Tangled Webs - Chapter 1: Snare
(by: fonduehamster)
"Perhaps you would care for some tea?"
The man's voice was polite and prim, but that was not to say that he looked harmless or gentle; no, he was far from it. He was of massive build, a tattoo barely visible beneath the collar of his Armani suit, but his enormous size and obvious strength could be seen quite clearly through his expensive Italian clothing. The room was well decorated - the man had style. Lavish tapestries, probably dating somewhere back to the Ottoman Empire covered the east wall. The china set he had brought in was set upon a silver tray, obviously of origin from a fine silversmith's workshop, and the set itself was of exquisite making with gold lacing the porcelain cups, the teapot, and even the creamer. They were all of fine crafting, at least of ninety-five percent purity.
"No thank you," she said curtly. "I'm here strictly for business."
His head nodding slowly, the man called in a butler and had the tray of tea and biscuits taken away.
"And exactly what business Miss."
"Graves. Mercy Graves," she replied not moving a single muscle except for her mouth. She was obviously a refined woman, one who knew what she wanted and knew how get to just that.
"Well Ms. Graves, what exactly do you require of me?" asked the man, bowing his head slightly and opening his arms in a flourish, as if to show he meant no harm.
"I've been told that you, Mr. Deans, would be able to arrange a meeting between myself and the Helix Syndicate," she said, making more of a command than a request.
She took a small attaché on her right and placed it upon her lap. Unlocking the case and opening it, she turned it about, revealing to Deans a briefcase full of money.
"My employer will reward you generously for your efforts in establishing such a connection."
Rubbing his chin and smiling at the sight of the green paper, bundled like babies in a nursery, Deans looked up at the young woman.
"Go to the reception room. I'll have one of my people give you a satellite phone. Inspect it, if you wish, but have it on at 8:41 a week from tonight - no sooner, no later. The line will be secured and you will have no worries about any possibility of anyone tracking or tracing your call. When you pick up ask who it is. If you hear a person cough, say 'Heinz, is that you?' That will guarantee that both parties are sure of each other's identities. In the highly unlikely situation that someone else enters the line, hang up and discard the phone at this address," with that Mr. Deans handed Mercy a small business card with nothing except an address printed on it.
Closing the case, Mercy got up and walked towards the door. Before she left she turned her head over her shoulder. Lightly shaking the attaché and said, "I'll have someone drop this off later."
* * * * *
Recoil did not like to wait; he liked action, it was one of the things he was real good at, which is probably why he had been offered his position in the Helix Syndicate - that and his flawless handling of any firearm; he was real good at that, too. Atop the roof of a Hudson's department store, he paced back and forth, dismantling and re-assembling the pistols that he carried with him. It was a hobby, albeit one that didn't keep him settled for half as long as he would have liked. Putting away his pistols, Recoil rolled the sleeve of his black trench coat back slightly and looked at his watch.
"Three."
He grabbed his sunglasses out of his left pants pocket and quickly put them on. The fireworks from one of Flash Point's little set-ups usually blinded a good handful of onlookers, and Recoil had seen the lights burn straight through their retinas, shriveling their eyes as the bright glare dehydrated the cornea and caused the eyes to fall out like little white prunes.
"Two."
Taking cover behind an air-conditioning unit, he raised his trench coat's collar, not wanting to breath any of the hundreds of noxious fumes that would soon be filling up the air.
"One."
Behind him, an earth-shattering implosion literally pulled the floor out beneath the Gotham branch of Hawthorne Financial, causing the towering building to fall into the trench, like a coffin being lowered into its grave. Smoke rose up in great wispy plumes as auxiliary explosives; set in case anything went wrong, which never did. It was just Flash Point's excuse to use more Semtex than he really needed.
Recoil sighed as he jangled the rounds left in his pack. He never went through more than a few clips whenever he had to work with Flash Point. Still, it was another job well done.
* * * * *
Batman didn't worry. He never worried. Even with a huge man, more than twice his size and weight with metal serrated blades on his knuckles atop him trying to sever his head, Batman didn't worry. It just wasn't something he did. While it certainly wasn't a stroll through Gotham Park, it wasn't something to worry about. Batman knew when to bide his time, when to hide behind his cowl, and when to finally strike.
"Just a pointy-eared freak," the brute grunted, trying to bury the tips of his knives into Batman's skull, smiling, as he seemed to be winning. "No sweat."
But, unfortunately for the petty crook, Batman had every detail planned down to the last millisecond. Suddenly adjusting his weight, the Dark Knight pivoted on his foot, using his opponent's own girth against him as he fell forward. Then, using the centrifugal force of his spin, he jack hammered his fists into the thug's back, sending him flying into a glass display. Apparently the other thieves had no other plans than to have the big guy take down any security that got in their way so they turned heel and tried to run - wrong move.
With a sweep of his right arm and a flick of his wrist two whirling black bats barreled towards the crooks, landing with a heavy thud in the back of each of the two larcenists' skulls. Surveying the store Batman took inventory: the big guy was knocked out in the jewelry display; the one with the crowbar was lying on his stomach, unconscious; and the last thief, the one with the jewels, was atop his partner in crime.
Without a word, the Dark Knight raised his arm and a grapnel wire shot out, landing somewhere far away with a faint clink. Then, in an upsweep of a jet-black cape and in the silence of night, he was gone.
* * * * *
There were few things that, Mercy Graves, a woman of great poise, world- class style, and almost infinite ability, found irksome. Among these things was being given precise instructions to be followed to the letter by anyone other than her employer. She, like her boss, enjoyed control, enjoyed having the ability to plan for every contingency and knowing exactly who, what, when, where, why, and how. But this was not the case. Now she sat in the recliner of her hotel room, drumming her fingers along the armrest, and intently watching the satellite phone.
As the minute hand of the Gotham Clock Tower moved ever so slightly, the phone rang. It was a rambling squeal, as if the voice of a hog had been digitized. Without hesitating, Mercy picked up the phone and listened closely.
"Hello. Who is this?"
She heard a cough, barely audible and rather inconspicuous, over the line. She spoke clearly and firmly and only once.
"Heinz, is that you?"
Suddenly, a high-pitched beep screamed into Mercy's ear and a number of clicks and shuffles were heard, invoking memories of days when operators handled calls one by one.
"The line is secure. We have received notice that you have interests to employ some of our services."
"Not me, my employer. But I have been given free reign over all decision- making, including the price. I'd like to know what services might be offered."
"Assassinations, sabotage, espionage, destruction of anything ranging from a small car to a large skyscraper. Whatever you might need."
"I'd like you to secure something for me," she finally said, in the same professional demeanor that she practically lived by.
"Who would you like us to acquire for you?" the voice asked, calm and cool, boiling everything straight down to the business at hand.
"Not who; what. I'd like you to catch me Gotham City," she answered.
"You tell us how to do it, we tell you how to pay us, and everyone will be satisfied."
A smile played upon Mercy's face as her rouged lips parted and she bared her teeth in a wolfish grin. She loved professionals who offered full- range services.
* * * * * * * * * * * *
All characters copyright DC Comics, 2003.
"Perhaps you would care for some tea?"
The man's voice was polite and prim, but that was not to say that he looked harmless or gentle; no, he was far from it. He was of massive build, a tattoo barely visible beneath the collar of his Armani suit, but his enormous size and obvious strength could be seen quite clearly through his expensive Italian clothing. The room was well decorated - the man had style. Lavish tapestries, probably dating somewhere back to the Ottoman Empire covered the east wall. The china set he had brought in was set upon a silver tray, obviously of origin from a fine silversmith's workshop, and the set itself was of exquisite making with gold lacing the porcelain cups, the teapot, and even the creamer. They were all of fine crafting, at least of ninety-five percent purity.
"No thank you," she said curtly. "I'm here strictly for business."
His head nodding slowly, the man called in a butler and had the tray of tea and biscuits taken away.
"And exactly what business Miss."
"Graves. Mercy Graves," she replied not moving a single muscle except for her mouth. She was obviously a refined woman, one who knew what she wanted and knew how get to just that.
"Well Ms. Graves, what exactly do you require of me?" asked the man, bowing his head slightly and opening his arms in a flourish, as if to show he meant no harm.
"I've been told that you, Mr. Deans, would be able to arrange a meeting between myself and the Helix Syndicate," she said, making more of a command than a request.
She took a small attaché on her right and placed it upon her lap. Unlocking the case and opening it, she turned it about, revealing to Deans a briefcase full of money.
"My employer will reward you generously for your efforts in establishing such a connection."
Rubbing his chin and smiling at the sight of the green paper, bundled like babies in a nursery, Deans looked up at the young woman.
"Go to the reception room. I'll have one of my people give you a satellite phone. Inspect it, if you wish, but have it on at 8:41 a week from tonight - no sooner, no later. The line will be secured and you will have no worries about any possibility of anyone tracking or tracing your call. When you pick up ask who it is. If you hear a person cough, say 'Heinz, is that you?' That will guarantee that both parties are sure of each other's identities. In the highly unlikely situation that someone else enters the line, hang up and discard the phone at this address," with that Mr. Deans handed Mercy a small business card with nothing except an address printed on it.
Closing the case, Mercy got up and walked towards the door. Before she left she turned her head over her shoulder. Lightly shaking the attaché and said, "I'll have someone drop this off later."
* * * * *
Recoil did not like to wait; he liked action, it was one of the things he was real good at, which is probably why he had been offered his position in the Helix Syndicate - that and his flawless handling of any firearm; he was real good at that, too. Atop the roof of a Hudson's department store, he paced back and forth, dismantling and re-assembling the pistols that he carried with him. It was a hobby, albeit one that didn't keep him settled for half as long as he would have liked. Putting away his pistols, Recoil rolled the sleeve of his black trench coat back slightly and looked at his watch.
"Three."
He grabbed his sunglasses out of his left pants pocket and quickly put them on. The fireworks from one of Flash Point's little set-ups usually blinded a good handful of onlookers, and Recoil had seen the lights burn straight through their retinas, shriveling their eyes as the bright glare dehydrated the cornea and caused the eyes to fall out like little white prunes.
"Two."
Taking cover behind an air-conditioning unit, he raised his trench coat's collar, not wanting to breath any of the hundreds of noxious fumes that would soon be filling up the air.
"One."
Behind him, an earth-shattering implosion literally pulled the floor out beneath the Gotham branch of Hawthorne Financial, causing the towering building to fall into the trench, like a coffin being lowered into its grave. Smoke rose up in great wispy plumes as auxiliary explosives; set in case anything went wrong, which never did. It was just Flash Point's excuse to use more Semtex than he really needed.
Recoil sighed as he jangled the rounds left in his pack. He never went through more than a few clips whenever he had to work with Flash Point. Still, it was another job well done.
* * * * *
Batman didn't worry. He never worried. Even with a huge man, more than twice his size and weight with metal serrated blades on his knuckles atop him trying to sever his head, Batman didn't worry. It just wasn't something he did. While it certainly wasn't a stroll through Gotham Park, it wasn't something to worry about. Batman knew when to bide his time, when to hide behind his cowl, and when to finally strike.
"Just a pointy-eared freak," the brute grunted, trying to bury the tips of his knives into Batman's skull, smiling, as he seemed to be winning. "No sweat."
But, unfortunately for the petty crook, Batman had every detail planned down to the last millisecond. Suddenly adjusting his weight, the Dark Knight pivoted on his foot, using his opponent's own girth against him as he fell forward. Then, using the centrifugal force of his spin, he jack hammered his fists into the thug's back, sending him flying into a glass display. Apparently the other thieves had no other plans than to have the big guy take down any security that got in their way so they turned heel and tried to run - wrong move.
With a sweep of his right arm and a flick of his wrist two whirling black bats barreled towards the crooks, landing with a heavy thud in the back of each of the two larcenists' skulls. Surveying the store Batman took inventory: the big guy was knocked out in the jewelry display; the one with the crowbar was lying on his stomach, unconscious; and the last thief, the one with the jewels, was atop his partner in crime.
Without a word, the Dark Knight raised his arm and a grapnel wire shot out, landing somewhere far away with a faint clink. Then, in an upsweep of a jet-black cape and in the silence of night, he was gone.
* * * * *
There were few things that, Mercy Graves, a woman of great poise, world- class style, and almost infinite ability, found irksome. Among these things was being given precise instructions to be followed to the letter by anyone other than her employer. She, like her boss, enjoyed control, enjoyed having the ability to plan for every contingency and knowing exactly who, what, when, where, why, and how. But this was not the case. Now she sat in the recliner of her hotel room, drumming her fingers along the armrest, and intently watching the satellite phone.
As the minute hand of the Gotham Clock Tower moved ever so slightly, the phone rang. It was a rambling squeal, as if the voice of a hog had been digitized. Without hesitating, Mercy picked up the phone and listened closely.
"Hello. Who is this?"
She heard a cough, barely audible and rather inconspicuous, over the line. She spoke clearly and firmly and only once.
"Heinz, is that you?"
Suddenly, a high-pitched beep screamed into Mercy's ear and a number of clicks and shuffles were heard, invoking memories of days when operators handled calls one by one.
"The line is secure. We have received notice that you have interests to employ some of our services."
"Not me, my employer. But I have been given free reign over all decision- making, including the price. I'd like to know what services might be offered."
"Assassinations, sabotage, espionage, destruction of anything ranging from a small car to a large skyscraper. Whatever you might need."
"I'd like you to secure something for me," she finally said, in the same professional demeanor that she practically lived by.
"Who would you like us to acquire for you?" the voice asked, calm and cool, boiling everything straight down to the business at hand.
"Not who; what. I'd like you to catch me Gotham City," she answered.
"You tell us how to do it, we tell you how to pay us, and everyone will be satisfied."
A smile played upon Mercy's face as her rouged lips parted and she bared her teeth in a wolfish grin. She loved professionals who offered full- range services.
* * * * * * * * * * * *
All characters copyright DC Comics, 2003.