Aftermath VII
Disclaimer: The characters portrayed within belong, with a few exceptions, to DC comics. Not me. I am using them only for that purpose for which they were originally created, namely entertainment. I will probably put them back more or less where I got them from when I'm done. Probably. No profit is being made from this fic (at least, not by me), and in the grand scheme of things I'm far too smallfry and broke to be worth the hassle of suing.
RRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRR
The images on view were grainy, despite the cutting edge technology offered by the screen. In this day and age of digital wizardry the film seemed almost clumsy. But primitive though it may have seemed, those watching knew – though they may not indeed have cared - that the satellite feed that they were seeing had been provided by the most remarkably fortuitous means.
After all, creating and maintaining a pirate tap into the encrypted feed from an illegal Luthor-designed and -built satellite positioned in geostationary orbit above San Francisco took skill and, frankly, an unnerving degree of guts.
On screen the coarse, stuttering recording showed three figures in conversation, and several others trying to force their way past some sort of obstruction – though none was immediately apparent – to get to the three. The figures huddled close, one dropping to the ground in an ungraceful, but assisted tumble. One of the remaining vanished in a flare of light, the second appeared to glance directly at the camera, at the satellite thousands of miles away. . . . and the sequence dissolved into static.
Long, slim fingers turned off the recording with a decisive flick, which had the added effect of plunging the room into darkness. An instant later, this was rectified by the harsh sterility of halogen lighting. The architecture, a stark unforgiving white, reflected back the illumination with merciless disinterest; here, at least, security was such that said walls had no 'ears'.
Just as well, really, given the sensitivity of matters routinely discussed here.
"Gentlemen, this recording is only a few weeks old."
Sensitive matters, but not necessarily genteel, as a hulking brute of a man who looked distinctly out of place in the suit he'd crammed his straining girth into, guffawed out loud.
"Looks like he still has it," He drawled. "That damn animal habit of trashing technology. Wonder if he's still got the rest of his tricks." He leaned back in his chair, the plush leather and steel creaking ominously under his weight. Small eyes, embedded in layers of overindulged flesh, narrowed as he turned his attention to the woman who'd ceased the playback.
"But that's what you're here to tell us, isn't it." It was not a question, though the woman shrugged in reply.
"We're not sure. It would be logical to assume so, however, given that we thought him dead for the better part of a decade and yet here he is. To have eluded our surveillance, both routine and specific, for that long . . ." She shrugged again, a fluid ripple that elegantly stated her point.
"He's a rogue asset." Whispery and sibilant, the old man in the corner seat shot a glance around the room. Gnarled hands rested on a burled cane, the shaft polished to a brown luster that was the only warmth about the frail-seeming figure. "He always was. And I do not need to remind you what happened when the absolute control we thought we had proved . . . fragile in the extreme."
"But what an asset he was!" The fat man countered, "the best we'd seen, before or since! The mere threat of him cemented our position of power almost unassailably."
At the elder's raised eyebrow, the woman hurriedly intervened. "True, our control methods were flawed, but I think . . ." She paused, marshaled her thoughts, "I think that that no longer matters. The imperfection of our arcane compulsion is irrelevant if we can control his heart."
"Explain."
"He broke from his hiding. Something was important enough to throw away years of careful concealment and head to the home turf of one of the more prominent American superhero teams, despite the surveillance he must have known was there. Something so important and distracting that he didn't even fry the satellite until after it had captured him on film. True, he may have thought it hadn't yet broadcast, but that sort of sloppiness implies his mind was firmly somewhere else."
"Or that he's losing his touch."
"But isn't it worth finding out?" She smiled then, her lips forming a vicious slash across her lower face. "Because I think he hasn't 'lost it'. I think he chose to throw it away for something. And," She turned back to the screen, "I think that he'll do anything – anything – to protect whatever it is that is so important."
"And what is it he thinks so highly of?"
"I don't know, sir. But," Her feral rictus widened, "I'll bet the Titans can help me find out."
"And then?"
"Then we take it; it becomes our manipulation mechanism. No half-understood summonings and bindings, no questions to second-rate magicians about what he actually is or how to control him."
"Blackmail, then."
"Or hostage-taking and ransom at the least."
"It will take a critical amount of our current resources." The fat man observed, "Young though they are, the Titans are not to be written off lightly."
The old man was still, eyes closed, breathing deep and even. A casual observer might well have thought him asleep, that the conversation had left him drowsing. None of his present company was that stupid.
"See to it," He said softly, and rose with a grace that belied his years. "A shadow empire rested on that animal, and fell from grace because of it." The walking stick sunk into the carpet, as silent as his footfalls.
At the door he turned, old eyes flashing murderously. "The poetic justice of forcing him to make it rise again appeals to me."
RRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRR
"Here," Robin looked up from the autopsy report in surprise as a steaming mug was thrust under his nose. Standing next to him, Huntress took a pointed sip of her own as the rich smell of chocolate wafted towards him.
Grateful for more than the cocoa, Robin took the mug, pausing to savor its aroma. It seemed he'd earned a degree of acceptance – or at least guilt – from the other vigilante.
"Go ahead. It's not spiked, tainted, or otherwise poisoned. Promise." She added with a grin. Startled, Robin shot her a calculating glance before hazarding a question.
"Just what has Oracle told you?" At her blank look his shoulders relaxed. That's unfair. She'd be more likely to taser me like she threatened to on the roof. Toxins aren't her style. Well, even if that's changed, I probably deserve it. He took a sip, eyes widening at the slight bitterness to the drink. He hadn't thought she'd actually -
"Italian chocolate. Not as sweet as the American crap. And while it's probably a lot more caffeinated, at least I don't have to feel bad about giving a teenager coffee." Her efforts at banter were rewarded with a slight smile from the youth and though she tried not to show it, inwardly she was pleased.
"Thanks." His lips quirked, as he kept a tactful silence on that topic; She might not give him coffee, but that didn't stop it from being one of his major food groups.
Huntress wasn't sure what had happened to the boy - though she'd noted his absence of several months – but it was the things Barbara hadn't told her as much as those she had, that had disturbed her. Couple that with Robin's new-found expertise in assassination techniques. . . I guess I shouldn't be surprised I overreacted during that fight with the KGBeast. And it had been an overreaction. Her observation of the Boy Wonder now confirmed it. He's no more a wanton killer than I am.
It was to Robin's credit that he still made the effort to combat her suspicions, still tried to reach out to her. And blast it if she wouldn't reach back. Kids in need were a specialty of hers regardless of whether it was the cape or the pencil-skirt that she was wearing.
The crinkling noise of a manila folder closing brought her back to the present. Robin, it appeared, had finished reading the file. Sliding it thoughtfully back into the box where it was housed with the police report on the break-in to the Asaro's cell, Robin leaned back against the chair, long fingers wrapping around the mug and brow furrowing in contemplation. Sitting like that he looked like a miniature version of his mentor. Minus the glare. And minus the sulking – brooding – that is. She bit back a grin.
"So. Thoughts?" She knew what she thought about the murder, but she also granted she was too close to the victims to have much perspective.
Hopefully Robin wouldn't fall into the same category with the killer.
"I agree, looking at this, that there's no question who did it," Robin said, the tightening of his lips the only visible evidence of how much the idea distressed him, how deeply he'd been hoping to be wrong. Shishou, a murderer. An assassin. What on earth could make him want to kill? Desperately, he hauled his mind back on track. The evidence was just . . . it was just clues. That's all. Just clues to help him find his mentor.
"It's the politics that confuse me." He weighed into the silence, aware that Huntress was waiting for him to continue. She blinked in confusion at his sudden change in tack. A commentary on the impossibility of the assassin's entrance, on the technique of the murder, heck, even on the overwrought bloodthirstiness of the hit wouldn't have surprised her, but this angle?
"What do you mean?"
"The hit. It was a statement piece. 'We can get you anywhere, anytime' type of thing. But only of minor players; someone wanted to make a show of strength, but without precipitating a war." Huntress nodded at his words. They tallied nicely with her own assessment.
"But the Crimson is known only to be a Yakuza player." He gestured at her files, not mentioning the results of his own extensive database searches. "He was never contracted to the Five Families – at least that we know of. And it seems unlikely given their unswerving affection for the concept of gun-'em-down overkill." He mused, more to himself than her.
"This degree of subtlety. . . No, I think the hit was called by Yakuza, a challenge for territory or resources. Or one of the Families wanting it to look that way." Stricken, he glanced towards her, suddenly recalling exactly who it was he was sitting with.
Reassuring him with an encouraging nod that she'd taken no offense, she gestured to him. "Go on."
"So the question is, who benefited from the hit? Who ordered it?" Gently, he swirled the fast-cooling cocoa. "And most importantly, how on earth did they force my Master into doing it?"
He was unaware he'd spoken the last aloud until Huntress' hand landed on his shoulder, warm and reassuring.
"Whatever the Crimson did, whatever he taught you, he is responsible for his own killings. Not you." Even though she didn't believe his mentor had been forced to do anything he didn't want to, Huntress still somehow wanted to protect Robin from an idea he obviously had trouble dealing with.
She'd meant her comment to be reassuring, he knew, but Robin found it chilling. But what if he really isn't responsible? When she came to take back the Hagoromo, Kaguya mentioned she'd rescued him years ago. But she never said what from. What if this is it?
If somebody had been able to force his master to kill. . .
If somebody had had that level of control over him . . .
If he'd been like Tim . . . like Vingt. . . somebody's puppet. . .
More than finding Shishou, I have to find out if this happened. I have to know who did this, he thought grimly, and make sure that it can't happen again.
Because Kaguya was gone, back to her home world and taking her Hagoromo with her.
And anyone else's rescue efforts could well be a long time in coming.
End part VII
Obligatory Author's Ramble: For those of you who are still with me – albeit silently - on this fic, I'm glad. For those of you who've let me know that you're still here, heartfelt thanks and kudos on your patience. Comments and criticism greatly appreciated.