Signal notices Bluebird, craning its—his head over his shoulder, his blank white eyes curving with his grin as he whistles a greeting back.
the two perch together on the edge of the roof, chattering back and forth. Laughing in what must be that strange language of Gotham’s gods. Signal’s natural glow brightens as the sun fades from the sky, as though he’s replaced it, and Laura’s reminded of his name as he stands there, illuminated against the gunmetal colored sky. The smallest stars peaking out from behind the cloud cover and dancing across the endless blacks and bright purple-y blues of Bluebird’s armored plates. Maybe Ma’s got a point. Laura thinks. Is Signal the Bat signal really come to life? No, right? Laura would have thought herself so silly for thinking such a thing just that morning. But now with Signal himself clearly wishing his Cousin a goodbye, fading from sight as though slipping into the dark like an old home, Laura’s not so sure.
she watches a few moments longer as Bluebird stretches. Preparing for a long night maybe? Or a good hunt? Bluebird may be goddess of twilight and sunset and dawn, but she’s known to hunt all through the nights and days as well.
Laura’s thoughts cut off though when the goddess in question snaps her head towards Laura’s door, a sharp toothed grin on her face. Laura squawks, slamming the door shut, listening to the cackling laughter that echoes outside. Its not quite mind bending Like Nightwing’s famously is. But its still cacophonous. Echoing in Laura’s ears.
but…it doesnt feel mean for some reason, and when Laura works up the courage to open the door, shes met only with the empty roof and a smog filled dusk, blushing ever so gently violet.
and she still has to feed the pigeons.
damn.
