From above, New York City was an overwhelmingly surreal manifestation of kaleidoscopic colors, distorted figures, and glistening radiance. The beauty of the frost-laden landscape received an unparalleled boost due to the splendor of an aerial viewpoint, capturing an undeniable magic that most residents remained uniformly oblivious of. Melodies, both symphonic and cacophonous, reverberated throughout the turbulent streets, and the sounds seemed to crescendo in harmonious succession. Not even the scent of garbage and dissipating exhaust fumes could spoil the singularly chaotic charm of the Big Apple.
Patience shivered and tore her eyes away, brilliant prisms of light reflecting off the lenses of her glasses. She'd never witnessed her hometown from such a startling height and it was as breathtaking as it was frightening. She inhaled sharply, breathing with a jagged uneasiness that she did her best to conceal. It was only as she glanced at her pale legs—noting the mismatched socks gracing her feet and the blatant lack of shoes—that she realized something very disturbing.
"I'm not wearing any clothes!" The epiphany was, in all conscience, half true. Aside from the bulky jacket and aforementioned socks, her body was clad in boxers and a light pajama top. While her getup was comfortable, it was admittedly not the best choice of attire for traipsing around the wintry city at night in.
"You look clothed to me," Brooklyn said, eyeing her appraisingly.
"Says the guy wearing a loincloth."
"Touché."
She rolled her eyes. "I can't believe I'm going to meet your family…in my Star Wars boxers no less."
"Just wow them with the Force, they won't notice a thing."
"Hardy har har. I take it they're all as scantily dressed as you?"
"Do you have something against loincloths?"
"No," she admitted, smiling coyly. "Tarzan and George of the Jungle pulled them off rather nicely. What with their wild hair, and their rippling pectorals, and—"
"I get it," he mumbled, abruptly cutting her off. A thinly disguised scowl colored his face.
"Why the sudden hostility?" she asked, gently touching his shoulder. "It must be because I forgot to include the manliest of them all, right?"
"And that would be…?"
She stared at him intently. "You."
Brooklyn snorted. "Oh yeah, I'm the man of every girl's dreams." He shook his head slowly, eyes downcast. "More like nightmares."
She wrestled to keep her voice level as she said, "Look, I'm not trying to get mushy here, but you have something that Tarzan and George don't: you're a real, flesh and blood person. Those jungle boys are just figments of somebody else's hyperactive imagination. I can't accidently punch them, or run my fingers through their hair, or have snarky conversations with them."
"Or leap off of buildings with them," he added, smiling now.
"That too." She ruffled Brooklyn's white hair, made silvery by the incandescence of a waxing moon. "See? There's no making you up."
His wistful eyes lingered upon her face before flickering away to presumably navigate around the upcoming skyscrapers. Patience scanned the horizon, gasping as the acclaimed Eyrie Building came into view, an imposing façade spawned entirely from the wealth and ingenuity of a grandiose billionaire.
"Xanatos," she muttered caustically under her breath, "he's one guy I could go without meeting."
"Can't say I trust him myself…"
"Then why live in such close quarters?"
"Because we have nowhere else to go," he sighed bitterly. "Our previous home isn't exactly in topnotch condition."
"Sounds like you could use a good interior decorator." She frowned. "The clock tower incident, it wouldn't happen to have anything to do with Castaway's goons, would it?"
He nodded. "More like everything to do with them."
She balled her hands into fists, struggling to hold back the mounting surge of resentment she felt. "If I ever see that guy again, I swear, he'll be sucking his meals through a straw for the rest of his miserable life."
"And how do you plan on going about that?" he asked, attempting to suppress the derision in his tone. In all honesty, he was somewhat impressed by her sudden ferocity; it was like he was witnessing a whole other side of Patience, a side that was both striking and slightly amusing.
"Karate," she said candidly. "If Jackie Chan can do it, so can I."
They settled upon one of the castle's many turrets. Despite the smooth landing, she tightened her grip on Brooklyn so as not to lose balance. She felt unsteady on her feet, like she'd ridden an adrenaline-inducing roller coaster and didn't even know it. So much for becoming an eventual black belt; if mastering basic coordination was tricky, she didn't even want to imagine the toilsome effort that went along with mastering karate.
"Is this the girl you've been talking about?"
Patience heard the reedy voice before she could identify who it belonged to. Automatically, she turned in the direction she perceived it to be coming from, slightly wobbly courtesy of her newfound jelly legs. An olive-green gargoyle materialized from the shadows, a curious expression plastered to his face. His small stature surprised her, and his youthful features made him look more like a plush toy than a savage combatant.
She glanced at Brooklyn. "You've been talking about me?"
"Only every second of every day for the past couple of weeks," the little gargoyle confirmed, smirking.
Brooklyn shrugged, feigning innocence. "Pay no attention to Lex, he's, uh, prone to exaggeration."
"I beg to differ, lad." The statement was highlighted with a thick Scottish brogue. "You've been sounding like a broken record, and that's a fact."
Patience was beginning to lose track of who was who. Before she could so much as blink, more gargoyles had arrived, manifesting out of the eventide darkness, each eagerly adding their own two cents to the mix. She caught several names and immediately committed them to memory, drawing on Brooklyn's tales and descriptions to fill in any blanks.
"So," Angela, a slender female with a lavender complexion, piped up, "what's her name?"
"Patience," Brooklyn stated.
"We're not getting any younger, lad, might as well be quick with introductions."
Brooklyn shook his head. "No, no, no, I mean her name is Patience, not to actually be patient."
"Aye, a little clarification goes a long way." The tan gargoyle pensively stroked his whiskers. "I'm known as Hudson, lass. I assume the lad's already told ye plenty about us."
"Well, I wouldn't say 'plenty,' but—" Patience was unable to finish her sentence, distracted by the sudden conspicuous cameo of yet another gargoyle. This one was powerfully built and his skin tone, in addition to his dark eyes and hair, was reminiscent to that of Angela's. Everything about him, from his strong jawline to his towering frame, seemed to scream "warrior."
Settling his massive wings about him like a cloak, he inquired, somewhat bluntly, "Who is this?"
Patience blanched as he observed her, a hint of suspicion coloring his otherwise reserved countenance. "I'm Patience," she said, offering a shaky smile despite the burgeoning swell of apprehension she felt. "And you must be Goliath." She glanced at the circle of gargoyles that had formed around her. Bronx, utterly enthralled, sniffed and pawed at her legs until she relented and patted his head. "Brooklyn's told me stories about you guys. I, uh, hope that's okay."
"Of course it is," Angela insisted cordially. "After all, we've heard stories about you, too. Frankly, I think it's wonderful to have another girl around here." She leaned closer to Patience and whispered, "It'll be a nice change, not having to deal with so many boys on my own."
"A nice change, huh?" A hefty, greenish-blue gargoyle—Patience immediately identified him as Broadway—elbowed Angela playfully. "And here I thought you liked having me around."
Angela blushed and nudged Broadway in return. Goliath fixed his purposeful eyes on Brooklyn. "I have certain qualms about placing trust in strangers, especially given these dangerous times." He exhaled slowly and scrutinized Patience for an indefinite amount of time, as if just looking at her would be enough to ascertain her true character. "However, if my second-in-command trusts you, then I shall as well."
Patience released a conciliatory breath of relief. As Goliath turned away, she glanced intentionally at Brooklyn and silently mouthed, "Second-in-command?" He merely shrugged, beak curved in a nervous smile.
Bronx moaned persistently at her feet and proceeded to flip over gratefully as Patience rubbed his tummy whilst Broadway leaned in and incongruously sniffed her shoulder. "Hey, you smell like cake"—Patience's eyes widened—"and nutmeg and sugar cookies and vanilla." He licked his lips mirthfully. "Puts me in the mood for dessert just thinking about it."
"Well, maybe it has something do with the fact that I live above a bakery?"
"I knew I liked you!" He grinned and took another long whiff. "Next time Brooklyn visits you, I, uh, think I'll accompany him."
"There he goes again, thinking with his stomach." Lexington poked Broadway's impressive belly. "You just said the magic words, Patience; there's no getting rid of him now."
Suddenly, the distinct whir of a helicopter drowned out any and all noise; nothing could be discerned except the maddening drone of huge metal blades rapidly cutting through a pocket of frigid air. The unknown aircraft hovered ominously in the sky, demanding attention as a blindingly bright light washed over the castle, probing the formerly opaque building and illuminating their location. Without warning, guns began to fire. Despite the absolute chaos, the din of the copter, and the emphatic pounding of her heart, Patience could perceive an authoritative voice rise above the pandemonium and shout, "Get inside!"
Several gargoyles immediately employed the use of their wings, nimbly gliding toward the helicopter with teeth and claws bared. Patience overrode her current panic-stricken mentality and scrambled to reach Brooklyn. Compulsively she clutched his arm, pushing him to the stone floor with a grunt as a barrage of bullets descended from the armored chopper like a virulent rainstorm. Holding him down in what she hoped was an area safely out of the crossfire, she felt something abruptly graze her cheek, followed by a subtle burning sensation and a swift, excruciating pain that inadvertently ignited a section of her face, triggering her eyes to well with tears.
Ignoring the throbbing discomfort, she helped Brooklyn up and quickly followed the other gargoyles as they made their way inside the castle, all of them visibly distraught and outraged by the uncalled-for attack. After meandering down a twisted hallway, they entered an expansive room teeming with elegant dated tapestries, colossal windows, and an ornate crystal chandelier. A cavernous fireplace infused the otherwise drafty space with ample warmth and fiery effulgence.
"Those cowards…attacking us from the safety of their flying machine," Angela muttered acerbically. "We did absolutely nothing to provoke them."
"Aye, but at least no one was hurt."
In the illuminated room, Brooklyn glimpsed Patience for the first time since the foray, slightly alarmed. "Uh, you might want to rephrase that sentence." He touched her cheek and she hastily pulled away, placing a tentative hand on the right side of her face.
"I-It's only a scratch." She smiled half-heartedly and removed her hand, peering at the staggering amount of sticky vermillion liquid oozing onto her palm. "A very big scratch apparently."
"Are you alright?" Brooklyn asked, anguish contorting his features.
She tried to appear nonchalant, as if bullets scraping her flesh were an everyday occurrence. "Yup, no major harm done. I didn't really care for that cheek anyway."
"Au contraire, my dear," a masterful voice uttered upon entering the room. "It's a lovely cheek, and one worth saving, wouldn't you agree, Owen?"
"Indeed, sir."
Patience glanced at the two additional men, mentally sizing them up. So this is David Xanatos? He didn't give her any bad vibes, didn't, in fact, give her any reason not to trust him—aside from screwing with the gargoyles in the past. If anything he could've been labeled the epitome of "sensible businessman"—from his dark suit to his slick goatee, there were vestiges of something inherently crafty about him; he always had a plan, no doubt about it and, fortunately, he always had a right-hand man to bounce said plans off of. Right from the get-go she could tell Owen was a stoic, well-dressed, pragmatic man with a sparse supply of facial expressions to offer. Blonde-haired and sporting a large pair of glasses, the only remarkable feature about him was his left hand, which was immersed entirely in solid stone. Brooklyn hadn't mentioned enough about Owen for her to truly deduce his faculties, so she kept her assessments of him to a minimum.
"I'm terribly sorry about what happened." Xanatos leaned against his desk, relatively at ease. Despite the rapid assault on his home, he didn't look the least bit shaken. "Mark my words, those lunatics who attacked you will not go unpunished."
Patience winced as Owen rubbed a cotton swab doused with a sting-inducing salve on her cheek. "Hold still, please."
"That wouldn't be a problem if you weren't so rough," she mumbled, recoiling from his touch.
His thin mouth twisted into what looked like some semblance of a smile. "I'll keep that in mind."
She allowed him to continue without protest. The ointment smelled faintly of eucalyptus and, upon contact, almost immediately relieved the concentrated pain she felt. Aside from the copious amount of blood on her jacket and the bandage Owen planted squarely on her cheek, she looked perfectly healthy.
"I'd better take you home while you're still in one piece," Brooklyn explained, protectively seeking the warm shelter of her hand.
She scowled. "There's no need to treat me like some porcelain doll. I said I was fine, and I am."
"Could've fooled me."
She turned to bid everyone goodnight. After exchanging several hugs and sending a dutiful 'thank you' Owen's way, she departed with Brooklyn to one of the turrets for a proper takeoff. Glossy snowflakes began to fall in hyperboreal clusters as he hoisted her into his arms.
"That was some party," she said—a dainty snowflake chanced to flutter onto her outstretched palm.
"Yeah, just don't scare me like that again."
"Doth my ears deceive me? I scared a gargoyle?"
He glanced sheepishly at the floor. "Seeing all that blood on you…knowing you'd been injured as a direct result of trying to protect me"—he shook his head, eyeing her warmly—"you must have some hero complex. Either that or a death wish."
"Well, I don't like to toot my own horn, but…hey!" She swatted at his arm. "Remind me next time not to save you."
Brooklyn sailed off the monolithic building, leathery wings spread out in their entirety, capturing brisk currents of favorable wind. As they floated over a shadowy New York in silence, all he could think about was how relieved he was that Patience was safe—and on a visceral, almost subconscious level, how good it was to hold her in his arms.