"Okay. We're on the roof, outside, and it is freaking freezing. What are we doing now?" My voice comes out grumpy, and I hold back a yawn while rubbing my arms in an attempt to warm them.
"Shh. Listen, and we'll be able to hear the people." It's rather disturbing to see my flighty Jaida this intense, so I humor her and close my mouth. Sure enough, if I strained my ears I could begin to hear Gotham's nightlife. Living in the neighborhood that we did, though, meant that the nightlife almost exclusively included a few rowdy cats and a few cars passing through.
"We're going to have to head closer to downtown to have any chance of encountering anyone let alone a criminal," she remarks, and moves to the edge of the roof, "come on, the gap between these buildings is really small, we can jump it- no problem." I follow her over, and stiffen at how high we are. At least three stories, and the neighboring roof is at least a foot higher, maybe even two.
"Oh, yeah, no problem. No problem at all. I mean, it's not like you're talking about jumping off a roof. Nah, no big deal," My speech doesn't have quite the effect I was hoping, and Jaida is flying through the air before I'm finished talking.
"Come on, slowpoke!" she shouts at me, and I know I have no choice. One, two, three big steps away from the edge, then one, two, three more. One, two, three deep breaths to steady myself, and I run forward. Silently I countdown: three, two, one, JUMP! Using perfect long jump form, I spring up and vault myself over the gap. My feet plant themselves firmly on solid ground, several feet from the gap, and I can breath again.
"Bravo, bravo!" calls Jaida, quietly clapping, and then she grins. "And now, let's catch some action!"
We leap over several more rooftops, running as silently as we can, each jump becoming less nerve-wracking, until we have reached the edge of The Picasso. The Picasso is an area is a very popular place for petty thieves and would-be convenience store robbers; it got its name from vast number of vandalists and graffiti artists that spraypainted all the flat surfaces with some art. Most people don't mind the paint, most of the pictures are actually quite good, but muggings are common. You definitely don't want to be caught in Picasso alone at night.
Jaida is currently distracted by a particular section of wall that seems to someone's practice area. "Ske- skree- skeeler?" she puzzles, trying to decipher the overly stylized letters. "Isn't that the tag of the guy who spraypainted the Obama billboard to make him look like Joker?"
"Maybe," I reply, not really paying attention. I thought I heard voices from the alley below us. "Psst, Jaida, shush! There's people down there!" My urgent stage whisper cuts through her random thoughts, and she scurries over.
"Really? Do you think they're doing anything illegal?" I'm slightly sickened as Jaida treats this new development as though it is free tickets to a concert.
"No one just hangs out in Picasso at midnight, dollophead," I hiss, "Now seriously, shush, I'm trying to hear what they're saying."
"Look, buddy, we're not speaking Kryptonian. Turn out your pockets, or we'll turn 'em out for you." Whoever this guy is, his voice is raspy- probably from an unhealthy tobacco habit. Silently I dub him the Smoker.
"I don't have anything you want- I don't carry cash, nor do I have any jewelry" Despite his unfortunate predicament, the victim of what I'm guessing is a mugging sounds articulate, professional. He's not begging, he's not pleading. It's more like he's bored with all of this. Does he seriously not realize that he's not God, that it is possible for him to be seriously hurt by what must seem like scum to him? Surely he doesn't think he can fight his attackers off?
"Rich bloke like 'you? I's reckon 'choo got lot's o' whut we want." A third person comes into play, another immigrant fresh off the boat from Ireland judging by his thick accent. All in all, a typical stick-up. Living in Gotham, it's no big surprise. If you haven't been mugged at least once, you're either extremely careful, extremely dangerous, or one lucky bastard.
While I've been listening, Jaida has been slowly realizing how serious of a situation we're in. This isn't a game; those are real people, in the middle of a real mugging, and we're in a position to stop. If I had thought that this would scare her off, however, I would have been wrong. Instead, she seems even more determined to help.
"Can you see if they have a gun?" Jaida asked, her voice set and even. "We need to know what we're up against."
Gently tipping my head over the edge, I get my first look at Smoker and his buddy. The vic's face is hidden by shadows, but I can see what the Irish fellow meant by rich- Mr. Hoity Toity had on a crisp suit, and a hand gripped the handle of a fancy briefcase. It all screamed 'loaded.' Smoker was a typical thug: average height, heavy build, dark nondescript clothes. Maybe a bit on the chubby side, but muscular. Old enough to have grown up on these streets, and unlike us, this would not be his first rodeo. Patrick O'Leprachaun was... different. Tall, and kinda stretched out like someone who grew a lot in a short amount of time, and without a whole lot food during the process. Bright red hair peaked out from a baseball cap with bill pulled low.
Appearance, check. Weapons? Smoker was obviously in charge, and a handgun was firmly clutched in his oversized right hand, while the other street thug twirled a stereotypical metal pipe.
"Three guys," I say shortly, "One business guy in the very back, big guy with a gun on the far end, and another guy with a pipe." My entire body is on high alert, tense, and I'm dreading Jaida's next words. Undoubtedly they'll be some sort of brilliantly complicated plan.
"Okay, I'll go down to the street from the other side, and cover the opening to the street. Whoever tries to run first, I'll take them out. You drop down the ladder and get between the thug and their mark. Deal?"
"Deal."
Already things are spiraling out of control, but the word that signs our fate has passed my lips before I've even processed Jaida's words. She doesn't give me a chance to take it back, slipping away in a blink. Now or never I tell myself, but can't help wondering how many others have silently chanted this same mantra before doing the dumbest thing of their life.
