#nightwing verse

[practicesmilinginthemirror]

A Shadow Steals Stealthily

Four.   Four fights for Nightwing that night, three the previous.  John was already sore and hurting before hearing the shouts echoing up and over the rooftops where he’d stopped to take a breather.  A bottle of water, even half of one, would’ve helped a lot, but he knew there wasn’t enough time.  That, and he’d likely just end up puking up anything he ate or drank if he got even a couple of solid hits to the gut.  Not great options.

Taking the empty-stomach path, he stole quickly for the side retaining wall closer to where the shouts came over, needing to stop only a couple of seconds to listen for more, as they came quickly.  Two buildings over, then back towards the next street, and he dropped himself down into the back hook of a shared alley for that small-business block--all dumpsters and bins, hardly enough room for the delivery trucks that inevitably had to come that way.  Mostly, the passageway just served for the staff to take out the trash, which is undoubtedly what the two young women had been doing.

Now, though, they were surrounded by five men, each one’s attention attuned to intimidation, the women already roughed up as John got their attention with a sharp whistle.  He didn’t even need to front, to threaten, or say anything, really.  They came at him quickly, their prizes forgotten as two sets of footsteps made quick work of leaving the dark corner.  At the top of the night?  The previous?  He’d have handled them quickly, piled them up with the bins, maybe even gift-wrapped them for the police.  Now, though, he was sluggish, he was slow, and a solid blow to the side of his that he failed to block in time had him staggering with only one of the five on his knees.  He was in trouble.

[practicesmilinginthemirror]

Temporary Houseguest

Outside the apartment, it wasn't a particularly remarkable day.  Despite nearly missing his subway train connection for lingering in conversation with Eames, Blake made it to the bank in plenty of time to get settled into his position before the branch opened.  Most days, the job could nearly be done in his sleep--the wayward disgruntled customer aside--for which he was grateful when he found himself utterly distracted from beginning to end.

With the vault and the doors locked up for the evening, he took an extra stop underground to swing by the pizza place a couple blocks past the apartment building.  Even Brits had to like pizza, right?  He hoped.  That is, if Eames were even still there. 

Box balanced on one open hand, he gave a few short raps of his knuckles on the door before twisting the key and heading inside.

[practicesmilinginthemirror]

Eames puts himself under for three minutes when he gets back to his room. Just enough to sit at his three panel mirror and do a preliminary forge. It isn't very good and he frustrates himself trying to get details he usually can only get after hours spent studying a subject. Soon enough though he's awake and can't shake the need to somehow find Gotham's resident hero again.

He’d told himself he wouldn’t, not that night.  Yet even though he should have finished his route, handled any bumps along the way, and headed back to the cave to finish up, Blake found himself downtown, on a roof ledge across from the hotel in which Eames was staying. 

He’d found out his room already, and with a targeted microphone--discovered in one of Bruce’s many storage alcoves left in his care--aimed at the window that had only been lit up a few minutes before, Blake was surprised to see no shadows of movement past the curtains, and to hear the even sounds that he would normally associate with sleep.  Maybe he was meditating, Blake couldn’t be sure, but it didn’t truly make sense for him to fall asleep that fast. 

...And then wake up only a few short minutes later.  Curious, Blake tuned the microphone more carefully.

[practicesmilinginthemirror]

"Have you ever even done this before?"

Okay, so his landing hadn’t been stuck quite steadily.  So his hair had come halfway out of its tie at the nape of his neck after tussling with a couple of goons two blocks over.  So one of his escrima sticks had a crack in it two inches down from the end.  He was there, he had most of his breath in his lungs, he was properly suited up and masked, and he was ready for a fight, if the situation turned to call for it.

“...I gotta tell you, that’s kinda hurtful.”

[practicesmilinginthemirror]

Behind Another Mask

@wcrldaflame

It had been a quiet night, if there ever truly were any in Gotham.  Blake had already made his usual path, suited and masked, through the city's darker neighborhoods.  Nights like that one, he often spent further uptown, choosing to listen to the city's thrum, its heartbeat, from atop the higher rooftops. 

Typically, the silence followed him, all of the city's noise and static remaining stories below his feet.  He could sit on a retaining wall, legs dangling over the glow of streetlights and headlights, pretend for a moment that there was more innocence in the movement and breath of activity than he knew there to be.  Or, as he did that night, he hovered over the financial district, eyeing trades, meetings both secret and public, watching the interests of the city's mob factions gain their influence in real time.  From there, he knew who to hunt, later.  Not to kill, if he could help it--the city had seen enough blood for all their lifetimes--but to trip, to trap, and to stop.

He expected the smooth faces, the eerie masks of civility below the rooftops, the pretense at playing human, but he did not expect to meet any other sorts of masks, nor ones on eye level.

Neither did he expect a masked figure to appear on a neighboring rooftop. And definitely not such a figure clad in a form-fitting suit much like his own, yet distinctly different. 

Frozen in place for a moment, he wondered if he had stumbled upon a more elaborate copy-cat than the normal ones who tended to get themselves beaten and damaged before quitting the theatrics.  Eyes trained on the figure, he soon climbed back over the edge of the wall, quietly setting his feet firmly on the gritty floor, wondering what this one was here for.

[practicesmilinginthemirror]

"If you insist. Though you hardly need be dark and mysterious with me." Eames gives a slight nod of his head, "Ta." and turns South, hands in his pockets walking out of the alleys. There really had only been one sketchy sort of fellow, more vagabond than hooligan. Eames had slipped him $50 and the coffee he'd been carrying. He'd actually been looking for a back entrance to a gambling ring he'd heard a Ukrainian fellow by the name of Kosov was running. Ah, well, perhaps tomorrow night.

You have no idea, Blake mused from atop the roof. 

True to his word, he followed along the edge of the roofs, traversing their gaps as necessary, keeping himself just visible enough for Eames to know he was there all the way to Jefferson Street.  Though Eames kept walking, Blake paused there before turning back the other direction, knowing, of course, that security-guard-Blake could find him later, if need be. 

That, and he had other places to be, before the sun came up again.

[practicesmilinginthemirror]

"Only a brick model mobile." He answers, taking in Nightwing's build. Slim, well muscled, high cheekbones. He holds out his phone. "I have a nasty habit of smashing the glass ones to smithereens." Eames slips it back in his jacket, "Honestly, lead me from the fire escapes if you must. Though if we run into the young hooligans again, I would hope you'd assist me instead of allowing a four on one brawl." Come on, he thinks, let me hear some more of your voice.

Blake considered his options quietly.  His reputation was important, and even though Eames didn’t strike him as the type to spread rumors, it wouldn’t help him to have a story out there that he left someone in need to rot by themselves.  Even if the person in question seemed perfectly capable of taking care of themselves.

“Jefferson is three blocks south,” he called down, pointing towards the building behind him, indicating the direction further down that same street.  “If you want,” he added, already in motion as he leapt to grab the end of the upper platform and haul himself up smoothly--might as well keep that reputation--”I’ll keep an eye from up here.”

[practicesmilinginthemirror]

"Don't tell me the noble Nightwing doesn't believe in innocent until proven guilty?" Eames cranes his head up, hoping for a proper look. Perhaps if he keeps him talking. "If you wouldn't mind escorting me? I found myself in this alley while fleeing a group of thugs after my very fine watch and wallet."

‘Noble Nightwing’.  Cute, Blake thought to himself.  Looks like his reputation stretched beyond the city limits--that, or Eames was simply very good at doing his homework.

“What,” he kept his tone lighter, a tease even as he walked to the edge of the landing that faced the street, still in shadow but making a show of clearly looking out past where Eames had come in, “a fancy watch and wallet, but no cell phone with Google Maps?”  He had been above those streets not long before and seen nothing, though he hadn’t seen Eames approach, either.  “I’m afraid I don’t make a habit of strolling down the sidewalk.  I’m sure you understand.”