WINGS
By Scythe
Flying. That's what it felt like.
Leaping out into seemingly infinite space, the wind slapping his face, pulling at his body, lifting him slightly as if he had wings...until gravity took over and he had to make use of a grappling hook to keep from plowing head-first into the ground.
But that split second in time, that moment of freedom, makes it all--
A whimper echoed in the street below him, reaching his ears and snapping him out of his reverie. Time to go to work, Grayson, he thought.
A young woman--no, a girl. Looked barely sixteen. She was backed against a wall, her thin, trembling shoulders slumped in fearful submission. Count-- ten young men surrounded her. Gang members. The lascivious leers on their faces made their intentions clear.
Not tonight.
Nightwing swung down on his line towards the cold cement road, releasing at about fifteen feet and executing a somersault upon hitting the ground to break his fall. He landed directly behind the perverts. Quick as a breath, he braced his weight with his arms and swept both feet in a powerful arc along the ground, connecting behind the ankles of the startled thug closest to him. The kid actually flipped into the air before impacting with bone-crushing force into the pavement. He wouldn't be causing any problems for a while...
He heard the distinctive click of an automatic weapon being prepared to fire. He ducked to the ground and spun to face the threat, whipping his arm around and letting fly a razor-edged, bat-shaped shuriken. The weapon buried itself in the gunman's wrist. The guy's whole body convulsed and a high-pitched, effeminate shriek ripped from his throat.
Instinct taking over, Nightwing whirled around at a faint sound behind him. His heavily booted foot followed through and made a resounding crack across a gang member's jaw. Without even dropping his leg back down, he thrust it straight out to the side to jam into another attacker's diaphragm.
He could hear the girl screaming in the back of his head.
He made short work of two more thugs, knife-handing one in the diaphragm and kicking the other across the temple--
CRACK!
He heard the shot and tried to spin towards its source, but he found himself lurching sideways instead, as if he had been punched. Punched? Yeah, right. He felt more like a truck had just rammed into his rib cage.
Gasping, he fell to his knees and clamped his hand over the injury. No blood--the kevlar had held up against the bullet. But it hurt like hell.
Quick count--three of them left. Play possum for a second, get them off guard...
The gunman was standing over him, no doubt to finish the job. Make your move, Grayson.
Nightwing moved so quickly even he had trouble discerning it. Almost before he knew it, he was standing with his back to the gunman, his hands clamped over the guy's wrist and elbow, locking the arm into a rigid paralysis. The other two gangsters advanced toward them, one on each side...Nightwing heaved both legs in the air, cracking the insteps of his feet under their chins.
Nightwing then applied pressure on the gunman's arm, twisting the wrist until the gun clattered to the ground.
Without warning, the man lurched violently around, and Nightwing suddenly found himself reeling from an elbow rammed into his temple. Stunned, he stumbled forward, releasing his grip.
Immediately, the man was coming at him with a knife.
Nightwing easily sidestepped the thrust and grabbed the man's arm, jerking it into a lock--he heard the sickening crunch of breaking bone, and the guy cried out.
The girl screamed.
Nightwing looked toward her and she whimpered a name: "Ricky..." She ran to the gangster's side and put her arms around him, her red-rimmed, tearless eyes looking up at Nightwing with a glassy stare.
"How could you do this? He's my boyfriend. Mind your own business...this is my business..."
That was when he saw the needle marks on her arms.
She moaned, "I didn't have any money, but I needed it...I needed it..."
Nightwing stared. He didn't mean to, but he couldn't help himself. It didn't take a detective to know what it was that she needed--the needle pricks and bruised veins in her arms spoke louder than words.
Then a crystal-clarity started to break through his adrenaline-induced haze. The girl hadn't cried for help. He had briefly wondered why at first. Now he knew.
What she had been willing to do to pay for her addiction sent chills running down his spine.
He backed off slowly, then slipped mechanically up a fire escape to the roof of a nearby apartment building. He crouched down in the shadows and placed a 911 call through the communicator positioned in his gauntlet. Then, rising slowly and moving to the edge of the roof, he prepared his grappling hook and leaped into space. As wind bit at his face, slashing icy fingers through his hair, all he could think about was what he could have done to save her from that living death.
He had to put a stop to this.
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