Chapter 1: So Long
Author's Note: This chapter has related artwork. To view, please redirect your browser to my author profile.
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Fog rested barely above the calm waters round the docks, creating the illusion of stillness in the chill night. Slow but impatient steps fell from the shadows, waiting behind the crates of shipments, an eye constantly flickering toward a watch mismatched with the rest of his attire. The clean, genuine gold against the dirty dun brown of his jacket was one of the more obvious clues for Nightwing.
"And what are we waiting to load up this time?" the long-haired vigilante mused from his position high atop the water tower. "Drugs? Platinum bars? Another hundred crates of tommys?" He looked through his binoculars again, scouring the area for any large trucks or vans awaiting the shipment, before falling back upon his lead. The man again looked to his watch before glancing around him, eyes lingering on the space behind the crates from whence he emerged.
Another set of footfalls. Another man, this one thinner, with a crop of hair the same dull brown as the dirt on his shoes beneath a blue-banded fedora, approached. The first man looked relieved as this pinstripe-suited newcomer ran up to him--relieved and then annoyed. Too far away to hear the hushed conversation as Mr. Pinstripes met up with Dun Jacket, Nightwing narrowed his eyes, focusing in on their mouths.
". . . so long? I've been waitin' here for two minutes already."
"Got caught up on the way. Ran into a lady with some real goods," the man shoved his fists into the pockets of his suit as if to check if something were still there. Satisfied, he continued. "Looked like her coat was worth somethin' too, the way she kept tryin' t'hold onto it, but I managed t'get off pretty good. Anyway, I'm here now. You got th'order?"
"Just like he wanted," the first man pulled back into the crates, pulling out a small case.
Nightwing grunted under his breath. "A pick-up then," his binoculars zoomed in on the briefcase.
"Little case, big money, eh?" the first man handed it over to the man in the suit.
"Nah," he shook his head and raised his hands in refusal. "Boss said he wanted it direct. I'm just here t'make sure he wasn't gonna be set up. Y'weren't gonna set him up, were y', Mack?" He glanced at him askance as he pulled out a phone.
"No, no, a'course not," Mack answered quickly, then gave an uneasy laugh. "Heh, guess you never can be too careful." His nervous glances over his shoulder were now increased by the further delay. The man next to him assured the other line that the goods were in place before flipping his phone shut.
Putting the binoculars away, Nightwing debated. "Go after the small fry, or wait for the big fish?" As he stood and prepped his gliders, a beige sedan pulled up on the other side of the docks, motor still running after it braked.
The phone in his suit pocket beeped once, and the taller man answered briefly. Looking to the supplier, he gave a curt nod. "That's him; we're movin'."
The two began their fog-laced footsteps through the narrow passageways between the towers of barrels and crates looming beside them. The light hazed in the mist, spreading the glow to a dim, hovering grey. Mack let out an anxious huff, his breath clouding before him. The other man kept a close eye on the case, careful it should stay within his reach. The pair ducked into another crate-lined passageway, this one with chequered patches of light falling where boxes were missing. As they continued their near silent trek, their forms disappeared into darkness before re-emerging in the ill-lit mist. A foghorn sounded; Mack flinched.
"Quit bein' so jumpy," the other man chided. "You'll do somethin' stupid and bring us some unwanted attention."
"Too bad," a voice echoed in the passageway. "You've already caught my eye."
The man in the suit reached into his coat to pull out a handgun just as he heard Mack cry out. There was the sound of struck flesh and a thud as a dark figure booted Mack against the wall of boxes. The briefcase flew in the air before crashing to the ground, the locks breaking open on impact.
Nightwing closed his gliders and whirled to face his next opponent.
"If the stuff's broke, it ain't gonna be on my head, buddy-boy," the man snarled as his gun emerged and began firing. Leaping to the air, Nightwing forced the pistol down with his right foot and gave a solid toe to the jaw with his left. Once the man was down, he slid the gun a good ten yards away from the scene.
"Now let's have a look at the goodies you've got," the masked fighter stepped over to the case, lying between the two thugs. He knelt down beside Mack's still form, and, popping the broken latches, Nightwing raised the lid.
"No peekin'," Mack stirred. A swing of his arm and a slash of steel caught Nightwing on his calf. The young crime fighter sucked in a breath as he fell to his side in pain before reacting. His uninjured leg struck upward, hurling the knife away and then came back down, crushing his heel on top of Mack's head. Nightwing rolled over and got up slowly, this time leaning over Mack's body and checking to see if he was really out cold. Satisfied, he went back to the case.
Swinging it open, Nightwing's eyes widened.
"Empty?"
Hearing footfalls to his right, Nightwing turned sharply to see the other man, fedora flying off, speeding round the corner of the passageway.
Irritated with himself for letting it happen, Nightwing snarled and gave chase, despite his injury. Running at a slower pace than normal, he was surprised he would catch up with the thief so soon.
There was the sound of fists connecting and groans of sudden pain. Nightwing rounded the corner just soon enough to catch someone in the shadows pulling the man's suit jacket over his head and punching him in the gut. Apparently having seen Nightwing, the figure made a final move on the guy by kicking him so hard the suit ripped off and his body flew into another wall of crates. Not wasting any time, the figure was off in a flap of black cloth and a flash of red hair, tatters of the jacket in hand.
Nightwing's eyes narrowed at the clues, but he had little time to dwell. Beneath the broken boxes, only the man's arm was visible. Shuddering before he lost consciousness, his hand opened an object dropped to the ground with a small clang. Climbing over the debris of broken boards, Nightwing pulled the crates off the man before they crushed him while still looking toward the ground. Clearing the rubble, his eyes met with a gleam, and he reached his hand toward it.
The rat-a-tat of machinegun fire halted him. "Hands off," another man in a suit shouted, aiming straight for him. Nightwing saw through the hole in the wall of crates his quarry's impact had made left an opening straight to the beige sedan, from which this new crook had apparently come. Ducking back behind the boxes, he pulled out a birdarang.
As he saw the body of the first man being dragged away, he leapt out of hiding and threw his weapon, forcing the new man to drop his gun. As he cringed and held his wrist in pain, his hat fell down and Nightwing caught a glimpse of a familiar set of baggy eyes set in a face he thought he recognised, though the name was elusive.
"I thought the boss said this city ain't got no bats in it," the man griped.
"Ain't no bat, it's a boid!"
There was a crash as something hit the wall beside Nightwing with incredible force, knocking him back and straight through the next set of boxes. In a wooden avalanche, he lost sight of the perpetrators as he felt one or two of his ribs break beneath the weight of at least twenty crates. Scuffling and shouting could be heard, muffled through the wreckage. Lifting the heavy crates off himself, Nightwing was disappointed, though not surprised, to see the body of the man as well as the familiar thug and beige sedan long gone. Getting up not without some difficulty, he made his way over to where he had last seen the unconscious crook. Clearing some stray boards, he looked at the space where the stolen object had been, only to find it gone. In its place, however, was something puzzling.
Bringing a hand down to scrape it up, he brought it closer to his eye to examine it. Pocketing the evidence, he sighed as he looked back to where Mack's still form had been in the futile hope that he had at least one successful catch tonight. He was greeted with empty space.
"Tonight's just not my night, is it?" Dick frowned.
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"In police custody: Johnny 'Fingers' Farrell and Derek 'the Duke' Maddox," yellow-gloved fingers clacked against the keyboard. "All in all, a pretty good night," Barbara saved the information into her database and the window closed on her monitor screen. She raised her arms and stretched, her red hair falling over the back of the chair, uninhibited without her cowl. She glanced over at the clock.
Her eyes were greeted with the soft green glow of 5:47.
"And now time to hit the sack," she smiled at the prospect, sliding her gloves off and standing up to head to bed. The deep red of the incoming Gotham dawn filtered through the tall windows of the office connected to her apartment, casting a ruddy glow on the desks and shelves. There was a stillness as the autumn sun waited patiently to rise, the barest hint of a glow backlighting the looming buildings of the horizon. Stepping over to the windows, she closed the drapes, glancing absently at the abstract painting hung on the otherwise bare wall beside it.
"I always thought it was weird that your roommate started out as a bio major."
Barbara whirled around to see the pale blue image of a bird with outstretched wings inked in shadow. Her tensed muscles fell from high-strung defensive mode to slightly less defensive annoyed.
"Things change. Jenny figured out her true calling soon enough," Barbara glowered. "Now what are you doing here? Normally you're supposed to call before stopping over at someone's place unexpected."
"Could say the same thing for you," Nightwing emerged from the doorway. "I thought moving to Blüdhaven would keep you two out of my hair, but I guess you can't help yourself."
Her brow furrowed. "What ar--"
"What were you doing at the docks tonight?" he demanded, stepping into an intimidating closeness.
"I don't know what you're talking about," she responded.
The eyes narrowed behind the mask. "I saw you there," his voice hardened. "Don't try and deny it."
"Look," she put her hands on her hips, "I don't know what you saw, but I can assure you I haven't set a foot outside of Gotham in at least a month."
"So you're telling me that you weren't the one I saw almost getting a guy crushed to death by throwing him into a wall of shipping crates," Nightwing crossed his arms.
"That's what I said," Barbara frowned, her lower lip protruding in impatience. "Besides, you know me better than that--I'd never do that."
He continued to glare at her through his mask before looking away.
"Don't you trust me?"
He was silent for a minute, turning to look out the window at the familiar blood-red skyline. "I do," he answered softly. "I just . . . I saw someone dressed in black, putting some nasty moves on this guy. When I caught up, I saw them knock him clear through those crates. Wasn't very tall, looked female. Had red hair. Left with his jacket before I could get a good look. It's just that I was hoping, I guess, that it was you."
"Huh," she looked suspicious, yet intrigued at the same time, her right eyebrow rising. "Why's that?"
"That way I'd know what I was dealing with," his professional mode kicked back in and Barbara's brow fell back into place. "But now it looks like we've got some other nut vigilante running around the streets."
"How do we know she's a vigilante? Didn't you say she took his coat? She could be a thief."
"She grabbed the jacket off his suit, yeah, but she didn't take whatever they were there to pick up. And after I looked around later, I found the jacket on the ground."
"You sure it wasn't Catwoman out to make you her patsy again?"
"No, the hair I saw flying behind her was definitely red," he nodded emphasis. "And I wasn't her 'patsy.'"
"Sure, sure," Barbara waved her hand, idly brushing the comment aside before raising it to her chin in thought. "Maybe it's Poison Ivy. She's been known to pull some really weird stunts."
"Fits with the body type and the colouring," Nightwing mused, uncrossing his arms and pacing slightly, "but the person I saw was way too strong to be her. A little taller too. I think this is someone completely new."
"Hold on a minute," Barbara walked over to her computer and loaded her information programme up again. "Here," she indicated for him to look. Nightwing crossed the room and stood behind her, the two of them dimly illuminated by the light blue emanating from the screen. "If you tell me the information you know about this mystery woman," she continued, "I'll scan it and see what comes up."
One hand resting on the desk as the other stretched over her shoulder, Nightwing remained silent as his fingers worked, tapping softly but quickly. She at first seemed startled by his contact as his arm brushed her cheek, but it settled into irritation at his stubborn refusal to give the information in the way she intended. Finished, he brought his arm back. "Now what?"
"Now we wait," Barbara punched the 'enter' key and watched as the computer went through lists of data, lines of text and pictures flashing and scrolling at rapid speeds.
"No matches," Nightwing commented, his tone obviously unsurprised. "Like I said, I don't think we've ever met this person before."
Barbara twisted her lips sceptically. "You sure you got the weight right?"
"In order to hit a guy as hard as I saw, she'd have to have a lot of muscle mass," he explained.
"Well, the only girl in the records even close to the description you gave doesn't match in that department. Samantha Cliffston, also known as 'Lark.'"
"One of Penguin's girls," Nightwing shifted his weight and leaned back, crossing his arms. "It doesn't make any sense though. Those three never split up, and I doubt one of them could take out a guy like that. Besides, it's just not Penguin's style. She didn't take what those guys were after."
"Maybe Lark's flying solo now," Barbara shrugged.
"Doubt it," he tapped his fingers against his upper arm, still crossed. "Anyway, I've got other problems."
"What were these guys doing that caught your attention in the first place?" she picked up on his train of thought. "Another dockyard smuggling ring?"
"I thought so at first," Nightwing walked slowly across the room, "but it turned out it was a pick-up." He slammed his fist on the wall with a snarl, leaning on his arm as he continued. "I should have been able to take them down. I just don't understand it." He pounded his fist again. "If I'd just checked . . ."
"Don't go pulling a Bruce on me," Barbara swivelled around on her stool and glared at him. "My wall can't take that kind of punishment."
"Don't--"
"I wouldn't compare you two if you'd stop acting like him," she cut him off short. "Whenever one of you two goes on a self-loathing spree, you tend to leave a wide wake of destruction," she looked at him a while in the flushed highlight of predawn, her soft blue eyes taking in the slight trembling of his fist on the wall. She read anger and sleeplessness in the tremor, as well as a hint of uncomfortable anxiety. "Dick," she stepped off the stool and gently made her way toward him, "everyone has 'one of those nights'," she gave a small smile, though he would not face her. She stopped beside him, her hand hesitant and unsure whether or not to clasp his shoulder. "You can't expect yourself to be perfect all the time."
"Shouldn't I though?" he spat sourly.
"Oh come on, this is getting old," she settled for the more comfortable realm of argument. "How many times have you worked with him since you got back now? You know you don't want to be this way--you've started talking more and making lame jokes again . . . and he's getting better too. Maybe having more people sign on to help has eased him up a bit."
"You mean recruiting more people," he stood up straight, looking over his shoulder at her. "You forget, he doesn't let you have a ch--"
"I had a choice, Dick," her voice rose, "and I chose to help him, any way I could."
"Would you have helped him once you graduated college," she started to open her mouth in affirmation, "if he hadn't told you who he was?"
Her face fell into bewilderment. "What do you--?"
"You know what I mean," his lips pulled further back into a scowl. "Don't you think it's strange that he told you who he was--who we were--just when he sensed I might leave?"
"You can't be--" she fumbled at the doubts, "but he wouldn't know that you--that I'd stay because of--that can't be right."
"You'd think so," though he faced the incoming light, his face darkened. "You start out thinking it's because he trusts you, that he sees that you can be something great--but you're just his back-up," his frown deepened as his tone increased in fervour and volume, "you're just the kid in the tights that helps cover him, trailing behind when he goes charging forward, shouting 'vengeance' and 'justice' and not caring who gets trampled in the process."
"That's not true," she shouted to his profile, the distant eyes refusing to face her heightening her anger. "You know, you more than anyone should know, that he really does care about this city and the people in it," she grabbed him by the shoulder and forced him to turn to her, "and most of all us! And how does going off on your own solve this anyway? You get colder every day, Dick; you can't even see that you're--you're bleeding," she cried, the reversal of her emotional modes instantaneous.
He was still wincing from the sudden turn she forced upon him, the movement twisting his injured leg. He bit it back. "Yeah, it happens a lot when you screw up."
"How long has that--did you get that during the fight at the docks? And you didn't even give it a temporary bandage?"
"Your concern's touching," the side of his mouth pulled sarcastically. "I had a lead I needed to follow, in case you've forgotten."
"Stay put," she shoved him onto a desk nearby, this time careful not to harm the injured leg. "I've got my first aid kit here somewhere . . ."
"I don't have time for this," he grumbled, pushing himself up only to be shoved back by Barbara's adamant hand.
"Just sit down and shut up," she opened a drawer in the desk and pulled out her medical kit, "or I'll wrap your leg so tight your toes turn purple."
The hushed morning began to pick up, the few cars starting their commutes rushing down muffled streets far below them. The illumination from one of the windows had moved, now barely leaving them light enough to differentiate the blacks of their costumes while the rest of the room remained in red-chequered blush. Barbara finished her ministrations in a short amount of time.
"That should do it," she packed up the kit and put it back into the drawer as Nightwing slid himself off the desk, "at least for now. You need to get that looked at."
"Maybe later," he said brusquely, opening the latch on one of the windows beside him.
"I mean it, you know," now she stood behind him, placing that small hand on his tense shoulder. "I'm worried about you. We all are. Maybe I should come along t--"
"No," he pushed the window open, the movement of his arms pulling him away from Barbara's hand.
"I'm just saying, you might need some help," her voice held offence, insistence, and a soft hesitance all in one. "That way you won't get hurt again."
As the brightening burgundy of the sun rose over the horizon, blinding the tall buildings of the city into silhouettes, Dick stopped and closed his eyes. The words trailed behind him not long after he had raised his gliders and flew into the blood-red sky. "No, I don't think so."
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Joseph could only think of one thing at the moment:
"I am so screwed."
His hands grasped his thick, black hair as he bemoaned his fate, the sound absorbed and echoing alternately off the numerous objects surrounding him in his study. Helmets and statuettes lined shelf upon shelf around the room, immaculately, almost lovingly, restored and preserved to their original antiquated splendour. Large display cases of spears, javelins, swords, axes, knives, and shields cropped up in the middle of the space, making a nearly labyrinthine design of passageways, periodically interrupted by the shorter cases containing urns and other pottery. Joseph slapped his palm on his work desk and swept his arm across it, knocking two and half years' worth of notes and four drained cups of coffee onto the floor.
"How could I have lost it!" his normally deep, calm voice rose in octaves and frustration. "I never lose anything . . . okay, think, Joseph, think . . . you had it in your suitcase on the plane, kept it with you when you got picked up from the airport, brought it into your apartment--so how is it that when you open the case to study it--one week before you promised it to the museum--it suddenly disappears on you! It just doesn't make any sense . . ." He racked his brain, mentally retracing every step, every sneeze, every brush, every glance he made in the past twenty-four hours.
"From the site," he knelt down on the floor, "to the chopper," picked up handfuls of notes and newspaper, "to the city," scattered them into the air, "to the cab," ignored them as they fluttered back down, "to the plane, to the airport, to Stephen's ca--Stephen!" Joseph fumbled around his person until he managed to pull his mobile from his pants' pocket. His hands shaking, he first dialled too quickly for the telephone to register before finally calming down enough to call.
"Joe, it's six-thirty on a Saturday mornin'. You forget t'adjust your watch aga—?"
"Have you seen it!" His voice boomed, desperate and anxious.
"Seen what?"
"The only time I took my eyes off it was when you gave me a ride from the airport," Joseph's tone rose in pitch and his words started to rush together. "Stephen, I can't find it!"
"If you're tryin' t'say that I would ta--"
"I don't know where else it could be!" the notes and newspapers on the floor made soft crunching, crumpling noises as he paced erratically.
"Look, Joe, it's not in my car. I saw you take it with you. Where'd you put it?"
"I don't know, I don't know, I don't know!" Joseph practically screamed.
"Man, calm down. We gotta think through it--"
"I did that, and the only thing I could think of was you," he waved his hand in the air emphatically, smacking it into one of the display cases and breaking the glass. "NO!" he shouted.
"Joe? Joe, what's goin' on?"
He pulled his bleeding hand away from the urn, now filled with gleaming, bloody glass shards. Joseph switched the phone to the other hand, seemingly oblivious to the pain. His clean hand shakily pulled the glass from the terra cotta, careful not to touch the sides. He grabbed the nearest sheet of paper, some newspaper article about meteor sightings and other garbage, and pulled the artefact from the wreckage. Setting it down gently with his good hand, he breathed a relieved sigh.
"I've got to get out of here," he pulled his hand away from the urn, fearful he'd harm it. "I can't stay here, not anymore," he ran into the next room, packing a dufflebag. "You think I can bunk up with you in Gotham? If they find me here--"
"Woah, slow down, Joe. They ain't gonna be after you yet--they don't even know you found it."
"You hear about the other one being stolen?"
"Yeah, when they were movin' it to Metropolis?"
"So who's going to believe me when I say I just happened to find the mate to it, and then when the day comes for me to hand it over, it's gone missing? They're going to think I did it!" His eyes looked around his bedroom, panicked, throwing random assortments of clothing and forcing the zipper shut, ripping it through a few pairs of socks in the process. "Please, Stephen, you're my partner; you're my friend. You've got to help me out."
There was a sigh on the other end. "All right, all right. But the place I got here's too small. I can call 'round and find some motels or somethin' in advance for you."
"You're a lifesaver, Steve," Joseph finally slowed down enough to rest the mobile on his shoulder and begin picking the glass out of his other hand. "I've got money to repay you, don't worry, and if I make it through this, you can be sure I'll put in a good word for you with Mack."
"Yeah, yeah, just don't say any words about me in this mess 'til you get it cleared, all right?"
Joseph slung the bag over his shoulder and snatched his keys, shutting off the lights and locking the door tight. It was an intolerably bright day for his tastes, the incongruity with his emotions yet another discomfort that was easily rising through the ranks to disquiet. He wasted no time running to his car.
"That's if I get it cleared, Steve," he started the engine. "If."
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Author's end notes:
Updates on this story will be excruciatingly slow, so please be patient. Between the butt load of coursework I have and the fact that I'm learning that the Education Abroad Programme acronym really stands for Enormous Amounts of Paperwork, I've little time to invest in writing, though I do it as much as I can.
If anyone could tell me some useful advice about university life in London, please, enlighten me.
Other than that, I'll try to keep these chapters interesting by giving little games for people to play--and also to increase the likelihood of reviews, if it goes as planned.
Here's how it works: I'm going to ask a question, generally about something mentioned in my story. The first person to answer correctly in a review will receive the prize of an answer to any question he or she cares to ask me. (Keep in mind that if I receive silly questions like "whodunit?" or "What is your address?" I will respond in private message or e-mail requesting another question.) Other than that, any question you please. Could be about the story, about the series, or just what I had for breakfast. It's my way of keeping you on your toes during your reading of my chapters and keeping the responses going, as well as giving me a hint of what you guys want to know and where you think its going. That said . . .
Question: What colour is Jenny's hair? (No, it's not in the text. You've got some research to do. )