16784/It Came Upon A Midnight Dark

It Came Upon A Midnight Dark
Date of Scene:	05 January 2024
Location:	The Narrows - Miagani Island
Synopsis:	Criminals aren't very bright, Part 2.
Cast of Characters:	Kate Kane, Clea

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Kate Kane has posed:
The Narrows. A dangerous place that cops don't go to unless it's in force. But the Bats are not cops, and someone has to try and keep innocents safe in this part of the city.

And tonight, it's Batwoman's turn, as she parkours easily over the rooftops, pausing to watch on occasion, keeping an eye out for any trouble tonight. She's clearly not expecting much, as the vigilante almost has a bored expression on her features. Her lips curve into a bit of a frown, as she murmurs to herself, "Can't believe there's nothing going on here for once..."

Clea has posed:
No one willingly enters arguably the most dangerous place on the Eastern Seaboard, do they? While New York cleaned up its act in the Eighties, somehow a decade and a half on, the place is still a complete wreck. Who would risk streets that resemble bombed out corridors, much less venturing beyond a doorway when they could turn back?

Alas, city planners for Gotham University haven't dealt with the north-south corridor for travel very well. Clea deals with this by moving in absolute silence along a cracked pavement last fixed circa 2012, her iridescent black coat not precisely ideal for concealment purposes. Bats might get away with shiny attire; anyone else risks being a vibrant target. She isn't loitering, barely giving the buildings around her the time of day. Scanning for trouble is second nature but her designation of 'trouble' differs a bit from the norm.

Of course she looks something like a foreign sheep to fleece, and the shuffling of that pecking order might be apparent to a Bat on high. Twitches of movement in barricaded windows, maybe. Some minor scuffle sorted out in a blown-out bar means they're too slow to act when a group melts out of the darkness, led by a mafioso with more ink than skin.

Kate Kane has posed:
Batwoman easily notices the platinum-blonde walking down the sidewalk like she owns the place, and shakes her head when she notices the group materializing around the woman below. "Well, so much for boredom." She smiles and leaps off the rooftop, her grappling hook flying out and latching onto a building, swinging easily in her direction... but staying up in the air. Better to surprise these guys...

Totally not thinking of making an impression on the lady in question, though. Honest.

Okay, maybe a little.

Clea has posed:
Pearly hair alone would be a peculiar quality. Being an unaccompanied individual sauntering where the shadows recoil from a visible touch, that just says 'Trouble come here' in really loud, red letters. Then again, brightly patterned reef fish or adorably charismatic little frogs in bewildering jewel-tone shades very often signal an important lesson in the wild.

Predators that emerge out from a jumbled alley easily join a bored watcher on a motorcycle that wakes up with a growl, the shuttered front headlight casting a crooked beam flat at the ground. Batman has his signal, and so do half the street gangs from here to Miagani. Some greenish chemical hue dances at wrists or sleeves, a replacement for wearing colours in hats or shirts or jackets. The faint glow differentiates the phantoms from the inky background.

And because this is the Narrows, buildings threaten to topple or debris in the street means no straight path anywhere. Clea slows without stopping, her shoulders beginning to straighten under the high-collared coat. Four people adjacent, one on a bike ahead, another pair coming up behind. Bad numbers, really. Here she is, not wearing so much as an obvious purse.

"You done with your shift at the Happy Hetairai?" A guttural laugh comes from the inked one leading the group, and he manages to mangle the Greek impressively so. Calling her a prostitute in a veritable brothel might not bring a frisson of fear.

"C'mon, let's see what you're hidin' in those pockets, baby."

The plastic zing of a ziptie could, if she actually had a clue of what they were up close and personal. Being hemmed in on all sides, she's shepherded against the building while slowly advancing. Still no heel clicks. Still nothing other than a taut smile.

"Don't," she says, but who listens? Hands go for her coat, the pockets, an arm...

Kate Kane has posed:
Suddenly, from above and behind the inked one comes a shout, "Now now boys, aren't you out past your bedtime?" As the inked man looks back over his shoulder, his eyes grow wide just as the crimson boot of Batwoman meets his face at exceptional velocity, knocking him to the side. She uses the sudden shift in momentum from the impact to flip around, landing on her feet, cape flaring outward melodramatically.

Then she straightens, standing between the gang and Clea, and her ruby lips quirk in a slight grin, the form-fitting black body armor barely visible in the darkness under the cape. "That was your warning. Walk away."

Clea has posed:
Challenges to a job aren't anything new. It's practically expected around here. Someone pulls a Beretta, carefully obliterated of all marks or serial numbers, and casually takes aim at the source of the shout. His stance indicates plenty of familiarity with firing rather accurately. But what's the point of snapping and shooting at random?

Instead he gets to do it at point blank range, or at least turning to put a bullet through a widely spread cloak with a structure that reads 'Oh fuck me' to anyone viewing it. A message in fashion, let it be said.

The two behind Clea that grabbed her arm and coat still follow through with yanking her, possibly out of instinct than anything else. Their misfortune; she doesn't just sail back with them like a dainty creature, but requires an actual yank to displace. The coat peeled away by ripping a zipper is another matter, showing a dark sweater and pencil skirt underneath.

Oddly it's the tear that brings a glare out of her, and she fires that back at the responsible party. "I liked this coat." She bobs up a degree and then yanks her arm free. Cue getting smacked for it. Cue her hair suddenly catching on nebulous fire.

Ahead of Batwoman, the motorcyclist and his pals ahead of the inked leader dashed on the ground remain to be dealt with, and they respond with typical Gotham grace. Guns, guns, guns.

Kate Kane has posed:
Batwoman glances over her shoulder, and launches herself into a kick at the ganger that smacked Clea, catching him right in the head and knocking him back. Then she punches the other one there, and glances back at Clea, "Okay, your hair's on fire. Literally."

She pauses and looks back at the others pulling out their guns, "If you aren't bulletproof you should get behind me!" She pulls out a batarang, narrowing her eyes as she makes no assumptions since... well, whoever this is seems to be able to take care of herself.

Also, she has Jan-level fashion sense, which is a plus.

Clea has posed:
"You wear a coif with points," Clea replies amidst the abrupt turn to face the two criminals that thought grabbing her and disrobing her for anything valuable was a good idea. They labour under the mistaken notion she works as an overdressed hostess at the absolute bottom-of-the-barrel club, and soon come to discover this might not be a great beginning.

"Damn, you thicc," and "On fire," about sum up their collective efforts to manhandle her into place. She is not Aesir but the Faltine has enough heft to be deceiving. Lashing out with a kick produces a lot more force than it should.

Bone-breaking never sounded so sweet when duetting the melody of a batarang, right? Bullets add to the symphony, shots taken to deal with the scary woman parading around in Gotham's finest costumery. Bats are Bats. They take aim there, especially when trusting their co-conspirators to deal with a woman who isn't going down as fast as she should. Always their complaint. Batwoman can worry about the motorcycle slewing after revving her way, and Clea largely stays behind the cape because a three-way fight to drag her off isn't going especially well for two parties.

Kate Kane has posed:
Batwoman tosses her remote batarang out, the targeting system of the weapon weaving and ducking through the goons, clobbering them one by one as she smiles at Clea, "Holler if you need help." Then she hears the motorcycle revving, and she turns to face the cycle-riding fool who decided that driving at her was a *good* idea.

She then rolls to the side, taking a baton and shoving it into the wheel spokes of the motorcycle. It stops very abruptly, sending the gangster riding it flying and causing the bike to stall out. Batwoman grins and pulls the motorcycle around, yanking out her baton as she looks at Clea, "Care for a ride?"

Clea has posed:
Criminals might shoot well, but bulletproof armour reduces their effectiveness substantially. Someone trained to incapacitate with exceptional force, according to brutally high standards, won't find them especially hard to overcome. The fight might be considered somewhat fair if only that Kate actually gets to stretch her muscles before her opponents completely fall. Motorized trouble on squealing rubber is a higher threat level, the back wheel slewing out as the rider tries to maintain control when shit goes sideways and then he does.

All factors caught in freeze frames as the white-haired woman avoids the ghostly flames from reaching her bare hands. Rules apply in Gotham, odd ones. Rules that may not be intact in the Narrows, but they're worthy all the same.
Shehe twists sideways and then slams her open palm into the chest of the man who disrobed her of her coat. Lifting her arm bars the punch his buddy tries to get in, an act of sinuous movements that show at least some skill not acquired solely from YouTube or fake martial arts stores. Putting her hand on anyone is a bit distasteful, evidenced by the baring of her teeth for a moment, and then she dips back to avoid another glancing smack with the butt of a revolver. The follow-up there comes fast and sharp: a flash of deep violet light, the spell discharged in a soundless clap lasting only a blink, but enough to send jerkface bouncing over the cement debris used to block up the alley as a final fuck you.

Kate Kane has posed:
Batwoman sends the motorcycle careening into the mass of thugs. And between the motorcycle being used as a weapon, the batarang sailing around, and her own fists and kicks... the thugs don't really last too long. Quite a few of them turning tail and running rather than face the wrath of a Bat.

Once the main group is dispersed, she whistles, the batarang sailing back into her hand. Placing it back in the utility belt, she turns to watch Clea deal with the jerkface with that spell, whistling slightly. "Not shabby at all. Guess you didn't need the help, but I don't mind anyway." Her lips curve in a slight grin, "Offer for a ride still stands, but I'd rather not use one of their bikes." She taps a button on her belt.

Clea has posed:
No longer quite a fighting force, the little band of criminals finds no easy marks. Those who can consciously retreat know to return to their snugs or safehouses, wherever those might be in a hellhole like the Narrows. It's definitely not living up to the billing of a pleasant neighbourhood stroll.

Next time, fly. Clea makes a mental note of this while the metal crunch of the motorcycle impacting the ground thunders a warning. But such warnings might also attract other problems, and her burning gaze flits across the rooftops and sinks into the shadowy alleys as if to spot anything coming. Ethereal flames withdraw as her loose wavy hair resumes its preternatural smoothness. It's got to be a wig.

"That remains to be seen. I see no reason to disrupt the evening by more extreme measures," she says, the faint accent she carries indicative of somewhere in eastern Asia even if she doesn't match the typical appearance. Her coat is fetched, though she can't do much for the split zipper. "You ride by wire?" Fly by wire? Airbus can do it, why not Air-Bat? Kate isn't forgotten as she reaches down and picks up a spent bullet casing, peering at it -- one of so many in the area -- and tossing it over her shoulder. "I see no reason why not. They did not hurt you with their weapons, did they?"

Kate Kane has posed:
Batwoman smiles, "No, the suit is armored. I just wanted to make sure you didn't get hit." She extends a hand, "I'm Batwoman. And while we could ride by wire... I was thinking something more conventional." Which is the precise moment that a black and red Ducati roars into the alley. With no driver, but from the logo on the bike, it's clearly hers.

"Definitely some nice tricks in that fight, miss. But where were you going? I can get you there faster than walking, I'm pretty sure." She smiles, picking up the coat and offering it to Clea.

Clea has posed:
Clea doesn't have any stray bullet holes. Tears to be mended, a broken zipper, bruises that will fade out in the time it takes her to reach New York are all part of the inventory of a bad evening. Not inconceivably terrible, mind.

Her smile is slightly more guarded than Batwoman's has been, but she hasn't the advantage of a cowl and effectively a domino. Experience leads her to quickly check for any other injuries or damage; finding none on either of them - visible, anyway - then she glances at the self-driving motorcycle as it arrives. If it presents a threat, the Ducati might be a crater.

As it stands, she briefly ticks a look back to the equally black and red-attired woman. "That's quite a fancy trick." Rolling her shoulders eases out the tension present. No craters for this evening. Somewhere down the alley, the tinkle of metal hitting the ground and a groan speak to urgency.

"Back into the city," she explains. "This looked like the most direct route. The brazenness of some was rather unexpected. You are sure I will not put you out of your way, doing your work? I assume it is work."

Kate Kane has posed:
Batwoman nods, "It is, but I'd be remiss if I didn't see you back." She chuckles and hops onto the motorcycle, looking back at Clea. "That's also part of work, and it's one I don't mind so much. Nicer than beating up criminals in the Narrows, anyway. Not exactly the best part of town to wander along by yourself, as you've seen."

She pauses, then offers Clea her hand, "I'm Batwoman. You handled yourself very well there."

Clea has posed:
Clea tilts her head a bit, just enough for the thick white curls to whisk across her unlined brow and dash against her eye. "Beating up criminals or offering escorts to people who made poor judgment calls?" she asks, though not without a bit of humour, the sparkling of laughter visible in the taut lines of her eyes and lips if not audible. Talented to laugh without making noise, but the same is true for walking without actually making sound either.

Without rain or dust to really go by, the fact she leaves no footprints to speak of probably goes unnoticed. All the same...

"Thank you. Clea," she adds, without any cognomen. Cool codenames need to be workshopped! Getting on the motorcycle is no problem, though she probably displaces more weight than meets the eye. "Consider our ride uneventful after this, with any luck."