12873/Hazing Rituals

Hazing Rituals
Date of Scene:	24 September 2022
Location:	Kingston - Miagani Island
Synopsis:	Bad luck follows a criminal who tries to make his mark in a club.
Cast of Characters:	Selina Kyle, Bruce Wayne

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Selina Kyle has posed:
Friday night means drinks, a show. Netflix and chill for those who aren't drowning under homework or letting the kids stay up late. Or, if you're of the persuasion, terrorizing Wild Child. The nightclub isn't much to write home about. A bright magenta doorway leads inside under a cheap mural of a woman's lips and chin. Neon sketches out the spot where a former business had a different sign, outlined in faded lines, suggesting it used to be an appliance store. Cheap well drinks and a $3 cover are the main attractions for a skinny, young crowd writhing their hearts out to bad, thumping music and dropping cheap party drugs.

The bouncers outside barely bother carding anyone. The one who did, about eight minutes ago, went to take a leak in an alleyway. A pair of steel pipes make sure he's not getting up anytime soon or ever. Dark figures in grey hoodies and rubber masks -- Lex Luthors -- lurk back there, holding Glocks and cheap sidearms.

They aren't moving forward to the entrance, lurking where the sticky, skinny path meets up to another back alley that never sees more than violence, necking or quick overdoses. Bums are gone.

A guy in another hoodie, no mask, slides a couple crumpled bills into the hand of the remaining bouncer. He checks it over. A swipe of a pen proves they're legit, and the doors on Wild Child go shut after the guy enters.

The clunk of a lock proves suspiciously quiet, maybe a drag of chain muffled by the noise inside. Really, it's a crap joint.

"Total trash. Anyone playing that deserves a rap sheet," Selina reports. She sits astride an air conditioning unit a building over, peering through her goggles. The wet air makes her ache in places. It's a horrid side effect of getting older or missing pilates this week. "Officers ought to arrest them all."

Bruce Wayne has posed:
There's no immediate answer from the Bat. He's never relaxed on patrol, it seems. He can't recline and spout witticisms in the same way Selina does. It's always serious for him. Always a matter of intense, unbroken focus. He's feeling the ache as well. An old stab wound that healed wrong sends pin-pricks of discomfort up the inside of one leg. His right knee where the cartilage is beginning to wear thin, muttering in protest as being bent and leaned upon in spite of the padded brace it has occupied for the last year.

He always thought it was the enemy who would get him. He'd never considered that it might be his own failing body.

"Hnh," he grunts, dismissing such thoughts in favour of the here and now, "Luthor masks. Same gang that hit Riot."

Typical Gotham. Everyone had their calling card.

Selina Kyle has posed:
Never relaxed, and thus never having any fun. She at least has a chance to reach for her toes and pull up. The long pull on her calf muscles hurts and feels good at the same time, such being the nature of exercise. Pulling a little more eases the strain on her joints, for the few seconds she allows herself.

Time is enemy of all. They share the same fatal flaws, as everyone does.

"They're not dealing the yellow stamps though," she reports. "Car coming up from the left. If they make a dropoff, they will be disappointed. Three people in there, not including driver."

Typical Gotham, skimpy dress in the cool, wet weather. Acting like it's California, anywhere but the Bay anyway.

She rasps a laugh in his ear through the comms and then slides off the air conditioner. Her slink is low and quick to the edge of the building. No one comes out from Wild Child.

Bruce Wayne has posed:
"A robbery?" Batman asks, canting his head slightly as Selina slips down from her perch and begins to slink across the room.

Another thing that's 'typical Gotham'. Thieves robbing thieves. Murderers killing murderers. Some radio shock-jocks, spitting out their plosives from behind a cloud of cigarette smoke and a microphone that saved them from responsibility, would say that no one in Gotham was innocent. Everyone in 'modern day Gammorah' had their sins to pay for, and the vicious creature in the dark were a way of keeping some inscrutable, karmic score.

No, he thinks to himself, scowling against the damp air, That is the reasoning of a coward.

He moves towards the edge of the building, alongside Catwoman. He's comfortable with her. Comfortable enough that the familiar warm of standing close alongside her does not put him off nor upset his train of thought. She was almost a part of him now.

The question is whether she feels the same.

An intrusive thought. Dismissed just as quickly. He produces something from his belt - a batarang that seems to emit a blinking red light for a moment before it solidifies to green and then fades. He flings it through the air with precision, watching as it embeds itself quietly into the passenger door of the car.

"Tracker," he says flatly.

Selina Kyle has posed:
"Smells funny for a robbery. But you'd be surprised what one guy in a mask can do, wouldn't you?" The sly smile makes the most of Elizabeth Arden "Victory Red," the exact hue worn by patriotic girls everywhere. Honouring her country.

Gomorrah burns inside Wild Child with a kinetic frenzy. No one's getting too excited by the arrival of another person into the human stew. If they're not high off their arses, they are more interested in getting drunk or dancing in hectic patterns. Keening warbles erupt from the speakers, thumping bass that jolts and skitters to a needle over the badly scraped record. A few dancers shout. They cover their ears, and don't think much of the first pop at the bar. It goes wide. A bottle of cheap-ass tequila sprays against the wall and glass spatters the floor.

One night in Gotham, nothing new.

She lingers on the building edge, contemplating freefall. The security of zip lines and imaginary ledges barely anchors her from leaping forward, running down soot-smeared brick, and leaping. A different gravity; the taller man, that voluminous cape. "We losing the advantage, spending all our time up here?"

A pregnant pause drips with amusement. The door to the car, passenger side, opens. A girl in a sparkly net steps out, followed by her giggling friend. Drunk, naturally. Not heading for an alley, one keening note. "Bobby! Wild Chiiild is so dull. You promised me Amici!" Her squeal lofts up, piercing the night.

"...Canoodling." The cat doesn't say it quite so flatly before she leaps.

Bruce Wayne has posed:
Bruce long ago stopped relying solely on his ears. He 'borrowed' technology from WayneTech, enhancing it to suit his needs, and now he was capable of picking up certain sounds even amongst the din of Gotham. The report of certain firearms is one such sound, and his heads-up display immediately highlights the suspected location and calibre. He's about to open his mouth to tell her when she asks her question about 'canoodling'.

Didn't think I was capable of love, he muses inside his head, Still not convinced. But Selina makes me want to lie to myself until it's true.

He follows her in that leap, suspending his own fall by letting the heavy cape he wears snap out about him. An electrical jolt prompting it to remember the shape it needs to glide, all the while the rain and the sodium light of Gotham casts an odd halo about him.

"The club first."

Selina Kyle has posed:
Two entrances; a shitty old fire door in the back goes right into the nest of waiting thugs. The front door, two bouncers, and lock and chains keeping people in. Windows don't exist, bricked up, limiting the points up and down. What's lawful when the owners paid off code enforcement or the mafia swept it under the rug when it came time for inspection?

Catwoman's free running leads to free air. She could use a glider, some weird netting under her suit to push her into the sky. None of that now, just her sleek black outfit with a few key hitch points in case a joint run requires interventions or substitutions. She has a zipwire, shot out from her belt to catch a chipped cement facade. Pieces break free but it holds, just long enough, for her to swing across the road.

The girls howl at their boyfriend below. They totter on their heels, resisting the pull to the door. The driver, having no part in this stares up through the windshield. "Huh. You see?" No. No they don't, demanding Midoris and plush booths. Not his problem, Uberlife! The car pulls away from the curb. No turning back.

Inside the club, a bartender shouts. Buddies on the stools turn and look down the barrel of a gun. A gesture to the floor doesn't get anywhere, and the effort to push back against the criminal element doesn't go far. Punches with a steel rod up the sleeve definitely hurt. Another crash signals a body hitting the ground. Dancers taking notice peel back as the woman in slinky black splays against the front of the club and drops down onto a bouncer.

Bruce Wayne has posed:
The bricked up windows are a frustration. An arm of the Wayne Foundation had been making efforts to fund certain crusaders who were fighting corruption amongst landlords and building inspectors, but they obviously hadn't reached Wild Child yet. He hates using the door. Not because of some 'signature' about being the Batman, but because they limited avenues of escape. Wild Child was a tinder-box, and the man inside with the gun was a lit match.

He deviates away from the alley, instead landing in the street. He rises to his full height in front of the bouncers, gloves creaking as he aligns his knuckles into a fist. A layer of steel plate turns his hands into hammers, a bunch leveled at the bouncer's jaw aimed to daze and disorient. His other hand moves to the chains binding the door, servos within the suit whirring to life and allowing him to break them with a single, swift tug.

There's multiple combatants here, and the layout of the place makes it more difficult to wrangle them together. He's silently thankful that Selina is here.

As he pushes through the front door, he cuts a sinister figure. The lights flash, the music pounds, and even as the patrons push towards the exit he's just made he moves through the tide of people like a ship against the tide. Each blink of coloured light illuminates him, the outline of the Bat moving almost stop-motion towards the man and his gun.

Selina Kyle has posed:
Jackhammers and brick saws are so passe. Catwoman might go through the door after dispatching the bouncers in the front, but not before. The distraction she presents fighting the two heavy-set men practiced in boxing and beating street kids isn't exactly short-lived. Principles call for working them over fast. A thrust of her palm to the underside of the chin opens an opportunity, and the punch for her side connects, but not before she ripostes by slamming her heel into an exposed part of the knee. Bruises can be counted tomorrow. She swivels a bit, blocking another punch. Two on two, fair odds, while the drunk girls cry out in muted dismay. About the door being blocked, about a fight, who knows.

"I haaaate Gotham," whines silver sparkles.

The door cracks open and Selina smirks. "You take me to the nicest places." Maybe he doesn't hear it, but the thought counts, as she elbows the bouncer in the face and he finally drops with a broken nose. Straightening her stride, she enters the miasma of sweat, blood, and panic. A plasticky reek mingles with tequila. A mishmash that makes her head hurt, old senses flaring to the fore. No grabbing a tray here, as the flicker-flash of abandon shows a receding tide of bodies for the dance floor pit. People run from danger. The hazing ritual biding entry to whatever petty gang is at play leaves bloodstains and pockmarks, though the guy responsible has a few open cuts, tears on his clothes, and bruises to go with his efforts. They're going down fighting if they aren't clubbed in the head with a pipe, or shot at point blank range.

Batman may weave and duck smartly like a serpent. He's an icebreaker, but her nature is more corvette or strikes. Quick and sharp. The whip is a bit indiscriminate but she shakes it loose anyway and ignores the leering "baaaby" spat out by someone with no brains, less sense, and a weird reaction to fear. How glad she can be for someone more refined and respectful than that. A leather tongue dances, tasting the air. Waiting.

Bruce Wayne has posed:
People part for the Batman. Anyone who has been to or even heard of Gotham knows who he is, and while they have differing opinions in his absence it is his presence that makes all conform to one emotion.

Fear.

Catwoman provides a useful distraction. The tall, dark shape moving towards the gunman would draw the eye but the woman in her sleek, black outfit can serve to draw the eye. The whip only adds to that confusion. It's the opening the Dark Knight needs, and he takes it without hesitation or question.

His first act is to try and disarm the gunman. One forearm presses through the air to try and catch him at his throat just under his chin, while his free hand grabs at the wrist of the arm holding the gun and seeks to press it brutally against the top of the bar. Perfectly willing to hurt the man, to shatter bone and render his weapon arm useless.

Beneath his cowl, white teeth flash in a grimace of aggression.

Selina Kyle has posed:
Pointed cowl, big boots? Scary times abound for the man who splits through Gotham society like machete and parts a path in icy terror. Selina doesn't command that kind of aura, and truth be told, she might not know what to do with such an impression even if she did.

Intercepting a look, she adopts a pose of blase disregard. Nothing like being a saucy interloper to cause a moment of pause, clinging on for the extra seconds she can buy Bruce. Leather handle in her grasp is a reassurance, the promise of a crack beyond the speed of sound etched in the wiggling black tongue that wants to strike out.

"Been too long, old friend." A purring laugh leaves her tongue and then, she turns to the criminal scum about to get his ass handed to him on a platter. Where instinct fits, the hazed thug shoots. Guns beat fists. Pipes are great, but bullets move deliciously fast. Even when they don't have a way of ripping open reinforced armour.

But the cost of shooting means being forced up to the ceiling, and no matter how fast or thoughtful the guy is, he hasn't fought on that calibre. Hasn't kicked and lashed out roughly with speed or presence like that.