Anton Bolton's spine chilled a little when the speaker referred to him by his name. He took the time to exhale, which came off to Talia as a strange, static sound. Before the fall of Razor Limited, the Razor brand phones were a pretty decent brand of phones. They were no iPhones or Androids, but they were great if you were looking for cheap alternatives.

The only reason they were cheap though was because of a deal with the NSA and his designing of a PRISM-style program disguised as a firmware update. It allowed for phones to be easily traced back to the person calling at a faster rate than most phones at the time. Even a script kiddie would be able to trace back the call, let alone Talia.

Bolton sighed, knowing that this very flaw is what may bite him in the ass. However, the woman on the other end of the line seemed pretty polite of the blatant fact that he called her very shady number, even if she says that she won't forgive his transgression. Wouldn't be the first time someone hated him for breaching their privacy, he thought.

Razor Bat knew to let Bolton say this next line, and thus the mask that he wanted to use was shut off. He then recited the very line he heard in his office following the leaking of his private emails to the NSA.

"I'm very sorry for this inconvenience." He had to resist saying how she can't be compensated due to not being a member of the Razor Premium package and that could get the package for only $9.99 a month, if only because it didn't fit the situation at hand. On that end, Anton decided to do a little detective work himself. With a few hand gestures, he summoned the AI that had been stuck onto all Razor phones. iPhones had Siri, Windows had Cortana, Razor had something so old and ancient, you'd think that'd be the first warning sign of how corrupt Razor Limited was.

A chubby, purple monkey swung into his view via vine as a line under him said: "Trace call". The monkey immediately began to tap his index finger against his forehead and spoke up.

"I can not trace this call..." The monkey was muted to prevent the mystery woman from hearing him and instead, Anton had to read what was in the text balloon. Clever girl, he thought. Oh, but Talia may be more than clever.

To quote a prime time TV show, Anton Bolton has no idea what she's capable of.

@Jinny@Ruby

Gotham Westside
4:52 AM

Slam sat in a corner booth and nursed a cup of coffee. A hangover was coming on strong. The coffee killed the worst of the hangover but not all of it. Slam wanted the pain. It helped him stay focused on his case. The Nite-Owl Coffee Shop stayed open around the clock. A lush PI in dirty clothes was squaresville compared to its usual late night clientele. Three hookers and a pimp scarfed eggs two booths over. A junkie at the counter was doing the dope fiend lean on his stool. The bell above the door chimed and his contact walked in.

He had black hair and clear blue eyes. Heavyset, somewhere between normal and fat. The extra weight threw off the resemblance a bit, but not by much. Fat aside, he was a dead ringer for Bruce Wayne. To hear him tell it the extra weight came from having to carry around that thing between his legs. He called it Wayne Tower, and according to him it was always open for business. He ran a gigolo service out of the Westside. Old ladies, fat ladies, lonely ladies, the occasional man, and all kinds of freaks flocked to him. Who wouldn't pay a grand an hour to be reamed, steamed, and dry cleaned by the one and only Bruce Vain?

Bruce nodded at the table of hookers before sliding into Slam's booth.

"Sammy, how's tricks?"

"I should ask you."

"Not my department," Bruce grinned. "I don't work the streets like our friends a few booths over. Strictly out call these days, my friend. Thanks to the internet, you're only a few clicks away from a rendezvous with me."

"But you're still keeping your ear to the ground and knowing what's what, right?"

"Of course. For a price."

Bruce was a good informant. He was one of the last ones Slam had left from his cop days. The only problem was the fucker charged Slam for information like he was a john. Slam supposed he was, just in a very different way than the usual clients.

"Heard about a cop named Perkins? He'd be a sergeant. First name is Arthur."

"What's he got to do with you?"

"He's the latest name in red on the Homicide big board. He's on the night train to the big adios. Two shots to the back of his head early this morning. You heard anything about a cop or cops doing some shady shit recently? Extortion, shakedowns, you know the drill."

"Yeah... I've heard... things."

Slam forked over two twenties. Bruce slipped them into his jacket.

Slam asked, "What things?"

"Word is someone is trying to muscle into the westside skin trade. I haven't been braced, but they're shaking down pimps and street walkers and making them pay protection. It'll only be a matter of time before they head my way. They supposedly have a couple of cops doing their muscle work, uniforms and not detectives. One of them is a guy they called Artie."

Slam connected Artie to Arthur. He lit up a cigarette and blew smoke. "That it?"

"There's something else..."

Slam sighed and slid Bruce a twenty. Bruce scoffed.

"Twenty bucks? That's the best you can do?"

Slam scowled. "You know I'm in debt, right? The goddamn Bertinelli Mob has a marker on my head for four grand, and I'm getting grief I don't need from a fucking knockoff Bruce Wayne."

"Extortion," Bruce said. "The girls and guys they're working are told to go to special motels and hotels. The rooms are supposed to be set up with cameras. They blackmail businessmen and anyone else they can afford to squeeze. They also like getting right-wing congressmen and councilmen who are in the closet. Let's see how much those bible thumping fucks they represent will support them when they see the good congressman getting a blowjob from a seventeen year old prostie boy."

Hookers and extortion. Slam flashed back to his last days on the force. A dead call-girl consumed him and the burnout that was slowly building became a raging inferno. He got fired, he punched the Homicide CO, and curled up into a bottle he still called home.

"These people got a point man?"

"Maybe..."

"I'm outta cash, asshole. Take an IOU, will ya?"

"Sure." Bruce winked. "But only because you look so cute, Sammy. A westside pimp name of Duke is the one talking up most of this. Don't know any last name, just that he goes by Duke and he is tres small-time. Everyone thought he was full of shit until this one pimp named Rollo beat Duke up and then turned up dead."

Slam thanked Bruce and watched him amscray out the diner. Slam took a long drag on his smoke and thought. Hookers, blackmail, pimp intrigue, racketeering, and murder as the icing on this shit cake he was being forced to eat. He exhaled slowly and watched the smoke cloud drift across the diner. Geppe Bertinelli was sure as fuck getting his money's worth from Slam on this case.

What had she just said to him? That was not the proper response to a threat from Damian Wayne! She should be blubbering and tearful and begging his forgiveness before scampering home, not responding with...with...sass and back-talk! Had she called him 'kid' as well? No the only logical motivation for such idiocy was that she was under the delusion that he was another common child playing dress-up like herself, never-mind that his costume and equipment were both clearly far superior to what any ordinary urchin illegitimately playing at being Robin would be able to have.

Before he could correct her on just how wrong and stupid she was with her assumptions they suddenly weren't alone in the alley. Assassins out of the darkness were nothing new for Damian, he had been dealing with similar things for as long as he could remember, but he couldn't help but berate himself for letting his anger over the false Robin cloud his judgement when it came to sensing the presence of this one. He didn't recognize the outfit, certainly not a League operative though. As soon as the threat was spoken a lifetime of training came rushing up to fill his mind as he began searching almost automatically for the best tactic to remove the the would-be killer.

Half a step out at an angle to clear his line of fire and quick-draw his grappling pistol while using the girl to conceal the nature of his movement from the enemy. Fire at close range aimed for the enemy's head over the girl's shoulder, at this distance the pressure should be sufficient to punch through the skull with the metal grapnel-head and-.

-Wait, he wasn't supposed to kill, hadn't for over a year now. He forced the plan back down in his mind with swift, practiced discipline and came up with an alternative, though not an easy one. It began with a whisper through gritted teeth "Leave this one to me and run out the back of the alley while I hold them off. I can't concentrate on the fight properly while protecting an idiot at the same time."

Still, he could tell that her reaction to this situation was as idiotic as the rest of her. She actually seemed excited to be in mortal peril! Didn't she understand that she was totally out of her depth here? Well, whatever then! He would have to finish this before she got in the way. To that end he drew six sharp bird-a-rangs (ridiculous name, but traditional according to Grayson) placed between each of his gauntlet-clad fingers, leaping above the girl and throwing them directly at his adversary in one smooth motion. They were aimed mainly at the legs and shoulders, less-than-lethal debilitating targets given the amount of force behind his throw even though he fully expected them to be dodged, caught or deflected. They were to buy him a split second's opening and distraction while he drew and palmed one of his tasers, coming down with a thrusting spear-hand meant to conceal the electric surprise until it had already made contact.

If he couldn't fight to kill Damian could at least fight to win.

"-tt- Time to die? I guess that tacky costume doesn't come with a watch!"

"Stop the car!", Spider's howl penetrated through the loud music as his gauntlets inadvertently hit the glove compartment, causing a dent. Eventually, he forcibly stepped on the brakes, causing the car to come to a screeching halt in the middle of the intersection. As the laws of physic did their job, he got out of the death trap that orange-haired nut drove and dropped down on his knees on the rough asphalt, the sound of horns and speeding vehicles swinging through his ears. Derrick removed the mask and then let out a great amount of vomit out of his mouth, enough to fill a small bottle. The horrible stench inside his suit, plus the reckless driving on Donny's part and him mentioning his Batman agenda out of the blue really took a toll on him. Especially impressive considering he hadn't eaten anything properly ever since his breakout from Arkham. He shook his head as the saliva dripped out of his mouth, then got up on his feet, hitting the van's panel with all his might. The car was wrecked either way. One extra dent wouldn't make much of a difference.

"Are you fucking crazy?!", a royally pissed off Derrick exclaimed. His head got heavier for a minute, as he recalled Donny's earlier talk about the Batman. It's funny how two people with similar agendas get to a random encounter. That's almost like something out of a movie, or out of a predetermined piece of literature written by a comic book obsessed 18 year old.

Donny leaned over to watch Spider barf, shaking his head.

"yuh lookun' bit green 'round yuh gills friend. Lil' gin n' tonic'll fix yuh raht up. Lettus go awn aovah to thaht pub awn thirtuh-fahst street. Naw sense thinkin' awn uh emptuh stomach neithah".

What the hell was with this guy? His laid back attitude was unnerving, but at the same time comforting. Being in a hole for so many months had Derrick miss out on a lot of the new changes that happened in Gotham, so perhaps that was exactly the reason he found Donny, a psychopathic hillbilly who seemed to know his shit, so appealing. He also appeared to know something about the Batman. Even harbored a grudge against him, although Derrick could already tell that he didn't want Batman down for the same reasons as him. Not to drown the voices in his head. Probably got a kick out of it.

Derrick's brain juggled Donny's proposal in his mind; weighting the pros and cons. Admittedly, there were a lot more cons than pros, but he'd already pressed on his Achille's heel. The Bat. He had to get whatever information Donny had. Derrick let out a sigh, then put on his mask, his voice reverting to it's resounding timbre.

"Know this - your little stunt has cost you answers, bud. You better tell me everything you know about The Bat and the shift in the underground hierarchy."

Donny shrugged, his eyes following an orange tabby that was sitting up on an apartment high rise across the street. He had hardly been listening.

"Ayuh... I don't keep track'uh that junk. What I can tell yuh though, is haow tah keel Mistah Daahhk Knight. That's baowt thuh gist of it."

Donny opened the driver's side door and climbed out. At least two dozen vehicles were backed up, and at least a few of them had probably called the cops already. Donny strode around and opened the trunk. He removed a large duffel bag and slung it over his back, before turning away and jogging in the direction of a blue Sedan.

"C'maown naow. Can't use thuh van no more, since thuh plates been spawted. Need a new rahd."

He'd stop in front if the Sedan, and the pissed off old lady inside honked long and loud. In response Donny pulled out an absolutely enormous revolver, and waved it between her and the door. That bitch got the hell out, warbling for the police. Donny clambered into the Sedan and beckoned for Spider to get in. Obviously this ride was no better than the van, and probably even more subject to police interference, given that it would have a stolen vehicle report in addition to a city block's worth of witnesses who had seen him threaten a senior citizen with a gun the size of Deuce Bigalow's dick. There was absolutely no reason for what Donny had done.

Batman. The Dark Knight. The most calculating, collected and well-prepared vigilante that Gotham and the rest of the world have ever known. Capable of going toe-to-toe with enemies of the Justice League, who, half the time, appear to be aliens with the power of Gods. The man's so good people have begun to suspect he many not be a man at all. He has a contigency for everything, and even if his backup plan doesn't work, he has backup plan for his backup plan. And yet, there's someone bold and crazy enough to declare that he knows how to KILL him.

Derrick couldn't help but notice the similarities between Donny and The Joker, or at least the image of the Joker he blended in his head upon hearing tales of his misdeeds. He'd never met the man in the flesh, and fortunately, he would never get to meet him. He turned his head to look at the cars rounding up behind him, some angrily honking their horns while some staring out of the windows, an expression of worry covering their faces. He heard Donny speak what he had been thinking up until that moment. The GCPD were probably on their way. Just a matter of time before you could make out the sound of sirens in the distance.

Derrick soldiered on, slowly trailing behind Donny as he jacked a vehicle, a Sedan to be more specific. He watched as the driver, an old lady, got out, hoping that the psycho ginger has the common sense not to put a bullet in the back of her head. Not like Derrick cared about casualties; we're talking about a man who blew up an entire military base to cover his tracks. He just didn't like doing things without a strong reason. Not to mention it was Donny's GTA-style stunt that got him in trouble in the first place. He mounted the car, riding shotgun as Donny hit the gas pedal.

Meanwhile at the Pub...

Derrick settled in one of the tables. He hadn't ordered anything and was not planning to. The stares he was getting didn't go unnoticed, but he tried to ignore them the best he could. Going in a public place in full gear wasn't exactly his brightest idea. He'd just have to cross his fingers that no one draws the attention at them. Opposite him sat Donny, as the silence took over the pub. The crime waves obviously had caused a decrease in costumers. There was no one there but the dynamic duo, and the occassional shitfaced, deadbeat loser. Derrick finally decided to break the silence.

"What is your plan? How are you gonna go on about 'keeling Dahk Knight'?", he pulled off his best mock accent.

"More importantly, why do you want to kill him?"

"Just fah kicks. Man needs somethahn tuh spend tahm an' money on, and wimmun get old fast".

Donny had ordered a Ceasar salad and a mug of black coffee. He was a slow eater.

"Yuh evah heard thuh sayin', 'Simplicitah is thuh best weapon'?' Tuh kill something, all yuh need is enough force an' thuh means tuh delivah it. We jus' get Batman out in plain sight an' blow 'im up or shoot 'im with a big gun or something. 'Ave a hostage ah two fan good measah. Nawt complicated, no Sah. He ain't tougher thannuh bomb, faster than no bullet."

Upon hearing Donny's ingenius "plan", Derrick shook his head. He was really holding out hope for a moment there.

"You think that hasn't been done before? With The Bat out of the picture for the last three days, taking hostages will probably attract one of his pupils. Or all of them simultaneously."

He crossed his arms, laying back on his seat. "You're gonna have to do something better than that."

Donny's petit smile widened.

He calmly began unraveling his master plan to his newfound ally. At first, Derrick's body language screamed indifference. He wasn't interested in the slightest in hearing what he had to say. But as more and more of his plan unfolded, he began inching closer to the table. Donny would take a pause for a bite or two and then continue explaining his strategy. Even through the mask, you could see a glimmer of hope sparkling through Spider's weary eyes.

Derrick listened intently all the way. As crazy as the plan sounded, it was something that had to be attempted. The sound of sirens echoed in the distance. Someone had called the police, as it was predicted to happen eventually.

"Alright, orange. For both our sakes, this plan better works.", Derrick uttered through the mask, rising up from his seat. "Now, we gotta scamper. Gotham's finest are on their way.", he turned his back on Donny and headed for the door.

Donny finished the last if his coffee and left without paying. The blue Sedan had been parked on the other side of the block. Time to hop vehicles yet again. Donny stepped up to a trashy old Pinto and rammed his fist through the window. Those gloves of his must have been filled with some kind of metal shot. He unlocked both doors and sliced open a panel below the wheel with a switchblade. Hotwiring a car isn't supposed to be easy, but the engine started up after a mere thirty seconds.

The first order of business? Find a sturdy bunker with thick walls and a concrete floor. The next? Hit Home Depot for some raw materials and construction supplies. Lastly? Cause mayhem. For their plan to work, the duo had to make Gotham a living hell. Well, more than it already is.

---

---

As Bastion patrolled through the city of Gotham, sticking to back alleys and shadows, he began to notice something odd. Granted, most of Gotham could be considered "odd" but this still caught his eye. Every manhole cover he passed, every entrance to the sewers, were guarded by men. Sometimes just one guy with a concealed gun, sometimes three with their sub machine guns on full display. Finally, Bastion came to a stop behind a parked car, and observed three men, no noticeable weapons on them, patrol around a manhole.

"Why do we even have to keep going around this stupid thing? What does the boss thinks gonna come out?" one of the men asked his partners. "Look, I don't give the orders, I just follow 'em. Boss told me to watch any sewer entrances for signs of the Bat. That's what I'm doing," another man replied. Mention of Batman peaked Bastion's interest. If the mob were looking for Batman, and they found him first that might end very poorly.

And so, faced with going home or going down into the sewers to maybe find the Batman, he made the obvious choice. The thugs didn't put up much of a fight. He sighed, kneeling down he struggled to lift up the manhole cover, finally grunting and shoving it off. Damn it that thing is heavy he thought. Luckily this was a sleazier part of town, where infrastructure wasn't exactly a top priority. Anywhere else and that cover might have been welded down to keep people like him out of the sewers.

Now that the cover was off, nothing was stopping Bastion from dropping down to the depths of Gotham. Looking down the hole he cringed at the smell of the sewers, but shook his head. This was real hero work he was doing here. He wasn't going to be shooed away by a smell. He began climbing down the ladder and reached the bottom, stepping down into sewer water. He felt around his utility belt for a small flashlight that he kept. He grabbed it and flicked it on, illuminating his path in front of him as he made his way forward, looking for any clue as to where Gotham's mysterious defender was.

Getting into the Nykawa Center undetected was not going to be easy. The League of Assassins' security was top notch at even their most rudimentary of locations. Anywhere that was housing either Talia or Ra's would have nothing less than every resource at their disposal. Add on to that that they knew all too well the identities, and more importantly the capabilities, of the Bat Family, and Dick knew he had to be at his most aware. There was no way the League would have a large base of operations in Gotham City without personalized security measures against any denizens of the cave. Not to mention just getting to the island in and of itself would be a hassle. Boat? Too easily spotted. By air? As if they wouldn't be monitoring airspace. Underwater? That was the most reasonable of the options, which meant the League already foresaw the possibility and would have implemented the necessary measures. How then did Dick plan to get to Faraway Isle without being spotted?

He swam.

The water was biting and cold, but that didn't bother Dick. The waves continued rolling overhead, but that didn't bother him either. The distance was so far, but that... Ok, that bothered him a little bit, but not by much. Regardless, this really was the best course of options. The constantly rolling waves would make it near impossible to spot him in the water, and the motion sensors would be looking for boats and submarines. A person looked too much like a large fish, rendering him effectively invisible. He only had to endure twenty minutes of biting cold and fighting currents before he reached a rocky cliff wall. Well that, and twenty minutes of Barbara talking in his ear while he couldn't respond.

"From what I've found, the island complex was purchased ten years ago by a Mr. Lazarevic. After a little digging, it turns out that Lazarevic is one of many pseudonyms for Ra's al Ghul. No surprise there, but it does mean that the League has had a whole decade to prepare the place against any incursion. Dick, that's almost as long as you and Bruce have been active." Not that Dick didn't realize that. He knew all too well that this was not going to be easy. "The League's computer systems here are top notch, almost as good as Kuttler's, but I managed to get a copy of the floor schematics. They've already been downloaded to your suit's computer. From just a cursory glance, the island is being patrolled by no less than two dozen assassins, but you can bet there's more not recorded on any official documentation. Then there's the walls, towers, gates, and motion sensors. Huh, that's strange. Wouldn't they have more here?"

Nightwing took in a deep breath of air and lifted himself up onto a rock ledge, having finally reached the island. Now that Barbara mentioned it, it was peculiar that security wasn't even tighter than that. The League had this facility under their ownership for ten whole years. Normally it would only take them a week or two to setup this kind of a detail. Either Barbara got the wrong information, or the League took an active interest in the location only recently, and Dick refused to believe the former. "Copy that, Oracle. I'm about to scale the island, going into radio silence. Keep an eye on my position, and see what you can do about those motion sensors."

"I'm offended you didn't think that I would already be on it, Nightwing. Oracle out."

Of course she was, he thought to himself as he began scaling the precarious rock wall. Babs was a professional, and always three steps ahead. She took after Bruce in that way. Him? He was much better at flying by the seat of his pants, proven when one of his handholds gave out about three quarters of the way up. A large stone, about the size of a man's torso, crumbled from the wall when he put his weight on it. The sedimentary trap caused a minor rock slide on the way down, knocking other stones from the wall as it fell and landing in the river with a large splash. As the first large rock fell from its place, Dick flipped himself over, then kicked off of the large stone. Thanks to Newton's third law, the erstwhile sidekick propelled himself upward several more feet, saving himself some time while his platform shot down faster than gravity alone would allow. The noise caught the attention of an armed guard, who curiously looked over the side of his wall with a large flashlight. Utilizing his newfound momentum, Dick swung to his right and grabbed hold of a rocky outcropping, where he deftly spun downward and hung to the bottom of the outcrop.

Seconds passed. Then minutes passed. Finally the guard's light moved someplace else, and Dick breathed a small sigh of relief. He swung back up to the top of the outcropping and gave himself a moment to catch his breath. With that done, he hopped up to the island's ledge and lifted himself up. With just his toes he kept himself balanced on the six inches of rock and dirt between a hundred foot watery drop and a perfectly flat wall he had to scale. Glad the easy part's done! I was getting bored. Dick Grayson ran a finger along the wall, testing the texture. Concrete. Good, easily climbable. Slipping his hands into a pouch on his utility belt, Dick attached a set of claws to each glove. With a childlike eager grin, he placed one hand onto the side of the wall, digging the blades into the man-made stone construct. With one large heave and one small breath, he was off.

Clouds rolled in, blanketing the night sky and ruining Dick's view of the heavens above. Just was well. The lights and pollution in Gotham meant that no stars were ever visible as it was, so as least he could entertain himself with the thoughts of cloud shapes. Oh look, there was a bird. And a plane. Come to think of it, finding Bruce would have been a whole lot easier if they had called in Clark. Why didn't he again? Lightning lit up the dark clouds above and Dick made out the rough shape of a bat in the night sky. In an instant he remembered why, and sighed. The fact that he neared the top of the wall, and subsequently the attached guard tower, brought him back to the present.

Dick peaked his head over the railing to see a large man, about six and a half feet tall, patrolling around the tower. He wore all black, carried an assault rifle, and a pair of binoculars hung from his neck. In the center of the tower was a chair and table, which housed a short-wave radio. Nightwing had the fortune of arriving just as the radio received an incoming transmission spoken in Arabic. <"Tower One checking in. All remains clear."> Dick ducked his head back beneath the railings as the guard turned toward the radio and relayed his own message back. <"Tower Two checking in. Thought I had something, but it was just erosion. All clear."> The second Dick heard the radio make contact with the table, he shoved off of the tower wall with his feet, flipping up and landing in a crouched position right in front of the guard. In the same motion he pulled out two escrima sticks and threw them, one at the guard's head and the other at the radio.

<"Patrol One checking in, all cl-"> Crunch! The radio smashed beneath the force of the escrima, while the other struck the guard right in the head, and both sticks clattered to the ground. Had Dick performed this tactic on one of the many thugs in Gotham, or Bludhaven, they'd have been knocked unconscious instantly. League assassins were made of tougher stuff. The man felt the impact, which hurt and threw him off balance, but he kept his wits about him. As his large form stumbled back he lifted his assault rifle at his assailant in an attempt to shoot Grayson dead. Can't let a shot get off! Continuing in the same fluid motion, Nightwing ejected a small bird-shaped shuriken from a wrist-mounted compartment into his fingers and tossed it forward. His target was not the assassin guard, but his rifle. A mere split second before the man's finger touched the trigger, the wing ding struck the gun's safety, switching it on.

Gotta finish it! Keeping the momentum going, Nightwing somersaulted into the guard, still dazed and confused, then locked his legs around the man's face. Flinging his body backward, Dick slammed the guard's head onto the ground. Now he was unconscious. Dick sprang up and dusted himself off, an excited grin plastered upon his face. This guy was going to have a rather bad concussion and the worst migraine of his life once he woke up, but he'd live.

"Oracle, anything you found say how long between check-ins from all the guards?" he asked in a whisper, taking the time to gather his escrima and wing ding.

"No, there's nothing here about it. Sorry Nightwing," came the synthesized voice Barbara used when dealing with enemies that could potentially hack their communications.

"Don't worry about it. I'll just have to keep moving and hope for the best. When I get home, I'll need some kind of triathlon medal or something, don't you think?" Dick pocketed his weapons and inspected the facility around him using the unconscious guard's binoculars.

"Let's just focus on finishing the mission first." Dick smiled. Disguised voice or not, he knew Babs and he could tell she was holding back a laugh right now.

"Looks like a patrol unit is about to enter the main facility," Dick informed her as he looked over the schematics she sent to him. "Should take me right to the main office. Whether it's a head or a daughter, I should be meeting a demon there. I'll just slip right in through the door when they go inside."

"How do you plan to accomplish that?" Barbara asked as he straightened up. The patrol was heading his way, about to enter a security door at the base of the tower he stood upon.

"You gotta ask? I'm going to spread my wings and fly." Dick stepped up onto the railing with one foot, leaning forward.

"Careful. That's a sixty foot drop. You're not Superman."

"Nope," he answered back, latching a bungee cord to the railing. "Just a circus brat."

One. Two. Three. Four. Go! Dick Grayson leaned forward and dove straight down from the guard tower, letting gravity do its job. The air stung his still wet face as it raced by, parting his hair. Two patrolling guards stood in front of the security door now and swiped a keycard. The doorway opened on hydraulic power. Five. Six. Twist! Dick curled up into a ball, spun around, then straightened out to swing through the doorway, right behind the patrolling guards. He made it through just in time as the door closed on his cord and severed it. As the for the guards, Nightwing barrelled right into them, knocking them aside and onto the ground. Hard. Yeah, they're not getting up from that for a while.

Grayson stood up himself, stretching his sore joints from that dangerous stunt. As he did so, he kept an eye out to scan his immediate surroundings. The very first item to catch his eye was an old security camera pointed right at his face. Uh-oh. Of course there would be a security camera right in the front door! The place used to be a prison institution, the League would be idiots to take advantage of that resource!

"Don't worry about the security cameras. I've already hacked the feed and put it on loop, so I'm the only one seeing you right now. You should totally see the look on your face, though!" Dick chuckled and shook his head at the camera. "How is it that I've gone toe to toe with Clayface, Deathstroke, and Trigon the Terrible, but you consistently find new ways to be the scariest person in my life?"

"I think that's the most flattering thing you've ever said to me. Now get going."

Without another word, Grayson checked the schematics on his wrist-mounted computer. Right, then left, through the old cafeteria, elevator down, secret underground facility, and personal office. Alright, no problem. Should be easy, right? Right. Well, got to get going. Dick dashed down the hall, taking a right, and quickly surveyed ahead. All clear, good. He dashed down once more, took a left and surveyed again. One guard, but not a regular one. League assassin, not in plain sight. A hooded man hidden behind an old jail cell posing as part of the environment. In a rush Dick pulled his head back behind the corner, confident the assassin hadn't yet spotted him. Alright, how best to get passed this vigilant assassin? A distraction wouldn't be likely to work as no doubt they'd be used to the open guards patrolling the halls, making sounds. Climbing up wasn't an option either, as the iron bars of the cells doors were the only things to grab onto, which would make too much noise. Disguise? Going back to loot one of the guards of his clothes would take too much time; discovery would be guaranteed. What could he do? Dick decided to take another look just in case he had missed something, just in time to see a metal blade swinging horizontally at his face.

Ducking down, the blade struck the corner of the wall. Well, so much for not being spotted. Nightwing thrust a fist at the assassin's gut while he was crouched down, but the assassin spun out of the way, pulling his blade out of the wall in the process. The man then proceeded to swing with expert form at Dick, who was quickly put on the defensive. He had to bob, duck, and weave back and forth in order to avoid getting sliced, losing ground all the while. Damn, this assassin was good. Judging by his form he had to be one of...

Talia's elite guard. That answered the question as to who was in charge here. While Dick was processing that information, the elite assassin landed a kick on his chest, knocking the vigilante onto his back. "I will present your head to my mistress!" the assassin shouted, bringing his blade down on Dick's neck. In respond Dick blocked the blade between his two escrima in a cross guard.

"Pathetic. What do you hope to accomplish with your little sticks?" The assassin pressed more of his strength into the blade with both hands. He had leverage on his side, and so Dick fought hard to prevent the blade from reaching his face but it continued to drop inch by inch. That's when Dick smiled and clicked a button on his escrima. Instantly the escrima lit up with electricity. The current flowed from the sticks to the metal sword, and into the body of the assassin who convulsed for several seconds, then slumped off to the side.

Breathing hard, Dick switched off the taser settings of his escrima and stood up. "I think the answer is pretty shocking, don't you?" Grayson's face immediately contorted with displeasure as soon as the words left his mouth. Wow. That... That was pretty bad. Not your best moment, Grayson. Not by a long shot. He picked up the assassin with a heavy huff, then the man's sword, and returned him to his post behind the jail cell.

With that out of the way, Nightwing made use of his grapple gun for the first time since arriving at Faraway Isle. Rather than the simple yet brilliant plan of heading right in through the doors to that cafeteria, he went with the more prudent and cautious option of hitting up the air vent. In one swift movement he launched himself through the air and slid through the vent grate, forcing it aside. Inside the air was cold, and dusty. If it weren't so closed in, it might have reminded him of the cave. Then again, Alfred kept a clean house, so maybe the dust was out of place as well. Either way, slowly but surely Dick Grayson crawled through the vent system above the cafeteria. He eyed the room through a grate and was glad he did. Down on the floor was a whole squadron of men: guards, assassins, elite assassins, and quite a few guns. Not even Bruce would have made it through that in a straight fight, even by catching them off guard.

Once on the other side, Dick eyed what he could through the vent grating. He could see the elevator he needed to use to go down, but not much else. "Oracle, see anything below me?" he whispered.

"Just the elevator. You're all clear."

Excellent! Dick didn't expect to be so lucky. Carefully he opened the grate, then allowed himself to fall through with cat-like grace. "Wha-" shouted a League assassin as Dick spotted the woman, and twisted in the air to land a kick down on her shoulder blade. She went down, and he quickly followed up with a takedown by tasing her. Unfortunately she wasn't the only one around, and Dick quickly found himself surrounded by six assassins of various size, weaponry, and ability. At least two of them were of Talia's elite guard.

So much for all clear. The cameras must have reset.

"Uh... Take me to your leader?" he asked sheepishly, maintaining his fighting pose.

The two were in a dark blue Mercedes, a Benz. The thing had been in one of the rich neighborhoods, and probably weighed two tons.

"Ayuh, Ah'll have thah juniah hamburgah with mustahd, not mayo, an' a strawberrah slushah."

They would be parked at a Sonic, the best spot for hammering out details. As they waited for their orders, Donny would start dishing out his ideas for handling each potential problem.

Derrick's right gauntlet moved at the back of his neck as he put pressure on a tiny spot that was bothering him. He looked at Donny and then veered his sight towards the window, clearly searching for any loopholes on his plan. Of course, there were always things that could go wrong when one decides to take on the Bat-family. They were extremely organized, some of them experienced with taking care inhuman threats. But as far as plans went, Donny crafted a good one.

Maintaing the silence, Derrick took a step out of the Benz, letting the heavy door get back on it's closed position. He threw both of his elbows at the car's open window.

"This might work. In the meantime, we should split. The cops are probably looking for two criminals who may resemble us, after the stunt you pulled at the intersection. If you need me, come at The Factory between the hours of Six and Ten P.M."

On that note, Spider's grappling hook hit one of the buildings, hauling him up.

Donny's revolver practically jumped into his hand as he fired off a shot at the grappling hook cord right as Spider started to descend, to snap the tether loose. He'd then holster his weapon, nodding.

"Trah nawt tuh use them things. Yuh most vulnerable when yuh in thuh air, an' if yuh chasin' Batman up a roof, he'll be waitin' at thuh top tuh knock yuh back down. If yuh see a boy wondah doin' that, jus' shoot 'em. They won't be able tuh dodge shit. If ya wanna keep one, Ah'll pay fah thuh replacement..."

Derrick, in his full suit, felt himself gravitating towards the ground seconds after hearing a gunshot. He barely landed on his feet, his head instinctively turning to where the gunshot originated from. To no surprise, the shooter was his newfound ally.

"How about I pay you back right now?!", A volatile Dertick spoke as his right gauntlet got hold of one of his prized Five-Sevens. Without even breaking eye contact with Donny, he shot the car's front tire. A gunshot in such a quiet neighborhood would surely attract attention, not to mention how the duo were having difficulty settling on one car, mostly due to necessity.

"Have fun.", Spider spoke in his usual resonating tone, opting to take the more obvious route home.

Donny looked up at the sky as the Benz slowly sank to one side, emitting a continuous farting noise from the escaping air pressure. The Sonic waitress stopped short to watch in awkward silence. Donny closed his eyes and pinched the bridge of his nose as the squealing kept going. It was going to be a long walk to the Mall. At last when it stopped, he tilted his gaze to the waitress.

"Ayuh... Bettah bring an' extra slushie, dahlin'. Gonnah need it."

Another night in Gotham rolled around. Lee wasn't anywhere closer to figuring out who and where the Jester could be, and his vigilante work in the late hours wasn't helping things much. He'd beaten on a few Jokerz here and there, managed to catch them with their pants down and assist the GCPD in an arrest of at least a dozen clowns or so despite the police not knowing of the Crimson Avenger's involvement. Lee Travis was working on his parkour skills, running and leaping in his red coat and fedora. The night air was doing him some good, he couldn't sleep after his father published an article about a possible gang of Robins being as bad for the city as the Jokerz. Lee's last piece for the Gotham Globe was about new equipment at the Gotham Aquarium. The night air was doing him some good, however...

On the other side of town...

"Um... boss? That guy in the red coat messed a few of the guys up..." said a clown who was over weight but resembling the Joker to an extent with his make-up and wardrobe choice.

"Joker is dead, Batman is MIA, and we can't even fight a Robin on a good night anymore? Get the gang together..." said a man sitting in a colorful throne in the shadows of a warehouse.

"..even Tweedle Dee and Tweedle Dumb?" asked the over weight Jokerz gang member.

"Bring in EVERYONE. The green hair and purple pants just isn't doing it, I want everybody we've got with pizzazz and the 'wow factor'. Joker had Harley Quinn for his right hand, I need to find me a sidekick. And Fatso?" said the purple and green clad Jester looking ten kinds of frightening.

"Yeah, boss?" the one called Fatso replied.

"Don't forget to smile! HA HA HAAA HAAA!" the Jester yelled smacking at the fat clown with a cepter.

Twenty minutes later...



~KL~

Jonathan since returned to one of his many sanctuaries around the city. Thanks to his…remodeling of the current one, the circular room in which he now stood bore plexiglass walls, displaying his latest prisoners at every turn, of varying ages, genders, and occupations. He smirked in particular at the Joker thug he had contained, taking exceptional pleasure in the man’s torment due to his relationship with his expired boss. He never quite figured out what the laughing purple madman feared for certain, but he had his guesses. And truthfully, he was relieved that mad fool finally kicked it.

It became clearer with each day, but in a twisted sense, the Joker’s existence kept everything in Gotham more or less in check, kept its heartbeat pacing, kept up the quiet rhythm its citizens subconsciously followed. And with him out of the picture, the choked grip he once held crumbled. No longer would this city dance to the tune of bat and clown, but allow for new seeds to be sown, for a new pace, a new dance.

The seeds were ripe for the taking. The mobs were already trying to gain ground over the costumed crowd.

Jonathan slowly walked among his prisoners, hands neatly clasped behind his back, his metal brace shining in the light. He took in every detail of their terrified faces, every note of their screams, the exact postures contorted and deformed as they curled away or fought off monsters only they could see.

The talk with Edward had given him pause. Most might find their biggest concern with the League or the mobs. Jonathan’s thoughts went to the Batman, and more specifically, the lack of his presence in Gotham. This could be his chance to take the city, he knew. Terrify it. Weaken it. Destroy it. But what worth would any plan hold if the Batman could not witness it?

He walked to the center of the room, took a seat in the swivel chair he kept there.

More importantly, he wondered, if the Batman were to never return...nothing terrified him like the Batman did. Gave him that delicious thrill, the satisfaction that he craved. That in itself was its own sort of Hell.

Which meant he needed to find a new source. Something that would sustain him, keep him going with or without the Batman.

Jonathan stood again, turned to leave the room, hardly giving a glance to one of his prisoners who had given up, and collapsed with the last glimmer of both hope and life in her cell. Merely a test subject bound for replacement.

Long ago, he took hit jobs for cash, and though his current supplies were plentiful, they were nowhere near what he needed to wreak true havoc. He would send word on the streets to potential clients. Perhaps revisiting his roots instead of simply pulling a job might assist in his predicament, allow him to rediscover a part of himself still capable of producing anticipation.

Afterward, he would set to work on another formula.

As soon as Vinceny had gotten far away enough from the warehouse, he hailed a passing cab. As he was being driven towards his main hideout, he pondered what to do about his current predicament. If he ran he was a dead man. He hid, dead. He had to find out who framed him, beat the shit out of them and see if anyone else had a hand in it. Best way to do that, find The Middle Man.

"Yo bud, we're here."

Vincent looked out the window and saw The Caramel Truffle, a strip club he stayed at, or rather, the room above a strip club. He fished out some cash from his wallet and palmed it off to the cabbie. "Keep the change."

He walked into the club and was greeted by a few of the employees that worked there. He headed past the stage, through the back room where a few of the girls were getting ready for their time on stage, and went up a stairway. As he entered his small apartment, he shut the door and fell face first onto his couch.

Revenge can wait, he needed to heal up a bit first. And get some food later. Before he knew it, he was out like a light.

@Rin@Dblade26

^{(GM note: Briefer post due to the pure action nature, and I still call a few shots on both your characters. This is because your characters are going to get roughed up at first; I'd suggest teaming up to take the Talon down but that'd require your characters to communicate, maybe, and possibly work together. Good luck. ^_^)}

A twist this way, a lean that way, and Mary Turner let the thrown blades sail right past her. One of them stuck into her upper thigh--casually she allowed her hand to wrap around it's razor sharp other half, and just pull it out as if pain was no part of the equation. Because it wasn't. The Court's might would impress even the worst of this world, Mary truly believed that. She had to.

The Talon moved as swift as shadow, leaving the attack she anticipated the moment she saw him go for the throwing blades empty handed, giving him a swift sidekick in the ribs, the force of her heel amounting to the kinetic force of a sledgehammer.

He thought he was clever. He was mistaken. Under her mask, Mary's cold lips smiled.

With the quickness of a veteran cave dweller, the bird-a-rang came flying out of her hand with the barest flip of her wrists; the sound of steel coming to a squishing halt in the soft flesh of "Robin"'s left shoulder as immediate to the untrained hero as a blink. The threat was real, and this Talon was hellbent on proving it. On murdering the young girl here and now in front of Wayne's child.

"Stay down, Wayne. You can't protect her."

Sudden as she pivoted on her heel to face the boy again, the daggers were in either hand, and coming down on Damian with speed and quickness that had once been the envy of her time in this world. Speed and quickness that not even death could rob her of. It was a surprise to miss the boy, though she nearly tore his cape apart even in missing. It was no comfort, instead she came up seething, ripping a dagger through the air towards the girl without seeming to aim, and stepping up to the boy with the other clinched in her right hand.

She would destroy him, and fill him with half a hundred holes. "Prepare to bleed Robin red, child."

Death Man's Sedan

<<"See, now this is what I'm talking about! Americans can do incredible things with pork.">>

Death Man sat in the back of the car as he enjoyed a rack of ribs and some imported beer. Shiro got a few cookies and a soda, the two henchmen got barbecue sandwiches and fries... all takeout. It was just safer to get takeout in Gotham, especially after poking a hornet's nest. Death Man grumbled as he heard his phone ringing.

<<"And they remember to include the moist towelettes. That crazy masked biker's steakhouse never included the towelettes, you had to ask.">>

Te o toriatte Kono mama ikō...
Aisuru hito yo...
Shizukana yoi ni...
Hikario tomoshi...

He wiped his hands off, composing himself and putting the helmet back on for the full effect. Clearing his throat, he flipped open his phone- an older model- and answered at last.

Itoshiki O-

<<"You may speak, Satou. but do so knowing the the dire consequences for daring trifle with my affairs.">>

<<"My apologies, Lord Death Man. Know that I do so only that we know your will.">>

<<"I said you may speak. Do not waste my time with pleasantries.">>

<<"We want to know who will be your hand in... uh... Look, Lord Death Man, this dramatic veiled speech thing is hard. How are we starting the whole crime wave thing?">>

SHIT. Amidst the sweet taste of barbecued pig, the caress of imported beer he could have gotten cheaper at home, and the lingering rush from interrogating a toady, Lord Death Man forgot his promise to the men: a crime a day, every day, except weekends. To make Gotham worse than Hub City or Vanity City. The whole point of this stupid trip. He'd had something in mind... something to lead off with to let the Gothamites know that this was not, in fact, the brand of crime they were used to. The question is if it was ready or not.

<<"The gears are in motion, Satou. Wheels are turning. Death Man out.">>

Hanging up, Death Man began scrolling through his phone contacts. He needed a criminal, and fast. A hostage situation through the toxic slime of a Kemurian Looter, maybe? Have one of his enforcers clear out some of the local thugs? Start up a protection racket with the overwhelming strength of an oni? Was it too soon to show off what Shiro could really do? There were simply too many options. Thankfully, the burden was lifted as his phone rang once more.

<<"Doctor Reaper. I trust you have good news regarding Little Mori's recovery.">>

<<"Indeed, Lord Death Man! He has taken to the cybernetics faster than we could have hoped... Though he will require more testing to ensure the procedure was completely effective.">>

Okay, Little Mori was up, and needed testing. That was a start. Lord Death man looked around the car, settling on a newspaper. A rather interesting article on the front page mentioned something about jewels, but he didn't have long enough to read- he had to keep it going. Thankfully, a century of criminal activity makes for good on-the-spot judgement calls.

<<"I believe I have an adequate test of his abilities. At the Gotham Museum of Art, there are... four gems of exquisite value being displayed. I believe they are of sufficient clarity that your Super Science Network may find use for them. As such, I want them by dawn. Send Little Mori to retrieve them.">>

<<"As you command, my lord! He will be dispatched immediately.">>

<<"And be sure that he understands... the price of failure. Death Man, out.">>

With that, Death Man hung up and turned his attention to his ribs. Soon, they would be back at base, and the Death Syndicate's crime spree would officially begin. Gotham wouldn't know what hit it.

@Psyga315

The bike was ditched almost as soon as she got into downtown; there were faster and more stealthy ways to travel. Who needed to follow roads, Helena thought, when they could simply glide around and grapple from rooftop to rooftop? In the sprawl of Gotham City's outer rim it made sense for the bike, or the Batmobile, or the...whatever Dick and Tim had going on these days. Helena always lost track.

But speed and efficiency wasn't her only motivation for the switch: the Huntress had a stalker. They were good, whoever they were, because all she knew was that someone--or something--was out there with eyes on her. It was more the feeling of being watched, a sixth sense, that she trusted than any concrete detail that tipped the stalker's hand. But she wasn't just anyone; her training had taught her to trust her instincts. They rarely betrayed her; much as she often secretly wished they would from time to time.

Wouldn't it just be peachy if no one was really shadowing her? Huntress had a mission, and more, going on at the moment. There were enough plates currently spinning for her liking. She didn't particularly want another plate added. Soon enough she was grappling, gliding, tumbling to her feet, running, leaping, grappling, gliding, in various variations of the pattern. Steam from rooftop vents mixing with the heavy night air to make the rooftop highway just a little more laborous than usual.

Really, Alfred just added on when he cut in. "Miss Helena, I'm afraid you have someone on your tail."

"I know."

"You're still heading to Mr. Bolton?"

She smiled. "Yup."

He didn't say it over the channel, but Helena was still certain he said it: Oh my.

The next ten minutes were a blur. Not because it was dull and procedural. But because moments after finishing with Alfred, one of those instincts told her to turn around, and survey. She spotted the dark figure dropping on a rooftop just a few rooftops behind her. When it wasn't what she'd imagine a League assassin would look like, when she saw that...brow? That was the moment she just kept grappling and gliding and running. Was she wrong?

Again, she just wasn't that lucky.

There was too little time, too much focus required to stay ahead of the Brow. Coming from a higher angle made it possible for the Huntress to get a lock on the target with the cowl's heads up display--a perk that came with a Batman designed Huntress suit, a fact she both hated and loved at the exactly same time. Their relationship was always so full of contradictions. She came in fast, cutting the line and letting herself drop, smashing into Anton Bolton's living room window. She thought she'd have time to turn her crossbow at the window if the stalker followed her in.

She didn't. The stalker was on her back the moment she hit the glass, causing the impact of her landing to be extreme, to be painful enough for her world to go black, then white, before anything resembling true vision returned to her. When the stalker, apparently a large well built man a few inches past six feet in height in a seriously questionable getup, stuck the dagger between armor plates--she gasped, and her trigger finger twitched. She figured he'd strike while she was down and under him. She didn't expect the dagger.

But he didn't expect a crossbow bolt in his chest, either.

The dagger was ripped from her abdomen, and tossed, the crossbow simply dropped as she found her feet and dared a look this way, then that. She half expected to find Anton Bolton's dead corpse, or to find the man gawking. The moment of looking cost her, as the figure the Bat computer was suddenly identifying as a "Talon" on her HUD was drop kicking her in the back, sending her body flying forward and destroying the poor couch that caught her, tipping it over upon it's back. "BOLTON! YOU BETTER BE HOME."

Downtown Gotham;

The car had stopped outside of the building, as the two officers had gotten out, heading inside. One of them held a cigarette in one hand, a lighter in the other. He lit the stick of tobacco and tar, before heading inside, the other - older officer grunted. "Do you have to smoke that inside?" He asked, and the officer nodded. "Sure do." They headed for the elevator, only to find that the elevator was out of service, not unexpected from a place this rundown in Gotham. In the 60's, this had been an office building, but it had since then been turned into an apartment complex with several low-income families living in it. The two were here for one specific man. His name was Lukas Jackson, a drug dealer and suspect in a double homicide two days ago. Lucas was supposed to have been hired to kill one Martin Green, a young man with ties to several criminal organizations around town - like most people in this city.

The two arrived at the door, after climbing the stairs, the officer that had been smoking had put out his cigarette, fixed the tie around his neck on the navy blue police uniform. Inside, they found that the door was not locked, in fact, it looked like it had been kicked open. The two looked at each other and reached for their guns, drawing them and holding them up with both hands, aiming, while they walked carefully into the apartment. As they did, they heard a sound, and the officer grabbed his partner, tackling him to the floor as the shower of bullets erupted from the submachine gun being fired at them.

Looking over at his partner, he grunted, seeing him bleeding from the arm, one bullet had grazed him. The assailant had run across the room, while the two were hiding outside of the door, both of them firing their guns at him, but being unsuccesful in hitting him. He darted to the window, onto the staircase leading onto the roof. The wounded officer grunted, calling for backup into the radio, while the other one climbed to his feet. "You OK? Get down to the street and wait for backup, I'll chase this asshole down." He said, darting up the stairs, his partner shouting after him.

"Todd!"

Jason emerged onto the staircase as his target got onto the top of the roof, the young officer darted up the stairs as quickly as he could, beginning to catch up with the gunman. Bringing up his gun, the man had already jumped off of the building - onto the next rooftop before Officer Todd could fire. He chased him down, and much to the criminals surprise, the Policeman cleared the gap between the two buildings without hesitation, rolling on the concrete as his target kicked open the door leading into the next apartment complex, he was running down the staircase when the officer leaped over the railing, landing in front of the man, whom stumbled while turning around, sprinting down the corridor, running out of breath.

A young woman came out of her apartment as the two came running at her, freezing upon seeing the police and the criminal, the latter got into her apartment and headed for the window in a desperate attempt at losing his pursuer, but before he could reach the window, the cop stood in the doorway, his finger on the trigger of his department issued glock.

"Freeze!"

***

Jason walked in with Lucas in handcuffs into the Police Department, two other officers taking the criminal from his custody, putting him in holding while Jason filled out the paperwork. Jason's partner, William Harper tapped him on the shoulder " You chased him across a rooftop, down the next apartment building and leaped two stories down a staircase. What are you, Captain America?" and Jason shrugged. " I took a few gymnastic classes in high school, and I ran a lot of track." The officer grinned. The older officer, Harper shrugged. "Yeah, whatever Todd. You keep busting crooks like this, and you'll be on the fast track to getting that shield."

Jason grinned. Detective Todd.. amused at the thought.

- The Bowery, Gotham

A man paced himself towards his car, holding a grocery bag like it's something dear to him. Then again, food was pretty scarce in The Bowery, arguably the most messed up part of Gotham. His appearance was that of a middle-aged man, probably around his mid-40s, with graying hair on the side and black bags under his eyes. He looked both sides before boarding his car, placing the grocery bag on the front seat. He closed the door and made himself comfortable, inspecting his hair in the car's rearview mirror. Took him long enough, but he finally noticed the shadowy figure on the back seat. He was startled, but the cold barrel of a gun on the back of his head kept him composed.

"Don't. Move!" Derrick commanded, ruffling the man's hair with his Five-Seven.

"W-Who..How did you enter?", the man stumbled on his words.

"Magic." Derrick replied, his reverberating voice deprived of emotion. It made a nice addition to his fear factor.

"Wait a minute.. I know you."

"Of course you do, numbnuts." Derrick removed his mask, allowing the man to get a better look at him. His voice was reverted to the normal, human-sounding tone. "It's me."

"Derrick?", the man queried in surprise while looking at the rearview mirror. "I thought you were locked up."

Derrick threw a folded cable on the front seat, as it unfurled on the grocery bag. The man glanced at it but was careful to not make any sudden movements. He didn't want to provoke an aggressive response from his assailant. "What is that?"

"Wire rope. It was part of my suit, but it just recently snapped. I need you to fix it or find a replacement for it - your choice." Derrick calmly replied while scouting the outside environment. He could handle felons. He was more worried about a GCPD patrol, as unlikely as that was.

"That's gonna cost me money, D. I may need a considerable fee for m-"

"How about I let you live? Is that a good enough fee for you?!" The gun pressed harder on the man's head, causing him to squeal and close his eyes out of fear. Derrick's tone got uncharacteristically aggressive for a moment, but even then it was more like tranquil fury. He barely raised his voice.

"Okay, okay, Jesus! You know, you could have made this request without all these theatrics." The man's voiced cracked while he exclaimed.

"I don't know about that, Victor. I heard you expanded your business. That you have no more time for old friends." Derrick smiled, putting on his mask. "I'll be at your workshop early tomorrow. If you don't make this happen by then, we'll have a problem. Understood?"

The man, Victor, swallowed, the look on his face priceless. He was so scared at that point you could cut his fear with a knife. He tried to regain his composure and respond to Derrick's demand, but all he could come up with was a faint, whimpering "OK."

The gun was removed from his head, the door popped open and without uttering a word, Spider disappeared into the night. Victor sighed, then his head dropped down on the steering wheel. He never thought an encounter with an old regular would leave him so visibly shaken.

@Ruby@Jinny

"Pleasure doing business with you, mam." With that, the call ended. As he pretended the last five minutes of chatting didn't happen, he saved the number he dialed under a note file labeled "Mysterious Woman". A shame he didn't plug his Razor Phone in the conversation, but the woman seemed to not be in the mood for it.

Suddenly...

SMASH!

Anton noticed a woman smash through his window. He assumed a fighting stance as he played a short video of Taekwondo lessons on his HUD, just to refresh himself on how to fight. He never actually went to Taekwondo schools, but videos seem to be the next best thing. He also noticed another person attacking her.

"BOLTON! YOU BETTER BE HOME." She barked. Anton held up his hands while approaching the two.

"One, you don't need to shout..." Anton touched a side of his helmet with made the visor fold up, revealing his face. "Two, well, how did you figure that out?" He shrugged. It was rhetorical at best considering how easy to crack a Razor phone was. Plus, he had the assumption that at least one of the two were the thugs that the woman sent out. "And three," He points to the Talon, "you owe me a new window and a new couch." He flexed his muscles. "Shall we settle the price in cash or fisticuffs?" He inquired.

Nightwing maintained his stance, but the assassins did not attack. There was a brief pause first, then a new arrival broke the tension. The elevator doors opened up, revealing exactly the person he had come here to see. Upon her word, all the assassins stood down. Such was the power carried in the words of the Daughter of the Demon. Feeling the sense of danger pass, Nightwing also put away his escrima and took a more relaxed stance, but he did not completely drop his guard.

"When I asked to be taken to their leader, I never expected you'd come meet me. I hope you're doing well, Talia." From anyone else, his words might have come across as sarcastic and snarky. From Dick Grayson, it was clear he was being sincere.

As soon as Talia began moving toward the elevator, he followed suit without pause. Once they were on their way and out of earshot of the assassins, he began speaking. "Seeing as how you're not trying to have me killed right now, I guess that means you're not responsible." There was no need to elaborate, that would only insult Talia's intelligence. There was no doubt she knew exactly to what he referred.

@Jinny

---

---

Bloody city full of tossers and bollocks. Bloody in both ways, thinking on it. Not many places could match Gotham for murders per capita, assaults, petty crimes, so on and so forth. Still, beat a lot of places he'd been before, not that Hell provided a very high bar for quality of life and hospitality.

John Constantine stood beneath the front of city hall, just beneath the large sign emblazoned with No Smoking, lighting up one of his favorite Silk Cut cigarettes and taking a long drag. Nearby a police officer shot him a dirty look, one that Constantine repaid in kind. When the officer pointed directly at John's cigarette hand, he simply mouthed back, "Oh, this?" before putting it out on the wall of the building itself, shooting the officer a smirk as he did so.

The police man gave a sigh, then took a couple steps toward Constantine, no doubt to give him one of those famous Gotham PD beatdowns he'd heard so much about. Once they were a few feet away from one another, the policeman began with, "You see here, punk-"

"Before we get into a row, we really ought to work out a safe word, ya think mate? I'm thinkin' 'cabbage." Before the officer could react, most likely to either cuff the mouthy Englishman or simply sock him one in the jaw, a voice cried out, "THEYAH'S A TAHM BAHMB INNIS BAAA~AAAG!! TACTICAL NUKE, SET TAH GO OFF IN FAHVV MINNUTS, SMOKE EVERAHTHIN' FAH MILES!!" The officer gave pause, looked around, then suddenly bolted from the scene. Not too much longer and there was a whole stampede of people charging away in a fit and tizzy.

"What's with these blokes?" Constantine asked aloud to nobody in particular. Rather than stampede away like the local Gothamites, he calmly walked in the direction of a dufflebag that had been set nearby. Luckily not many people were in a hurry to get in his way. Funny thing. Most people tended to run away from a crisis. Somehow John always gravitated towards them. Funny thing, eh?

Upon reaching the bag, he leaned down, popped another cigarettes into his mouth, opened the zipper, lit that tasty cancer stick, and examined the contents. Constantine chuckled to himself, then went to work on the thing, maneuvering his hands about the bag for a few moments before emptying it. What did he pull out for all the world to see? "False alarm, mates. Just a teddy bear, ya nervous wanks." He tossed the stuffed bear aside with a grin. This would certainly be embarrassing for someone now wouldn't it? Still, it was only a distraction from what he really came here for.

Constantine sighed, blowing a long string of smoke from his mouth as he reminded himself just why he had come to Gotham City. A cult of demon worshippers had setup shop here. They'd left a trail of sacrifices and bodies around the world, leading John Constantine right to Gotham City. If his theories turned out to be true, then they couldn't be allowed to complete the ritual of... Some such blood sucking skorge of nonsense, really all those nutters came off the same. Point was, bad things would happen and he aimed to ensure bad things happened to the right people.

@Doc Doctor@Krot