Of Heroes and Hellions
Chapter 2: Roger That
A dark figure jumps from building to building, tucking under itself, landing gracefully, and stepping without sound. Their breath can be seen curling around the chilled black sky, twisting upward to kiss the stars goodnight.
To the populous of Gotham City the figure was once known as Greyhawk, the masked crusader, the femme fetal, the second youngest member of the bat family. She dresses in a durable high-tech suit, flexible gloves and rubber-soled shoes; her utility belt hangs low on her hips. The Greyhawk is a shadow, dressed all in black with a charcoal symbol of a bird stretching its wingspan across her chest. Her green eyes are hidden behind the white shields of her mask that pitches just below and at and the corners of her eyes in sharp angles. Her hair hangs loose in a muted-gold curtain, its color washed out in the thick haze of the city lights that burn well through dawn. And yet, despite the flashing neon lights that yearn to stretch to the darkest corners of the city, the Greyhawk always manages to find shadows to fold herself within.
A gruff voice speaks behind her, one she knows well, "You shouldn't be out here."
"What?" She doesn't turn around to face the darkly clothed man standing behind her when she speaks. He's just another shadow. "Are you going to tell me it's too dangerous?" She's not sure why she asks it because she knows it isn't true. She was bread into this business; before the age of nine she knew how to disable a man with a single hit and how to track a person in the dark by only the sound of their breathing. By the time she was eleven she was employing these practices in the field. She was raised in an environment were she never had the time to develop childish fears.
"No," comes his short reply. People like him rarely concern themselves with the idea of danger because they are stronger than that—strong enough that nothing could ever truly be a danger to them. "But people will get suspicious about Greyhawk and Batman's sudden movement."
"People don't seem to understand how to appreciate a good thing when it's given to them." Her voice seems casual but he can hear the tight undertone beneath it. Of course he can. He's Batman; he's her father. Ellery understands peoples' impulse to question everything, she's naturally suspicious herself, but she appreciates it less when the questions are aimed towards her. The less people know about her the better. She has always been cloaked in mystery.
And when the time has passed Ellery does not need to turn around to know he's gone, melted back into the shadows and disappeared.
Soul doesn't participate in nightly patrols of the grimy city streets. She doesn't beat up thugs or lock away drug dealers. It isn't that she deems their petty crimes below her but rather that her actions as a hero have always been controlled by her parents, people who have continuously been far more concerned by the bigger picture as it goes for the safety of the city and sometimes, even, the world. Her joints have begun to feel stiff at the lack of movement.
But she is confident in her brother who has taken it upon himself to clean up the streets. Anne believes it has something to do with the goon who killed his Uncle Ben. Spider-man knows the Earth shattering impact that the low class criminals can have. One bullet can tear apart a family; a single packet of powder can bring down entire futures. And it isn't as if Spider-man has not made formidable enemies. In the short time he has slung his webs Peter has built up his own repertoire of super villains: the Green Goblin, Electro, Kingpin, Venom, and the list continues on.
Sometimes Anne will stay up late and pull her curtains wide open across her window so that she may see out into the night. Tired eyes scan the skyline in search of a familiar red and blue suit; maybe she'll hear his familiar laughter as he swings through the night on his thin wire cables. But she never sees anything aside from the steady stream of city lights, never hears anything over the faint noise of horns from cars driving ninety-three stories below. Though, this time she thinks perhaps she's caught a glimpse of something, a figure drifting seamlessly within the shadows; however, she's too close to sleep to be able to trust her senses—too far gone.
Anne wakes up the next morning before her alarm, her mind heavy with the knowledge that winter break is over and school has begun again. Sunlight streams through her window. She fell asleep without closing her sheers last night. In the dining room Peter sits slumped over his plate and nibbling half-heartedly on a piece of toast. He has dark shadows under his eyes and a far off expression on his face. She does not ask him what is wrong, she can already assume as much, and she is sure he will appreciate her silence.
Peter runs a hand through his hair, a brunette color only a shade lighter than Anne's—a trait that makes them both look more like Tony than Steve—and gives her a tight-lipped smile. It isn't his usual smile, which makes his eyes crinkle and his dimples more prominent. It's enough to make her lean forward across the table, her long hair falling into her face before she tucks it impatiently behind her ear, and rests a hand on his arm. "What happened last night?" Everyone should be out of the tower save for them; she decidedly throws all caution to the wind.
"Nothing," he shakes his head, "we'd better get moving if we want to make it to class on time." He stands from his seat and stretches his arms above his head, making something in his shoulder pop.
Anne throws her head back and laughs loudly. "Who's ever known you to be on time?"
"I'm turning over a new leaf," Peter shrugs.
And sure enough they make it to school on time. Students milling around the old brick building, huddled in small groups outside despite the cold, their boots scuffling against the frosted grass and dirty melting snow. Anne breathes in the crisp air and waves across the yard to a group of laughing students, skipping off and leaving her brother without a word in his direction. "Anne!" calls a girl with a short blonde haircut, a stylish bob that curls just under her chin. She has wide eyes the same color of the champagne that is always found floating around on trays perched delicately on the hands of suited waiters and waitresses in flutes of clear glass at the formal events her family is often invited, and obligated, to attend. "Leah," Anne greats with a happy smile while pulling the straps of her bag high up on her shoulders. Anne has always had a large circle of friends; she likes to surround herself with people and laughter and noise. She pulls her energy from the environment around her.
Anne turns her smile on the rest of the small group around her: Mitchell, who feels his name is far too close to the female spelling of Michelle and insists everyone call him Mitch instead, laughing with Hunter whom has a shy disposition and hides his bright blue eyes behind bulky black-framed glasses. And then there's Kelly, with her long legs and pale skin a stark contrast against her fiery red hair that falls straight as a pin down to her waist, who has ducked her head down to whisper something in the ear of Diana, a tiny girl with a mess of darkly colored waves and a light dusting of freckles across the bridge of her nose, a nose that crinkles when she smiles like she is now. She follows the length of their gaze over her shoulder and across the yard to a student, she's new—Anne knows because she has taken it upon herself to know most every face in the school—and she's also someone Anne recognizes instantly.
This girl is of average height with plaits of long blonde hair a shade of color that the fashion magazines describe as honey brown. Anne knows even from this distance that the girl has green eyes like a thick forest canopy, a mix of dark and light hues. She gets her coloring from her mother, she assumes, for she has none of her father's dark hair or fair blue eyes. Everything else comes from him though, the famous Bruce Wayne, his face structure and smirk. Even the simple way they hold themselves is enough to draw the resemblance. Yes, she knows the girl in a casual sense, it's hard not to when Ellery Wayne's photograph is plastered on the front page of gossip magazines almost as often as her own. They're both publicity babies, and now their fathers shake hands and play nice. It would only make sense for them to do the same.
Ellery Wayne had never been good at making friends, had avoided the activity in fact. She was more of a lone wolf—lone hawk if one is apt to humor. She flies in the solitary skies, more space for her to stretch her wings. She makes it her goal to look as unapproachable as possible and for the most part it works in her favor. So it is surprising when she feels someone at her shoulder and hears them—her, because the voice is distinctly female—call her by name, her first name. People that are unfamiliar with her always call her by her last name with a tone of reverence in their voice but there is none of that here. She can tell the girl is grinning just by the pitch of her voice and it grates on her nerves. Ellery doesn't slow her pace, she doesn't even turn to look at the girl; though, she can pick up a crop of brown hair and a fleece jacket in a happy yellow color out of her peripheral vision. "I'm Anne Rogers," the girl speaks, not the least bit deterred by the blonde's lack of reaction, "Stark-Rogers," she tacks on as an afterthought. Ellery is hardly surprised that the other girl has searched her out but she had thought it would take the other girl more time. She expected to be approached at a formal event for the company, like the gala that is swiftly approaching, or even in the library during lunch about a week from now, but not the morning of her first day at Midtown High. The girl is quick; she'll give her that.
"Ellery Wayne," the blonde speaks in a clipped tone, taking the final step up the concrete flight before entering the school, "but it's evident you already know that by the way you declared it to the entire court yard just moments previous." They make a sharp turn down the corridor until Ellery stops in front of a locker. It has a bit of its green paint chipping in the corner but it is at least a top locker and situated at the end of the row, only just around the corner from Anne's as she tells her so.
"What's your schedule?" Anne asks, hoping to compare. Ellery takes a moment to stack her books neatly away before opening up a calendar book with a green plastic cover on the front, on the inside corner it has her initials written in block capital letters: E.M.W. She pulls out a crisply folded piece of printer paper, holding it between two fingers like a cigarette and just out of Anne's reach. Ellery studies her for a moment. The look she gives her makes Anne want to shift on her feet, but she doesn't. Instead she takes the opportunity to stare back and seize all the details that the poor lighting and crass photography had blended out. Anne expects the other girl's nails to be long and manicured but instead they are cut short, the cuticles kept clean. When she stands her toes turn slightly inward and there's a fine scar running the diagonal length of her left cheek from the corner of her eye across to her jaw line. She wants to ask her about it but the idea of inquiring something so personal too soon makes her hold her tongue, not something she does often. Perhaps she'll ask one day and receive an honest answer.
Ellery tips the letter closer to Anne in a silent gesture. The brunette takes it from her hand and unfolds just as quietly. In the top left-hand corner the name and mailing address have been blacked out with Sharpie; the marker's biting scent is still detectable. And then below it reads:
CLASS TEACHER ROOM #
PERIOD 1: Calculus II Robertson, Michael 204
PERIOD 2: Chemistry AP Haynes, Patricia 436
LUNCH A
PERIOD 3: English IV AP Pierce, Renee S. 311
PERIOD 4: French IV H Bellerose, Pamela 108
They have two out of four classes together as well as lunch. Anne looks up at Ellery and grins, "Lunch, English, and French," she lists off, counting on three fingers. "And I think you have Chemistry with my brother, Peter."
Anne was not wrong. Ellery realizes as much when she takes her seat in room 436, a space off to the side in the front row, and Mrs. Haynes calls roll. Her name is the last on the list unlike in calculus when there was a White, Stephanie on the roster, but in both classes Ellery's last name sends a ripple through the once sleepy students. Every student but Peter Rogers, that is. She supposes Peter already knows how it feels to be talked about not because of you but your parents instead.
They end up as lab partners and Ellery is left wondering what it is with herself and the Stark-Rogers family.