Sorry for the wait! College and all that. Semester is over for the summer though! Huzzah!
Orange and Black
Chapter Six
"Courage is not the absence of fear, but rather the judgment that
something else is more important than fear."
― Meg Cabot
"Where do you get all these toys?" Claw asked in awe, gesturing to Batgirl's grapnel hook. Mysteriously vanishing from the commissioner's sight mid-conversation felt just as awesome as it sounded, if not more.
Standing in an epic pose atop one of the gargoyles on the top of Taylor's favorite Catholic church that stood out among the tall corporate buildings in the diamond district, Batgirl chuckled a bit, "I'm not the person to ask."
An awkward silence passed between them. After resting on the gargoyles and listening for trouble for a good ten minutes, Batgirl spoke, "I'm on it."
Before Claw could become confused, she remembered the ear piece. She had a second to wonder if it was Batman on the other side of the communication or some sort of information broker before Batgirl spoke again, this time to her fellow redheaded vigilante. "Can I get that file from you later tonight?"
Nodding her head, Claw stood (in what she hoped was a cool pose) atop the north facing gargoyle, hair blowing in the wind. "Sure. It's Tuesday, so I'll get off around five. We can work on the paper then focus on the case."
"So it's a paper now?" Her friend asked teasingly, dropping her fierce Batgirl façade for a moment.
"Forgive me if I don't want to spend any more time on this project than I have too," Claw snapped, then added, "No offense," in an attempt at some civility. An awkward silence passed.
The sidekick sighed, "Meet me on the roof of the hotel on the corner of 39th and Russo. Ten o'clock; don't be late."
Before Claw could confirm, Batgirl turned away and leapt off of the gargoyle. Cape pulled tight around her as she dived a couple floors before snapping her cape out like leathery wings. With a painful looking jerk, her fall slowed into a graceful glide. A quick use of her grapple and Batgirl flew in the direction of Sionis Industries corporate building and out of Claw's sight.
Claw climbed onto the head of a gargoyle adjacent to the one Batgirl had stood upon moments ago and closed her eyes. Gotham was peaceful at 3:34 am that Tuesday morning. Hair billowing behind her, Claw breathed deeply as she took in the night time. The sound of the wind in her ears blocked out anything else that could have been happening below beyond the occasional car horn. The air was cool and smelt of old stone dust and Windex – a bit of a mood killer but, really, who was she to complain when the corporate building's windows looked as clean as they did. When she opened her eyes, Claw took a deep gulp of oxygen and looked to the heavens. The city lights and bloated clouds blocked out most of whatever stars would still be out this time of night.
As she leaned forward, she allowed her straightened torso to lead and her limbs bowed out behind her. Her feet left the gargoyle and she was in freefall.
\~~~~~~/
Around 5 am, later than she had ever dared to stay out on a school night, Claw was standing on the roof of a four story apartment building that skirted the edge of an inner city field. The field was relatively small but large enough to contain a neighborhood garden and a beat up playground. Her figure appeared only as a silhouette to any of the thugs down below; if they were looking up, that is.
Seven goons: all potentially armed. They weren't exchanging drugs, money, or anything else remotely illegal. Actually, Claw had no idea what they were doing, but she knew one of them by reputation and the other much more personally.
Roman Sionis and Jonathan Crane.
That is, Crane as in her Psychology professor. His tall lanky frame was unmistakable amongst the cabled arms of Sionis's thugs. And yes, she did mean Roman Sionis as in the Black Mask.
In the movie Mean Girls, one girl says "…[seeing teachers outside of school is] like seeing a dog walk on its hind legs" but for Taylor, seeing her uppity self-important college professor making what looked like a shady deal with one of the biggest crime syndicates in the city, it was more like seeing a goose snort cocaine.
Their voices were loud but not quite coherent to the vigilante's ears while their tense and angry body language spoke volumes about their relationship. Taking the hired guns down in the middle of a playground wouldn't be a breeze and damn near impossible if Sionis and Crane were armed as well. From where Claw was spying, it was impossible to tell.
Claw would consider herself daring and would normally jump into a five-on-one brawl without a second thought, but normally her opponents weren't armed with anything worse than a carbon fiber piece of junk gun made in China or a junk-drawer blade. These guys had what looked like semi-automatic rifles.
She'd never been anything close to a gun expert but she'd seen enough movies to know those machines meant business – murderous business at that. Not to mention that dispite her nocturnal activities, Claw wasn't a moron? With her injuries still on the mend, it wasn't likely that she would have been able to dodge any quick attacks thrown her way.
Yes, Claw was daring and even foolish at times but certainly never stupid.
Plus, she decided, seeing as they weren't doing anything illegal she couldn't really do anything about it in the first place. The smart thing to do would be to leave and send note to Batgirl who could in turn tell Batdude. The Black Mask wasn't someone to take lightly what with his sociopathic nature and legendary temper.
Then again, most of her focus was on finding a logical reason behind her psychology professor having a shady discussion with a crime lord at an inner-city playground.
She knew Crane was creepy but seeing him near a playground was mildly disturbing. He hated children with a burning passion. Claw was sure he had never actually been one but had simply begun existing around age thirty. Shaking her head a little, she knew there was no closer spot for her to hide and spy as the men were positioned in the middle of the field.
Her only options were to A: confront the group and hope they didn't shoot her – unlikely – or B: leave it to the big man – undesirable. Weighing her options, Claw hesitated even though she already knew what her answer would be.
B it is, she thought with a disappointed sigh. Something about this made her think about what Batgirl had said about knowing her limits. A scowl marred her bruised face before she disappeared.
\~~~~~~/
"And where'd you get all this money again?" Arty asked the scruffy elder gent from the previous chapters suspiciously. Arty had never bothered to learn the man's name but had seen him frequenting the ally by his apartment a few years back and since then, the degenerate just wouldn't leave him alone.
So being the smart salesman he was Arty had prompted the gutter-lurker with a pretty sweet deal only to be turned down quickly and rudely. And now, that same pathetic man was now begging for a second chance at that deal much to Arty's annoyance.
"Come on, Arty, please!" He pleaded, "I got the money now, Arty. Thirty for three, right? Thirty for three – that's what you said!"
Arty sneared, "What changed your mind anyway?"
"I have the money now, Arty," he insisted earnestly. The homeless man was an avid smoker at some point in his life, if his voice was anything to go by: it sounded like a heavy tire rolling over uneven gravel.
Glancing at his watch, Arty knew he had to get this guy out of here and soon, he had another customer to attend to. "All right, all right."
They made the exchange and the homeless man thanked Arty profusely and, after wishing him a good night, the other man left. Arty stood alone in a long dead carnival at the bluffs of Sullivan Island outside the city; his eyes glanced over the mildly polluted harbor water and to the filthy cityscape of downtown Gotham.
Arthur "Arty" Riot had always been a man of simplicity; simple thoughts and even simpler deals. Arty was a businessman, despite what his pompous brother might have thought or said, and he was smart. Selling as cheaply as he did had made him one of the most successful dealers in the city only second to organized crime syndicates.
Arty made his success because his dealings were cheap but he was rarely generous – excepting only his dear niece.
His niece, Taylor, was a bit of a moocher as a child but the older she grew and the more independent and rebellious she became, the more Arty had liked her. Denying her father's considerable wealth, she had insisted on supporting herself when she moved out to Gotham. Taylor had been in school for just about four years working on a fancy-shmancy college degree; according to her it was a difficult program to get into, more so to finish. Stubborn like her mother, Taylor had flat out refused to even consider inheriting her father's empire and instead pursued her fantastical dream.
She was slick too, that girl. "I'm going to be even smarter than you, Uncle Art," she'd say. Arty's thoughtful frown morphed into a fond smirk as he stared at the letter she had sent him in thanks for her new alarm clock and the repairs to her dorm wall that he'd insisted on paying for. At the time it had seemed incredibly important.
Seeing a figure take shape to his right, Arty crushed the paper in his hand and stuffed it into his jacket pocket. "Ah! There you are," he greeted the eccentric visitor.
Arty was excited to finally sell this old place; a carnival he'd bought for the land but he'd never been able to find anyone willing to take the old rusted contraptions off his hands. It wasn't worth the cost to him anymore; if Arty was anything, he was good with his finances. "Have you had a chance to inspect the property?"
The visitor clicked his tongue and turned to gesture around the park in exaggeration, "Well, it's garish, ugly, and derelicts have used it for a toilet."
Uh oh, Arty held his breath.
"The rides are dilapidated to the point of being lethal, and could easily maim or kill innocent children," the pale man said in distaste.
Not really sure what to say, Arty grimaced, "Oh… So you don't like it?"
"Don't like it? I'm crazy for it," Mr. White's lips pulled back in a grin with a cackle. His suit was unmistakable and covered with his matching trench coat, both dyed dark purple. The green tie, darker than his slime green hair, poked out of his coat. His hair was slicked into a messy pompadour that lengthened his already long face. His nose looked like it might have been broken one time to many and his chalky completion looked like kernelled milk that starkly contrasted to his big ugly green eyes and yellow teeth. After making a show of walking as if he were complete fool, the foolishly dressed man led the way through the carnival with absolute delight.
"You…?" Arty released his baited breath with a wash of relief. "You really want to buy it? And the price I mentioned isn't too steep…?"
Pausing to childishly imitate the strong man poster, arms up in a pitiful flex White assured, "Too steep? My dear sir, as I look at it I'm making a killing…"
It was when White noticed a poster of the Fat Lady that he trailed off and added in a mutter, "…and anyway, money isn't really a problem. Not these days."
They walked on in silence and Arty was in a state of pure euphoria. For the first time in years, he was going to be living large; in all honesty, he'd really overcharged the poor sucker. Mr. White was obviously a man of means Arty had justified and consequently had not felt so bad about the whole ordeal. Arthur Riot was a businessman and business often favored one side over the other.
Reaching the front of the park, Arty, in his giddy mindset, climbed onto a rocking pink elephant. "Y'know, I'm positive you won't regret this purchase. The place isn't that dilapidated. Some of these rides are pretty sturdy. Really this could be one hell of a carnival."
"Oh, you're so right," White interrupted patronizingly, "Thanks to your smooth salesmanship and your silver tongue you've completely sold me on this place. Let's shake on it."
The high was short lived as the chalk pale Mr. White snatched up his hand and, catching a glint of silver in White's hand Arty felt the needle pierce his palm with a pinch. His hand clenched inward and when he tried to cry out, he found his body unresponsive. He felt like he was shriveling. Like a raisin.
"Naturally, I won't be paying you anything. My colleagues persuaded your partner to sign the necessary documents just over an hour ago. The property's mine already."
White giggled at the seller, whose name he had never bothered to learn, and waved his hand to reveal the needle attached to his joy buzzer. He haphazardly grabbed the buzzer's strap and threw it off; wouldn't want to go around poisoning people by accident, would he. "You're happy with that, I take it? I can see that you are. I'm so glad. You know, when you see the improvements I have planned for this place, I guarantee you'll be speechless! And incidentally, that's a lifetime guarantee."
After he snorted in delight, White sighed at the lack of response, "Well, I really must dash. There's equipment to acquire, plus workers who'll need to suit the general tone of the establishment and then, of course, I've yet to secure my main attraction."
White pulled his purple hat to cover his face. "Do feel free to stick around."
The man's wiry figure faded into the distance. Arty hadn't moved. His form sat ridged atop the slightly rocking pink elephant, which groaned against the rusted spring.
Arty's cheekbones puffy with a Cheshire grin, his teeth were cracking under the pressure of his clenched jaw and blood trailed from behind his teeth and over his lower lip. His teeth were tucked into a set of chapped and blood stained lips that ripped back from his face into a stretched grin. His eyelids pealed open so wide his eyes could have dropped right out of the sockets. Every age line that could have ever been, stretched across his features and moisture pooled inside them.
Arthur Riot was dead. In life he had always been a man of simplicity; now he was simply dead.
\~~~~~~/
Rain poured down by the buckets from the grey shadowed heavens above her. The sun would have been shining if not for the thick umbrella of rain filled clouds soaking her and her equipment, now situated inside her dripping knapsack. This left her barefoot and dressed in her skinny jeans and black sports bra. It was 6am and she was looking forward to sleeping a few hours before her work shift at noon.
Taylor knew she was supposed to go to her foreign language class from eight to nine thirty, but her professor never took attendance and rarely strayed from the text book. She'd be fine skipping her only class for the day.
Stringy red hear strapped to her face in thick tendrils, darkened by the weighty water that impeded her vision and hearing. The ugly brown puddles she walked through were alive, celebrating the arrival of new rain droplets to their gathering, and Taylor didn't bother trying to walk around them. Arriving at a break in the oak canopy that had covered her steps along the path through the woods – a shortcut to her residence hall – Taylor paused and tilted her head up to the rain in silence.
Her natural reaction was to close her eyes but rebellion was usually her preference over self-preservation. Taylor forced her light brown eyes to open like slits and she stared at the rolls of black and grey towering over her head like an omen. A minuet smile graced her face and exposed her painstakingly white teeth through her chapped pink lips, welcoming the rain to cleanse her – begging for it even.
Water trailed across her face in crisscrosses and complex patterns smoothing the stress from her marred features, the cold liquid meeting the warm bruises and scratches on her face in full force. An exhale of a laugh burst from her lips and Taylor wasn't quite sure what came over her in that moment but she felt something momentous lift from her.
It was short lived however, when suddenly the original Star Trek theme song blared into her once relaxed ears. After a startled jump and a following scowl, the red head viciously stuffed her arm into her knapsack and reached around for her phone, that old figurative weight pressing down on her shoulders once again.
At last, her calloused fingers wrapped around the smooth glass of the device and she yanked it from its hiding place. Glancing at the caller ID, Taylor felt her mood sour. Her bright eyes hardened and her grip tightened. Patrick Riot, it read.
With as much attitude as she could muster, Taylor answered with a huff, "What?"
"Taylor." She wasn't surprised to hear her father's smooth baritone.
"Dad," Taylor said with a clipped tone, having nothing else to respond with.
Her father sounded just as eager to speak with her as Taylor felt. After an awkward pause, he spoke hesitantly, "How are you?"
Realizing her moment of bliss had passed, Taylor continued her trek through the woods towards her dorm. Her feet squished dirt and mud in between her toes, making her grimace. "Great. What do you want?"
It came out more venomously than she intended; she and her father hadn't gotten along for many years and they had long since said and done unforgivable things to the other.
"I don't appreciate your tone, Taylor," he growled like he would to a disobedient toddler.
Taylor scoffed, "Well I don't appreciate your call, Patrick. What do you want?" She was feeling more than bitter at this point, something more akin to irritation. Taylor wasn't scared of her father anymore and she wanted to make that clear.
Her father tisked and bit back, "Well I was trying to be nice and give you the news gently but fine. If you insist, I'll get straight to the point."
"What?" Taylor spat after a moment of tense silence. Immediately, he released an exhausted sigh. For a second, she felt a little guilty for her attitude but that feeling didn't last long. Before she could prompt him, he rushed to speak.
"You're mother's dead. I signed the paperwork this morning."
Taylor lost her footing for a moment and nearly dropped her phone in an unforgiving puddle. When she regained her balance, her lips trembled with words she couldn't form properly. Her voice came out in mousy calm surprise, "What?"
"Your mother… Please don't make me say it again," he choked over his words. There was a second where she assumed he attempted to gain control over himself before he spoke again. "The funeral's on Saturday… It doesn't matter what's happened between you and me, right now. I think your mother would want you there."
The redhead shuddered a controlling breath and the muscles in her neck tightened, "I can be there."
Her father hummed in somber approval, "Can you afford a plane ticket?"
"I don't know." Taylor answered honestly, musing bitterly about their change in attitude towards each other. Her mother had always been the middle man, the compromiser. Losing Emily started the fighting but when her mother had fallen into a coma, Patrick and Taylor's relationship had been like rubbing sandpaper against raw skin. Neither of them was in shock at the loss of her mother, she knew they had been preparing themselves for close to three years. Was it selfish of her to wish it could have been later – when her life wasn't so crazy?
"I'll forward you the cash."
Fate had been overly cruel to Taylor recently. She hadn't expected or wanted to receive this news right now, not with everything else that had been happening the past… what was it? Five days? She nearly cursed. It had felt like several sleepless months.
Perhaps she should think about making a list of all the people dying around her; at this rate, there would be too many to remember by next week.
"It should be in your account by Monday. Charge the ticket on your card and use my money to pay the interest."
Picking up her pace as the dorm came into view, Taylor nodded. Quickly realizing that he couldn't see her, she spoke, "Okay."
A few moments of awkward silence passed before they both rushed each other off the phone with made-up excuses. Taylor couldn't really think straight and she felt incredibly uncomfortable; she felt like the bad guy in the conversation.
Unable to really make sense of or shake off the feeling, Taylor entered Elliot Hall completely missing the greeting from the friendly security woman behind the main counter. Taylor paced straight into the conveniently arriving elevator.
"Taylor, I've been meaning to speak with you," came a started greeting from Elliot Hall's resident coordinator (RC), who happened to be coming out of that elevator. Taylor cursed her luck.
The RC was a relaxed but apathetic graduate student, with a thin face and a pixie-like lean five foot frame making Taylor feel incredibly tall despite her rather average height. The RC's left bicep was covered in a sporadic half sleeve tattoo; she had a small nose ring, pierced eyebrow, thick rimmed glasses, and long silky black hair.
Taylor wasn't really in the mood for a heart to heart. Really she just wanted to read Maggie's case file and catch some much needed sleep.
"Hello, Tink," Taylor greeted reluctantly, using a nickname the hall's RAs had fashioned for her. The residents picked up on it quickly and soon enough had forgotten Tink's real name. Did she even have one? Taylor didn't know, or care.
"I've been meaning to talk to you," Tink reported, her expression neutral. Tink was finishing her masters in Psychology and yet somehow found time to be a resident coordinator. Taylor couldn't handle an undergraduate degree and a "nightlife"; she couldn't even imagine Tink's workload.
Gritting her teeth and refocusing, Taylor sighed, "I don't want to be rude; it's just that I've had a long week or two and an even longer night. All I want to do climb into bed until work."
"I won't be long," Tink's calculating eyes scanned over Taylor's bruised face. The elevator doors closed and they were alone. Taylor hoped the RC wouldn't ask; she had been suspicious of Taylor's late night escapades since the first time Taylor came back with bruises. Tink pursed her lips into a frown when her eyes landed on Taylor's side. The redhead had to repress a grimace at her carelessness to walk around shirtless with that gash in her side.
Tink continued stiffly, "You should know Maggie's parents came by to pick up her stuff. And also…," she checked her notebook, "that the university will be offering it's condolences soon if you haven't gotten the letter yet."
Taylor frowned, "I haven't gotten any letter."
Tink shifted her head up in acknowledgement without breaking eye contact. "University Policy states that in the event that a resident…passes," she tested, measuring Taylor with her eyes, "their roommate gets a housing refund for the semester and 'A's in all of their classes."
Never having heard that information before, Taylor wasn't sure what to say. A nasty feeling settled in her stomach and a horrible taste touched her tongue. "Oh."
The elevator pinged and s the doors opened, Tink let some air gust from her lips before speaking. "It's okay to be upset, Taylor, but whatever you were out doing last night that did this to you-," she gestured at Taylor's most obvious wounds, "-is not the healthy way to deal with it."
Pursing her lips, Taylor's tongue swiped across her teeth. "Okay, you know," came Taylor's testy retort, "It's not any of your business, Tink."
Calm as ever, the olive skinned Tink remarked, "I'm only trying to help. And fighting, or whatever it is you're doing-"
"You don't know a damn thing!" Taylor exploded. The elevator doors began to close and she roughly shoved her arm against the metal barrier, forcing it open again. Feeling offensive and hoping to make Tink feel bad about what she said, Taylor growled out, "I just got a call that said my mom just died! So back off!"
Tink paused at that, taken aback. She made to speak but Taylor wasn't done. "I'm handling it the best way I know how, okay!? First Barbra and now you? I could hit you right now! And I don't need you telling me how to do anything because you have no idea!"
Realizing that not everything she was saying was making a lot of sense Taylor huffed and stormed out of the elevator, leaving a stunned Tink in her dust.
\~~~~~~/
Joker. Classification: Delta 0 – 2. Print File. Enlargement: All Screens.
Cloaked in shadow, the only illumination on Batman's figure was from the large screens of the bat-computer, all of which sported an image or file detailing the Joker. The vigilante's fist clenched around a playing card: the joker. Wild card.
Fnap! He snapped the card onto the console, the skin of his knuckles pulled tight over the joint beneath the gloves. His lip twitched in irritation as he read Joker's file, despite having already memorized it after years of repetitively updating and reviewing – hoping that someday, everything would click and all his questions would be answered.
Joker
Real Name: Unknown.
Age: Unknown.
Hair Color: Green.
Eye Color: Green.
Affiliations: Harley Quinn. Mister Hammer. Ra's Al Ghul.
Abilities: High intelligence. Skilled chemist. Experience in hand-to-hand combat.
Occupation: Criminal.
Location: Unknown. (Previously Arkham Asylum.)
Batman noticed a glare of light shown on the main screen, reflecting off of the glass tubes containing several costumes, only twenty feet behind him. He turned to look at the tubes. The first empty, soon to be filled with the armor he currently wore. The second clear tube contained Nightwing's old armor from before he left for Blüdhaven, back when their relationship had been less strained, less painful.
The third held Batgirl's new costume. Vastly different from its original design, but Barbra had insisted on the full face mask. It was practical now that Batgirl needed to interact with the Commissioner much more than before. A domino mask only hid so much and imagine Gordon's surprise if they hadn't thought of the voice modifier. The dark knight felt a surge of pride well up in his chest. Barbra had matured so much in the few years they had worked together. Her detective skills and combat proficiency rivaled Dick's own, back when he was still Robin. She had great potential.
The fourth tube gave Batman great pause, anxiety and guilt snatching his gut. Robin's armor. Jason Todd: his great failure. Because of his failure to capture the Joker during their mission in Serajevo opting to instead pursue Ra's Al Ghul – who had been planning on toppling the European economy – Jason went after the clown by himself.
And now Jason was dead.
Ripping the cowl off, Bruce dragged his fingers through his sweaty scalp. He had never forgiven himself for that. If only he had been faster. Smarter. Jason wouldn't have died. Bruce had failed and maybe it was worse that Batman had failed too.
"Master Bruce?"
Startled, Bruce glanced at his friend, Alfred Pennyworth. The butler, dressed in his usual clean pressed uniform and clean shaven, sat a tray of refreshments on the computer's console. His voice was smooth, aged, and proper, "Is there anything else I can do for you, sir?"
Bruce looked down at the man who had raised him – he was significantly shorter and slighter. Alfred had picked up a bit of pudge in his older age. "No. That's all, Alfred."
Alfred observed Bruce in that moment. The rare moments where he was neither Bruce Wayne, playboy billionaire, nor Batman, hardened vigilante, were the moments where Bruce was what Alfred thought was his real self. This investigative disciplined man with a trust fund and anger issues was the real Bruce; at least that's what Alfred thought.
With a heavy sigh, Bruce's attention uselessly returned to the monitor. "I've been trying to figure out what he intends to do. It's almost impossible!"
Alfred pursed his lips, gently picking up the discarded cowl and cape as Bruce rambled on. "I don't know him, Alfred. All these years and I don't know who he is anymore than he knows who I am."
Bruce raged childlike as he slammed his hands down on the console, "How can two people hate so much without knowing each other?"
A sigh escaped the posh British nose and Alfred answered honestly, "I don't know, sir. I don't know."