A/N: This idea is the brainchild of the lovely caprelloidea, thanks to her tags on a certain gifset. I had to do it.

Prologue

She stands on the rooftop of the tall building, the cool air biting at the small areas of exposed skin as night settles on the city below.

My city, she thinks, a touch of pride in the words for the City that Never Sleeps.

She clenches her fists, the red leather bending easily with her movements, the subtle wings patterned down her arms dancing in the dark as her muscles tense and relax. The new armoured suit feels good on her skin, nearly as flexible as the dark hoodie and leggings she'd worn before, and a hundred times more bulletproof. "Hell's Angel" they're calling her now, or "the saviour of Hell's Kitchen", and she smiles briefly to herself. Other vigilantes have it worse, she knows, and she's grateful to be recognised for the good she's doing, though it never feels like enough. It will never be enough, she knows, until the streets are purged from the evils and darkness that cast long shadows on her corner of the city, her neighbourhood, her home.

The sounds of life in a big city roar beneath her, melding into a unique symphony only she seems able to appreciate. Slowly, she separates out the noises, listening carefully for anything out of the ordinary. Car horns blare noisily down below, but impatient drivers are nothing new around here, construction causing most of the traffic buildup as the city struggles to rebuild after everything that's happened. People walking along the sidewalks, talking, laughing, joking, send up no warning sounds. Loud shouts from teenagers playing basketball in the park two blocks away drift up to her perch, but nothing seems amiss there, either.

Maybe tonight will be quiet, she thinks, already imagining curling into her too-often unused bed, burrowing under the soft blankets, the peacefulness of a normal night like a normal person.

But that image is quickly wiped away with the first sounds of gunfire. She cocks her head, filtering away the hundreds of other noises with a practised ease, and concentrates on where, the meditative technique she uses second nature by now.

Seven blocks north, three west. Irish territory.

She takes a deep breath and quickly adjusts her suit, checking that her nightstick is secured in its sleeve against her leg. She stands and races toward the ledge, already plotting her rooftop route to the scene. With barely a whisper accompanying her movements, she hops over the ledge and vanishes into the night.

He stands on the rooftop of the tall building, the cool air biting at the small areas of exposed skin, as darkness falls heavily on the city below.

My city, he thinks, a touch of anger in the words for the City that Never Sleeps.

He tightens his grip on the modified rifle propped against the ledge, his leather jacket creaking slightly as bends down to adjust the scope. He checks the wind gauge again, correcting the angle on the high powered weapon as needed until everything is in place. "The Pirate", they've been calling him, on account of the hook no doubt, yet he eludes every move they make. This time, it will be bigger. This time, he'll have to be more careful, get it right the first time. He's getting closer, he can feel it with each encounter. He's nearly there and the stakes are only rising.

The sounds from the street below wash over him as he works, and he summarily ignores each one as it registers in his consciousness. He needs to focus, not listen to teenage basketball games and the horns of a dozen angry drivers. He sets out the spare magazines within arms reach and settles behind the gun, hook nudging the tripod as he wraps his finger around the trigger guard.

He peeks through the scope, eyeing the room across the street. Nearly there, he thinks. Just one more-

The door opens and he watches the well-dressed man step into the room, his appearance turning the heads of all others present.

Now.

He concentrates on blocking out the rest of the noise from the living city below, it's almost second nature to fade the sounds away from distraction. He pulls his finger back from the guard and touches it to the trigger. With a flick of his thumb, he slips off the safety and takes a slowly measured breath as he goes over the calculations once more.

"A pirate's life for me," he whispers, thinking of her, always of her.

He pulls the trigger and opens fire.