19749/GN:R&R - The Docks

GN:R&R - The Docks
Date of Scene:	26 December 2024
Location:	Dixon Docks - Chinatown
Synopsis:	Nightwing and Ghost-Spider go after the van that fled from the Gotham Medical Logistics heist. Thanks to Batgirl's GPS locator, they were able to track the van to a warehouse and deal with a pile of Rustborn goons, recover the van, and the supplies. And they delivered them all in a neatly webbed up package to GCPD. Surely there won't be any fallout or retribution as a result.
Cast of Characters:	Gwen Stacy, Dick Grayson
Tinyplot:	Gotham Nights: Rust and Ruin

---

Gwen Stacy has posed:
From rooftop to rooftop of the warehouses that line the waterfront at Gotham's Dixon Docks, Ghost-Spider and Nightwing move together like wraiths through the night. Not always shoulder-to-shoulder, their individuals strength and efficiencies create a kind of rhythmic, undulating pattern -- out and in, apart and together, over and over like the breathing of one living entity that steadily approaches one particular building.

Like a lost tourist, Ghost-Spider follows both the GPS location she can see highlighted in the HUD of her Spider-Comm, the distance to target steadily shrinking. It's doubtful Nightwing needs any such guidance, so she sticks close to him as well, following just behind and trusting him to guide her along the least conspicuous route.

It doesn't help that it's dark, only the eerie amber streetlights and building security lights cutting through the haze and the falling sleet that's enough to slightly obscure but not sufficient in quantity to accumulate on the ground. It makes the conditions icy, cold, slippery, creepy, sinister, and generally rather miserable.

No one said crime fighting was a luxurious job, though.

Finally, they come upon their target. Warehouse 38. From the rooftop adjacent, it's easy to get the broad strokes of the lay of the land -- a two story metal building with an 'A' shaped roof that likely allows for attic-type storage or perhaps just rafters. It's old and rusted, the huge letters on its front fading with age, 'DIXON DOCKS ? 38.'

There's lights on inside, despite the late hour, though that's not surprising. Many of the warehouses have active workers inside. Dixon Docks may not see as much commerce now that the Tricorner Docks went into operation, but there's still activity at all hours of the day and night. It's just that most of it isn't necessarily legal. There's a van parked just outside the big, sliding doors, that happens to look a lot like the one that fled the scene on the bridge -- the scene where the Rustborn were trying to hijack a shipment of medical supplies*.

"Go Batgirl," Ghost-Spider's voice rises quietly, admiringly, as she comes to a stop near Nightwing. "This is where her tracker stopped, and that's either our van or it's doing a really good impersonation."

Shadows move through the lights lights below. Silhouettes. There's lots of activity in the warehouse itself as well as a few lazy-looking patrols by guys in rusted-looking gear, carrying rifles at low ready. They look vaguely military, but without as much rigid discipline. Contractors? Maybe dishonorable discharges or boot camp drop-outs?

* (See +Event 19524)

Dick Grayson has posed:
It's probably fair to say that no one knows Gotham City the way that Batman knows Gotham City.

But Nightwing would definitely run a close second to the Dark Knight.

Afterall, he has been running across these rooftops since he was eight years old. Studying layouts of the city, learning all the places where the official city plans have gone astray and changed, either because of unintentiaonal changes made by others, or deliberate attempts by criminal elements to circumvent certain things.

The illicity passages, the unauthorized tunnels, the places where basements or buildings have been joined in secret.

There is so many other things that go into it as well. The knowledge that leaping from the Gotham State Building at just the right point will almost always let one catch a prevailing breeze and glide for over a mile. That the ten forty seven elevated train out of Wayne Tower almost always runs two minutes and thirty-six seconds late. That the chain-link fence at the end of the alley joining Seventh street to Mainway is not actually fastened down and can be pushed aside even when running at full speed.

All the little things that makes navigating the city second nature. THe little hints and tricks that no one else knows quite in the same way that the Bat Family knows the city.

So yes, Nightwing is able to navigate entirely by feel, knowing exactly where they are headed, knowing the quickest way there. Knowing what rooftop tiles are a little loose and therefore hazardous - especially in this wet, slippery weather. Knowing what rooftop drainage isn't quite up to snuff, leaving puddles. Knowing where the sudden, unexpected drops are concealed by the ay rooftops join together. It's all instinctive, and while few are in a position to navigate those kind of hazards better then his partner this evening could, he makes it simpler. He makes it safer.

While Dick might not have the same unearthly grace and agility that the spiders do, it would be easy to mistake him for one, certainly when he is in his element like this. Each step is sure and precise and he barely needs to even slow down with sudden shifts in direction, or when they come to gaps between rooftops, hurtling them with seeming ease.

This partnership might be as new as their personal one, but just as they have undeniable chemistry outside of their costumes, they seem to be have the same within.

As they near the location that the tracking signal has given off, Nightwing finally slows that seeming mad dash through the falling sleet, across rooftops slick with that messy snow, crouching down low to cut down his silhouette as he studies the scene below. What are clearly sentries on patrol, seeming at least semi-competent. Moreso then the typical gangbangers at the very least.

"So," he says, lowering a pair of infra-red binoculars from his masked visage and shooting a tight grin her way. "How do you want to handle this? Quiet and discrete? Or are we making a statement?"

Gwen Stacy has posed:
"Not my pig. Not my farm."

Ghost-Spider sometimes has colorful ways to express her feelings, even if her tone towards the dark-haired man by her side carries undeniable warmth and affection. This time, she seems to be indicating -- with a roll of one slender shoulder -- that this is Bat-business. That she's just here to help.

"To be clear," she adds, holding up a finger as she couches on the rooftop at his side, "Gotham's becoming my farm. I just.. don't know it like you do. Besides, I already have one pig too many. He drives me crazy, sometimes."

Possibly literally. Freaking Spider-Ham. Every time she hits her head a little too hard, Peter Porker has to have something to say about it, and it's enough to make her question her own sanity.

"So, you're the boss," she assures, her big, expressive, pink-rimmed eyelets narrowing into what seems to be a kind of playful smile, "Boss. Think of me as the Ghost-Robin to your Night-Bat."

For just a second, though, her head tilts, that hood around her mask fluttering just a bit in the sleet. Her stance shifts, drifting just a little closer to him, until her thin white-and-black costume puts her within the corona of his body heat.

"Actually, strike that. Maybe we should have our own thing. There's no sense making it weird, right? I need you to be able to look me in the eye after this."

One eye grows and flexes playfully, lifting like an eyebrow waggling suggestively. It's kind of crazy how expressive those eyes really can be.

Realistically, it's Nightwing's expertise that she trusted to get them safely here. It's his judgement she trusts completely in every other aspect of life, too, and while this may be among their first outings in costume together, that trust shows no sign of faltering. Besides, she's more of a lone-wolf than a team player. Squad tactics aren't really her things.

Down below, a tall, chain-link fence separates the two warehouses, the side of the building cloaked mostly in darkness thanks to a broken bulb. Within that darkness, there's a pause of one of the guards as he reaches into a pocket, pulls out a cigarette, and then sparks a lighter. A moment later, there's a puff of smoke, and he keeps walking. It doesn't look like they're expecting any visitors.

Dick Grayson has posed:
Really, it is not an unfair way to look at things.

Gotham City is a different beast. It isn't quite like anywhere else. Maybe no other city could have given birth to Batman. No other city could have given birth to quite such a diverse and terrifying collection of madmen that plague the residents over and over again. And Dick understandably understands it better.

There is a reason why Superman can't just sweep into Gotham and make it as bright and shiny as Metropolis, and it's not just because of the Dark Knight's disapproval. It's because it just doesn't work.

Flashing a brief grin towards his compatriot in all of this, Nightwing nods his head slowly. The dark rooftop, in the wet snow that falls all around them, that wintery chill seeming to penetrate costumes with ease. There is still nowhere else he'd rather be.

Well, maybe not quite nowhere else. But at least the company can't be beat.

"I don't know. That doesn't sound like too terrible an idea to me," he admits slyly, making a show of looking her up and down - or at least as much as he can while they remain crouched by the rooftop edge. "I think you could rock the short shorts and elf booties waaaaaay better then I ever could. Though I might be a little biased on that front," he concedes.

Yes, this is a serious matter. There are armed men down below. They've made it clear that they are not done causing problems for the city, for its inhabitants. The more they deal with now, the better long term.

But he is also out here with the woman that he has come to love. And while they might still be learning to work together, they already seem in synch in so many ways. This is a chance to hone it a little further.

"Okay, I don't think we need to make a big statement. Sometimes subtle can be good, even in Gotham," he allows, quieter perhaps, but an edge of humor lingers in his words. Shifting, he turns and peeks over the edge, peering down at the men below. "Lets pick out the fringes. Quick and quiet and take out whoever we can before they notice. Thin the herd before things get messy," he suggests. He can't see any reason that won't work well with her capabilities.

"Then, when they spot one of us I'll blanket the area with smoke capsules. That'll give us cover. At that point we can deal with anyone who's still standing and drive that truck right on out of here."

Simple. Direct. Sure. But sometimes that's the easiest, best way to deal with Gotham thugs.

Gwen Stacy has posed:
It's not that it's not a serious matter, but it's always guys with guns. Or guys with lasers. Or guys with weird power-gauntlets or wings or missile launchers. The day that all she has to worry about are low-lives like the Bodega Bandit -- who also exists in both her home dimension and this one -- and muggers? Well, that's the day she'll be able to hang up the webs and let the police handle it while she settles into a nice, normal, quiet, comfortable life. Preferably with the man she's with right now.

At least Gwen has found one constant in her life.

"Oh, I don't know about that. Especially now. But, you know, if we go to Comic-Con this year, I can always cosplay as Robin."

Humor. The other constant, even in the face of adversity. Or maybe especially in the face of adversity. If one wanted to know how tense Gwen's getting, they really need not look much further than the rate of her quips.

Those big eyelets sweep down him once and then back up.

"I'm not sure what else I'd want to see you as, though," she muses. "This outfit's pretty distracting as it is..."

One can almost see her biting her lip, even under the mask, even as a few seconds tick by. Is she still trying to come up with cosplays for him, or has she gotten lost in.. other thoughts?

'Subtle can be good...'

Oh, right! They're here for a thing.

'Lets pick out the fringes. Quick and quiet... At that point we can deal with anyone who's still standing...'

"Yes, sir," she muses, and though there's a playful lilt to it, there's also something... deeper. A respect that comes through, even if she does use humor to cover up the tension. That respected is conveyed by the fact that she's already moving, too. "See? I knew you'd have a plan."

She glances over at the guy who's walking towards another one of the building's security lights, though for the moment he's still shrouded mostly in the dark.

"Alright... Ladies first."

The announcement is made just before she launches herself off of the adjoining rooftop, flying into the night air with superhuman agility and strength -- an arc that would have required a jetpack for a mere mortal.

Her body lengthens and twists effortlessly, calmly. There's nothing jerky or unsure at all about her movements. She rolls and *thwips* out a webline, catching the top of a pole that should have been another light, but it's broken.

From that perch, she fires a single burst of webbing into the ground just behind the guard, prompting him to turn around and look. As soon as he does, he catches another ball of webbing in the face, effectively silencing him as the next lines wrap around him and jerk him up into the air, rolling and cocooning him as Ghost-Spider leaves him dangling from the broken fixture.

Dick Grayson has posed:
For all that Dick Grayson grew up in Gotham City, he does seem to have managed to avoid taking on the grim mantle that so many of its other protectors have adopted over the years.

It's not that he is incapable of being serious, incapable of picking his moments. It's not that he isn't dedicated to being Nightwing, to doing the sorts of things that vigilantes need to do. It's just not the sum total of his life.

He also is of the steadfast belief that just because what they do is serious business, just because it's dangerous, doesn't mean that he can't enjoy himself too. That he can't inject just a little style and flair into things. Sure, if those men down there had a hostage. If they were about to blow up a building in the next ten seconds that might be cause to drop the teasing, the joking and just get things done.

Until then, he's only too happy for those reminders that life is worth living. And the biggest one just happens to be working with him here tonight.

"It's a date," Nightwing agrees, flashing a grin her way. "And I think that it is only fair that we pick out each other's costumes, true," he allows. Which could be all kinds of dangerous, even if in a very different way then leaping down amidst a small horde of gunmen.

So yes, he should be focusing a little better even now, but at her seeming distraction, at the playful 'yes sir,' Nightwing can't resist leaning over, slipping one gauntleted hand up behind her head while the other rolls up the fringe of her mask.

Just enough so that he can kiss her.

That wet cold might be penetrating, the gunmen down there spread out around Warehouse 38 might be a threat. But for just a moment all of that falls away.

"For luck," he murmurs lowly as his lips finally break from hers, settling back on his heels for just a moment, watching appreciatively as she flips away into the night.

He might be able to win a gold medal if he were so inclined to compete competively in gymnastics. He's that good. But he could never pull off what she just did, not without the assist from the glider wings built into his costume at least.

With a small shake of his head, Nightwing abandons his perch, drawing out one of his grapnels, firing it off with that soft hiss of releasing compressed air and sweeping over to one of those light standards that cast that muted orange glow down over the area below.

He waits, patiently, watching the pattern of the guards and when the moment comes he attaches one of his jumplines to the light standard and then drops, swiftly, surely and upside down, coming right up behind the passing guard. Arms lash out, one hand sweeps around the man's mouth and nose, cutting off his easy air supply, his other arm slipping around his neck to further restrict his air flow.

In a moment, the recoil of the jumpline pulls them both back off the ground, silencing his flailing limbs, leaving him struggling in midair as that oxygen deprivation sets in, leaving each flailing motion, each desperate attempt to struggle free a little weaker then the last. Until he is quiet. Until he is still.

While it's not as quick as a spider, Nightwing then trusses him up in that cord, leaving him dangling there, roating slowly well above the others as he seeks out his next target of opportunity.

Gwen Stacy has posed:
Oh... that could be so, so dangerous. He has no idea how hard of a time she's going to have deciding between King Leonidas of Sparta, James Bond, and something with a robe (and a mask) so that the thirsty girls and boys don't spend all day gawking at him.

And she knows they will, because she does. Daily.

Seriously, have you seen his butt? It's legendary...

Those eyelets had narrowed, but anything Ghost-Spidr was going to say was cut off when he reached out for her. Those eyelets went wide, almost comically slowly, staring at him in wonder as his fingers curled around the back of her hood and her body started to relax into him.

It was like she didn't understand what he was about to do until he lifted her mask up to her nose, but as soon as he did, her own hands came up, finding purchase on his shoulders. Gloved fingers curl as she sinks into him, as everything else seems to fade, and it's all she can do not to let a sound of surprised pleasure escape her throat and give the away.

'Luck,' he'd said, yet the heat was already flushing her cheeks when he was pulling her mask back down, and she could barely remember where she was, much less what they were supposed to be doing.

"...Can I come back for more when that runs out?"

It's a half-dazed sounding question, still filled with humor, though caught completely flat-footed by that moment of tenderness in the dark, eerie, drizzle of snow. It's hard to miss how smitten she really is, from the way she hovers near him for another moment, to the way she presses her masked cheek against his in an affectionate nuzzle.

But then, almost reluctantly, she's off, and she's webbed up the first guy.

Ghost-Spider tried to stick close, hesitant to get too far and leave her partner in a lurch, but it's a delicate balance... she had to keep reminding herself that she wouldn't be over-protective if it were one of the others she works with. She'd trust them to do their job and tell he if they needed her.

And so, she tries to do the same with Dick. As hard as it is not to keep looking over her shoulder at him, she leaps from the lamp post and onto the roof of Hangar 38, moving quickly and quietly down the length of it. All the way out to the end and over the edge, Ghost-Spider is up in the air, flipping and twisting. She hits another guard with two web-lines in the middle of his chest and jerks herself down on top of him, collapsing him down into the ground hard when she lands on him, feet first.

There's a thump of him hitting the ground, then a web-line tethered to him as she rolls him, leaps up, and drags him up where he won't be immediately spotted.

<< "Two," >> she whispers into their comms.

She might not have made her way into the Bat-family comms, and she might not have hooked him into the Spider-Comm, but they had worked out their own channel for these little endeavors.

Dick Grayson has posed:
To be sure they will have plenty of time to decide on costumes. Which is assuming that they even manage to get away. That, of course, is the one caveat with what they do. Things have a nasty habit of cropping up at the last minute to spoil plans.

Still, Dick is certainly willing to go the next mile to try and insure that they have the chance to do it. And it's not like they don't both have plenty of people in their circles that can hopefully hold down the fort for a few days right? If nothing else, trying to pick out something suitable - or decidedly unsuitable - for her to wear is likely to provide all manner of entertainment for the next little bit.

Indeed, it is hard not to let himself get a little distracted, to think ahead to the possibility of that trip and others with her, to even what the rest of the night holds in stroe for them when they're finally out of the wet and cold.

That kiss won't exactly help keep him focused on that task at hand, though it does plenty to banish the cold at least. Nor is he likely to complain if there are a few more for 'extra luck' before the night is done. At least the slow grin he flashes her way certainly would suggest so.

They have already developed a remarkable degree of trust in their relationship, a certainty about one another. And it will come in costume as well. But for now she is not the only one that isn't tempted to check on her partner, his gaze occasionally straying her way. He, at least, might have a little more practice working with a partner, working with others. He's rarely had to fend entirely on his own, and it is always been by choice when he has. That isn't always a luxury she has been afforded as he well knows.

With the first sentry taken out, he does not linger and while he might want to watch over her - though she's probably a whole lot safer then him - he swiftly moves to continue to pick and the edges of the warehouse, to hunt down those solitary figures who get out of sight of the other sentires on watch for mere seconds, taking them out swiftly and silently.

As he flits from shadow to shadow, one falls from a swift nerve strike. A second is dragged under a parked vehicle, a knockout capsule crushed against his mouth and nose as he slips into unconscious. A third gets one of Nightwing's escrima sticks grazing his temple, sending him down to the gorund boneless after the titanium fighting stick is bounced cleverly off the pavement, catching him from behind.

And in swift fashionhis talley grows, taking out the outliers and giving them a clearer path to the warehouse and the apparent source of that tracking signal.

<< Four, >> comes his quiet reply over the comsystem they've set up for themselves. << We're pretty good at this, partner >> comes his light banter over the comm.

Gwen Stacy has posed:
In many ways, they're complementary images of each other. Not exact mirrors, not exact opposites, but they have had very, very different experiences.

They've both suffered the loss of their family, but where Dick found a new one, Gwen drifted in largely self-imposed isolation. Where he was used to working with partners unless he chose to work alone, Gwen was used to working alone unless she chose to work with a partner -- or, rarely, a team. She did, very briefly, agree to join the Titans right after Dick took her in from being dumped out of that portal.

It didn't last. It never lasts. Gwen doesn't have the patience or the temperament for partnerships, and if ever there was anyone waving that advertisement around like a giant red flag, it's her. Yet, somehow, Dick doesn't make her feel confined like most partnerships. She doesn't feel suffocated or like she's constantly disappointing him. With Dick, he can finally start to relax.

Which is ironic, because when she was looking over her shoulder at him, she didn't look relaxed. She looked like she would swing over there and go spider-ninja on a warehouse full of bad guys if anyone so much as looked at him the wrong way.

But that's just it. Now that she's found that feeling? The thought of losing it is... vaguely terrifying.

Still, they have a job to do. And... he's right. They do work well together.

*thwip*
*thwip*

Ghost-Spider lights on top of a stack of old crates and jerks another guard back into them, webbing his arms and mouth to keep him in place.

<< "'Partner?' You really are trying to web me down... Threeee... Shit." >>

She was just saying her count when another guard walked around the corner of the crates, her spider-sense tingling just as she came face-to-face with him. No gun in his hands. Just two cups of coffee, both of which dropped to the ground and shattered at the same time in a crash of ceramic as he reached for the pistol on his hip.

"Frank?" comes another voice from inside the warehouse, a man starting to make his way out toward them.

*thwip*

A glob of webbing sticks his hand to his holster, keeping him from getting it out, but it doesn't stop him from letting out a yell. Not until Ghost-Spider shifts her weight and sends a kick up into his jaw, knocking him unconscious and back into the crates.

"What was that?" the man yells. "Frank?! You okay?!"

But now it's not just one of the Rustborn moving towards Ghost-Spider and those crates. It's five of them, all armed.

Dick Grayson has posed:
To a certain extent that anxiety makes a great deal of sense.

Afterall, she is used to being around people who can literally sense when they are in danger, when someone is lining up a shot at them. They know it's coming before it even happens and they have the chance to do something, to get out out the way or take out the opposition before they can even launch that attack.

Dick has none of that. There is no preternatural sense, no warning little tingle in the back of his head that one wrong move could be his last.

What he does benefit from is more than two decades worth of training. Two decades worth of experience in the field. He has been drilled and trained by one of the most capable human beings to ever live. His instincts have been honed to a razor's edge and while his agility might not be that as a spider's, it's better then just about any other normal human being alive.

It will take time to get used to. Time to trust. Just as Dick will have to fully learn just what she is capable of, just how they can best work together. He might trust her implicityly, but there are somethings that can only come with time. There's no shortcuts when it comes to getting around them.

Tonight might be one more good, solid step in that direction though.

Still, for a moment they fall out of sight of one another as Nightwing sprints to one corner of the warehouse, pushing himself flat against the wall just an instant before the next sentry comes around the corner. The man barely has time to widen his eyes before the costumed vigilante is lashing out, reaching out to casually flip that rifle in his hands back in a sudden motion, the butt end coming around to soldily thunk him in the jaw.

Again, any outcry he can make is stiffled as Nightwing grabs him, dragging him bodily around the corner and putting pressure on a nerve cluster until he passes out. Then swiftly, stealthily, yet another body is deposited behind a small pile of metal drums. Out of sight, but not out mind.

<< That's five. >> he offers up. << And I'm pretty sure that you're the one with the webbing, but if you want to lend me your web-shooters... >> he starts when he hears that exclaimation at the end.

That's where training comes in, when instinct comes in. Up until this point they have done a great job of keeping to that swift, silent approach, downing eight of the Rustborn before they even know whats hit them. But it sounds like stealth might be out the window now. So it's time to adapt.

In a heartbeat Nightwing has a small sphere in his hands, pressing down on it hard as a red light starts to flash. Slow at first but quickly speeding until he tosses it, letting it land behind another pile of old packing crate. A second later a blast of concussive force rings out, blowing the debris in all directions and and thumping loudly against the wall of the warehouse.

Nightwing isn't standing around though, his grapnel already out, that jumpline pulling him up to the rooftop where he begins to spring across the corrugated metal sheet towards the far side where Ghost-Spider is dealing with her situation, counting on that distraction to buy them a little time.

Gwen Stacy has posed:
Is it any wonder she missed the guy coming around the corner with the cup of coffee for his buddy on watch?

In fairness, she's used to concentrating through a lot more distractions than just what Dick might be able to accomplish if he ever got his hands on her web-shooters. But this also isn't her normal approach. She's much more the charge-straight-in, shout their name, and then adapt to the consequences on the fly type of hero.

It's dangerous. It usually ends in a lot of property damage. And in the end, depending on the bad guy, she's usually covered in cuts or at least bruises. But, in the end of the day, it works for her.

She's done the sneaky thing before. She'll need to do the sneaky thing again. And practicing on this band of goons is, in the scheme of things, probably a lot safer than the life-and-death consequences of a more organized para-military group. So, this was good practice. Unlike Dick, Gwen didn't have two decades of training under a secret ninja detective. She only had one decade of shooting webs, disarming bad buys with her sharp wit, and honing her spunky attitude.

<< "See, when you say things like that, it makes me want to wrap up early... or maybe be wrapped up..." >>

With all of the shouting and the booted feet running in her direction, Ghost-Spider was about to get surrounded amid those crates. So, there really was only one thing for her to do.

Bending her knees, she springs up and flips once, landing briefly in a crouch on top of crates before standing back up to her full height. Which, of course, has the intended effect of bringing all five of them to a screeching halt.

"Oh, hey! Thank God you're here. Frank spilled coffee everywhere," she laments from her veritable soap box. Except they're not buying what she's selling. Maybe because she's standing up there in a black-and-white costume with big, pink-rimmed eyes.

"Get her!"

...BOOM.

Nightwing's grenade goes off, splintering crates, sending debris flying, and making a bass-filled shockwave thump through the whole area as it resounds against the wall of the warehouse.

All five of the goons scatter, falling over themselves in search of cover. Even Ghost-Spider flinches away from the blast, crouching again like she might leap for cover, herself. At least until she spots Nightwing racing across that rooftop.

<< "Holy webs, dude. You guys bring the artillery!" >>

But she's already moving, leaping into the air and firing webs towards one of the five that had almost made it to cover, snagging both of his elbows and yanking herself down hard onto his back.

Dick Grayson has posed:
Good things come to those who wait.

They are kind of in the thick of things now and while the banter between them might disappear entirely, Nightwing understands that the stakes are a little higher. The element of surprise is gone, but that's not the only approach.

Truth be told, he doesn't exactly object to the 'ol' throw yourself into the middle of the bad guys and improvise' approach. It comes from generally being a whole lot quicker and more acrobatic then you opponents. From being able to move in an unpredictable fashion, in something other then straight lines. To not be limited to just the horizontal plane, but the vertical one as well. It opens up possibilities.

Like in chess, being able to see several moves ahead of your opponent tends to be a big advantage. To know what they are going to do without letting them know what oyu're going to do.

Yes, they've lost the element of surprise. But now comes the shock and awe. No comes the confusion. Now comes controlling the battlefield to make it work for them.

They have the rooftop. They have the high ground. That means the fight is pretty much over. Surely Obi-wan wouldn't steer them wrong, right?

The concussion grenade does it's effect. It scatters the group bearing down on Ghost-Spider and almost surely scares the ever-living crap out of anyone actually inside of the warehouse. It's even odds whether they rush out guns blazing or try to find cover, but either way, they're not likely to find what they're looking for.

The metal roof isn't designed for stealth, but Nightwing is light on his feet, his footfalls barely registering despite racing across it towards her. A tight grin rests on his features though a flicker of relief shows when she suddenly leaps up to join him.

<< Hey, I can't lift a compact car. I need to improvise some. Maybe one of these days I'll borrow that Batwing and call in the air support >> he replies, hand already dipping down once more, retrieving a small handful of gelatin capsules, cradling them in his gauntleted fist.

Just as they discussed, just as they planned, as soon as he nears the far edge of the building where she stands, web-shooters firing, he tosses those capsules, letting the smash into the paved ground below, breaking open and pillowing out great clouds of smoke that immediately enveop the sentries down there... while also spreading towards the entrance to the warehouse to insure that anyone stepping foot outside will swiftly find themselves just as blind as well.

He doesn't know the precise mechanism of her Spider-Sense, but he trusts that between the cover of that fog cloud and the high ground, they will be able to pick off those that remain with minimal danger to themselves.

Gwen Stacy has posed:
The cover of the fog is welcome. The man beneath her feet is groaning as she webs his wrists and ankles to the ground to keep him in place, throwing a few extras along his bag for good measure.

There's disoriented shouts coming from everywhere. There's maybe.. a dozen more people around? Just judging by the number of voices? Not exactly an army, but enough to cause a problem if a stray bullet lands.

<< "Compact?.. Why does it have to be... ngh... compact?!" >>

That little grunt in the middle is preceeded by a web-line that streaked out the the fog and then a blind swing, feet out in front of her, crashing into someone in the smoke and sending him flying. With a scream and flailing limbs, he goes over the edge of the sea-wall, and there's a splash.

<< "Is it because I'm a girl? I bet you wouldn't throw shade at Spider-MAN like that..." >>

Her tone is light, playful. She's fully aware that praising her for being able to lift a car wasn't any kind of shade, but she just cannot help teasing him. There's a softness in her voice, a warmth that cuts through the chaos. The moment lingers just long enough for one of the Rustborn to make the mistake of creeping too close to the warehouse entrance. She can't see them, but her head snaps toward him like a hawk spotting prey.

<< "...Hold that thought," >> she says, already in motion.

Her web-line snaps out, sticking to the man's chest. She yanks hard, pulling him forward into the smoke.

"Congratulations!" she calls. "You've been randomly selected for the first-class takedown experience. No refunds!"

She meets him in the middle and sends a punch into his face, then spins him around and kicks him, webs his back, jerks him back towards her and spins him. He hits the ground with a groan, and she's already back on her feet, binding his wrists with webbing.

"Stay put, buddy. You've had a long day. Maybe take a nap?"

A loud crash from another corner of the battlefield draws her attention. She somersaults back onto the roof, the smoke curling around her.

<< "Where was I? Oh, right! The Batwing. That's just over-compensating, if you ask me, and you, of all people, do not need -- " >>

Below, another Rustborn scrambles for his rifle, and she's not able to finish that thought. She fires a web-line, snagging the weapon just as he gets his hands on it, and reels it in, tossing it aside as she leaps off the roof again.

"Guns are such a bad look for you," she says, landing beside him. She ducks under a wild punch, twisting behind him and webbing his arms to his sides. "There, much better. You're really rocking the whole 'helpless thug' aesthetic now."

Kicking that thug into a wall, she fires a big wad of webbing to pin him against it.

<< "You know, I'm not usually big on the whole teamwork thing, but we're not half-bad. I _might_ actually be enjoying myself." >>

After the days she's had, being up on some Rustborn thugs turns out to be exactly what the doctor ordered. Guns, goons, and smoke pellets... it's like a whole Broadway production! Aaaand maybe she should be taking the risk of catching a stray bullet more seriously, but the thugs are taking it seriously enough for her! Not one has decided to blind fire into the smoke and risk shooting their friends.

Not yet, anyway.

Dick Grayson has posed:
The dark is their friend.

It is built right into human beings. The fear of the dark. The fear of what might be lurking out there, unseen. Really, most people just can't help it. It is primal. It is basic. It is a part on the hind-brain, the fight or flight mechanism. Human beings have gathered together, have wrapped their cities in a perpetual haze of light, specifically because buried deep down within them, that fear of the dark is still very much a part of them. Inescapably.

The dark is one of the things that the Bats have turned into their greatest ally. In some respects more then their gadgets, more then their obsessive training, it is the dark that is there friend. Confusion. Misdirection, triggering that deep-roofted fear that lurks inside virtually all people. Because that makes people make mistakes.

That too is the principle behind the fog clouds. The make it virutally impossible for one's foes to find you without blind luck. It makes for quick and safe escapes or equally quick and brutal takedowns. And just like technology gives them an edge in the dark, lets them pierce the veil of shadow, it does the same in those great plumes of mist.

The Rustborn down below might be near blind, jumping at practically every sound, but Nightwing can make them out just fine through the Starlite lense inserts in his mask. Bright blobs of heat against the greenish glow that the nighttime of Gotham appears to him. Easily standing out no matter how they might try to hide.

Whether Ghost-Spider has similar tech in that oh so cool mask of hers, or if it is that preternatural sense that lets her accomplish much the same, they have the clear advantage in thinning out the herd now. So while she makes use of those web-shooters, while she leaves several of the Rustborn webbed up, unable to move, leaping down amongst the fog, Nightwing continues to stalk along the roof, taking advantage of that high ground to continue to find strays. And when he does, he strikes.

He could use his escrima sticks of course. He's good enough with them to bounce them off one or two objects and still hit his target. Sometimes he can even make them flick right back to him.

But they are his most valuable, close-in weapon. And he has so many other projectiles he can use. The razor sharp wingdings tend to be best to disarm foes - it's hard to hold a gun when a razor-sharp, specially shaped throwing knife slices across flesh. But for stopping power, if he doesn't want to leave a trail of bodies, blunt it better.

That's where the Batarangs come in handy.

Again his hand dips, again it emerges with a trio of projectiles, flicking them in his hand to expand them to their full size, locking them into place before hurling them with that unerring accuracy, finding temples or the backs of heads, sending three more of the gunmen crashing to the ground.

<< Hey, if you want to go lift a semi, you go lift a semi. The right tool for the right job, >> he counters philosophically as he leaps from his rooftop perch, landing in a crouch by the door. << I'm not lifting a compact. I'm probably not lifting a motorcycle, at least not to chuck it at anyone, so it's all pretty impressive to me, >> he points out lightly.

Then he is rising once more, tugging open the entrance to the wearhouse, letting the smoke pour in, leading the way from him, a shadow in the siwrling mists. "Come out, come out wherever you are. Time to pay the piper. Or the birdie in this case, I suppose," he says, the threat in his voice no less for the light tone to his words.

<< Just wait until I call in the Batwing. If chicks dig the car, we'll just see how you react to the plane, >> he teases, the low laugh that emerges from the mist probably not reassuring any of his remaining quarry.

<< And glad to hear it. This wouldn't be my first choice for date night, but it has compensations. Especially after the day you've had. >>

Gwen Stacy has posed:
The Spider-Comm HUD certain helps. The augmented reality wireframes around the heat signatures that her mask can pick up through the smoke make it much easier to differentiate a wooden create from a gun-wielding buffoon in rust-streaked armor. But it is that tingle in the back of her mind that Ghost-Spider relies on. Like sight or hearing, she's learned to integrate it into her day-to-day life like a true sixth sense. It's what keeps her save while she's swinging, what makes it so easy to relax when she jumps from the top of the Empire State Building, what lets her keep her cool and adapt as quickly as she does when Rhino comes bursting unexpectedly through a wall.

Like a spider stalking her prey, it's also what tells her where her threats are, like little ripples of movement on her web.

She doesn't have anything even resembling Dick's training. In many ways, she's still very much that fourteen year old girl that's out for a swing and doing the best she can. So while Dick's attacks are schooled and precise, as if slow-motion footage could be analyzed and praised exhaustively by experts for years, Gwen's are a bit more like.. well.. a comedy of errors. It's not that she's less effective. It's just that she's not nearly as efficient. She plays with her food, catches them at the last possible second, taunts them, and by all accounts, it may even be surprising that the outcome is as effective as it is. She might leave those same experts scratching their heads.

<< "Well, you lift _me_ just fine, and that's all I really care about..." >>

The outside has gotten quiet in the wake of their efficient clearing out of Rustborn thugs, and shortly after Dick opens that door, the cloud of smoke preceding him into the room, there's a *thwip* of webbing splattering onto the wall just above him.

<< "Not going to lie. I'm still waiting for a full tour of the Nightbird. But I'd be happy to give you my opinion of both..." >>

A moment later, Ghost-Spider is crawling into the warehouse above his head, through the newly opened door, and reaching down to tap him on the shoulder.

"Psst. C'mere. Quick," she hisses.

Just inside, out of the line of fire of the newly opened door -- should any of them get stupid enough to fire blindly into an open doorway -- Ghost-Spider lures him to the wall. She's stuck to the wall, upside down. Her hood is draped loosely above the top of her masked head, body clouded in that billowing smoke, mask around pulled up (down?) around her nose.

"My luck ran out," she whispers urgently, his form mostly highlighted by the lines of her HUD and the way she can reach out and feel him through the thick cloud, pulling him towards her. Without her mask to help filter, there's a couple of soft coughs from inhaling the stuff, and when her lips do finally brush softly against his, there's a curl of a smile.

"Kiss me. Quick."

Dick Grayson has posed:
They definitely have similar but conflicting styles, which makes a degree of sense. Afterall, they have similar but conflicting abilities.

Gwen has the advantage of phenomenal reflexes and strength and of course that extra-sensory spider-sense that is a pretty great equalizer no matter the threat she's facing. Coupled with an acrobatic style and tendancy towards quips, well, it makes her rather distinct. At least in the Gotham set.

Dick likewise tends to be rather acrobatic, frequently in motion, frequently seeming to dodge attacks at the very last moment, almost impossibly while seeming to have a good time doing so. But while hers is all instinct and natural ability, his is well-honed training and experience.

Different, but similar. They both get the job done, they both look pretty similar doing in in many ways, but are actually approaching things very differently indeed.

There can't be more then a handful of Rustborn left on site. Just a handful of potential foes to neutralize. Up ahead in the warehouse proper, Nightwing can see their quarry, the stolen truck that Batgirl tagged earlier. While licks of that fog spill into the warehouse, it isn't dark in here. Not entirely at least. The roof vanishes into the shadows of course, the lights mounted on beams that run above the floor but do not reach that corrugated metal sheet higher up. They also leave pockets of shadow throughout the room, an effect that is only added to by the stacks of crates that are scattered about.

It doesn't take much coaxing to get Nightwing to move aside - he's not suicidal, and while he is fairly certain that he could dodge random gunfire, or rely on his costume to stop anything but a lucky shot, there isn't really any need to resort to that here. They have pretty much everything going their way.

<< Is that so? >> he asks lowly. << Well, I have a few notions for later that you might like then, >> he teases, peering through the interior of the warehouse, the lights overhead dimming the effect of those starlite lense inserts, making colors more distinct but lessening the glow from the body heat of his targets. << We can probably also arrange for that tour finally, sooner rather then later, >> he promises.

As she pulls him aside, as she makes her declaration about her luck, Nightwing shoots her a quick grin, one hand sliding to rest against the back of her head as she slides that mask down. "Well we certainly can't have that," he murmurs in agreement. Then his lips are on hers, warm and lingering, fingers reflexively curling as if they very much want to find purchase in her hair.

But they do still have a job to do, so the dark haired vigilante finally draws back with a faint sigh and a small grin. "Good incentive to wrap this up quick. Lets take out the stragglers and grab what we came her for. Maybe we can haul a few of them with us and leave them for the police," he murmurs, stealing one more quick kiss.

Then he whirls, already in a crouch as he stalks forward in a weaving, loping scuttle, darting from cover to cover, looking to polish off the last of the Rustborn.

Gwen Stacy has posed:
So maybe it's not an upside down kiss in the rain, but an urgent, upside down kiss in the middle of a smoky combat situation has its own appeal... clearly. A soft sound escapes from Ghost-Spider, even as shouts start to rise up from deeper in the warehouse, Rustborn thugs encouraging each other to 'go check' and 'get in position.' It's almost lost on her... almost.

"It's a date. I'll hold you to that. Or.. maybe vice-versa."

Gwen's lips twist into a lopsided smile at his final words, though she's clearly still happy to let him run point on this operation. It's worked out well so far, after all. "Yes, sir."

As soon as Dick pulls away, whirls away, Ghost-Spider pulls her mask back down around her neck again and lets out a soft, wistful sigh, shooting a web-line up into the top of the building and swinging from the bank of fog to the darkened rafters.

It has its intended effect.

"There it is!" one of them shouts before opening fire. The sound is deafening, but it does seem to have drawn the attention of all of the remaining thugs.

"Do you just call me an _it_?" Gwen's youthful soprano taunts from the darkness once the gunfire has subsided, echoing like a wraith's in the vast warehouse.

More gunfire erupts immediately, and when it subsides again, Gwen's voice rises from a different part of the rafters. "You know, all you guys are doing is turning your roof into swiss cheese. This is why we can't have nice things."

"She's over there!"
"I think I see her!"
"Where the bat?!"

"_Bird_, ding-dong. God, you guys really suck at respecting people's identities," Ghost-Spider says, closer to that last one than he'd expected, obviously. He screams when he wheels around and sees her clinging to a metal support beam. With a *thwip* of a webbing, she knocks the rifle out of his hand, and with a second web-line, she grabs his ankles and yanks him up to her. There's a dull thud as he hits his head on the ground on the way by, and some soft *thwips* as she secures him to the beam, then goes back up into the darkness.

Dick Grayson has posed:
One certainly isn't likely to catch Nightwing complaining about said kiss. Indeed, it was pretty much everything anyone sensible could want in a kiss. Sure, the upside down kiss in the rain might have epic connotations. But it is also a good way to get water running right down your nose too which doesn't sound a whole lot of fun.

At the end of the day, all the really matters in Dick's mind though is the fact that it is Gwen that he is kissing.

That, and it is pretty good incentive to wrap things up early, to get back to the Lakehouse and out of the cold and wet. The evening has already been much more productive then they could have hoped really, with them being able to put a sizable dent into the Rustborn numbers and - with luck - recovering whatever it was that they were after in the first place.

Add to that a little needed stress relief after everything they - particularly Gwen - has been through over the past few days and really, they could ask for a whole lot more.

Really, the night has just begun.

While he should be bearing down, should be maintaining a certain serious demanor now that they are getting down to the grand finale of this little adventure, it is almost impossible to keep that grin from his face, and in the end Nightwing doesn't even try. He hears the thwip of that webbing hit the rafters overhead, he can practically sense Ghost-Spider hurling herself up there, drawing attention, taunting the handful of remaining thugs scattered about the warehouse.

She's given him an opening. And he's going to walk right through it and kick some ass.

That scattered gunfire, in addition to not really offering much of a threat to his partner and girlfriend, also gives away the shooter's positions, and Nightwing uses the cover of the crates to get in close, approaching a pair of them from behind as they scan the rafters above. With escrima sticks in both hands, he just jabs out, pressing the ends of those fighting sticks into the backs of his two targets as he depresses the hidden trigger in the haft of those weapons, fifty thousand volts of electricity coursing through those shafts, sending the pair into spasming convulsions before they drop to the floor, still twitching but not truly conscious. Certainly not in control of their limbs.

He might not have a Spider-Sense, but he has instincts, so even as those two drop, Nightwing is already whirling, arm extending as he hurls one of those sticks at the man rounding the corner of one of those crate stacks, his eyes barely having time to widen before the titanium weapon strikes him full on in the forehead, sending him crashing back into the crates, setting them to shaking as the loud, echoing boom fills the warehouse.

<< By my count there's only one more. Bring it home. >>

Gwen Stacy has posed:
It's really the first opportunity Ghost-Spider gotten to fully appreciate watching Nightwing work. From up in the darkened rafters, it's easy to get a bird's eye view (pun absolutely intended) of the whole affair -- the rust-streaked goons, the dissipating cloud of smoke, the way Nightwing works his way around them.

Sure, she could jump down there and help, but he doesn't _need_ help. And, frankly, it's really freaking impressive to watch someone without powers or genetic modifications do... all that. She'd already been in ballet for years by the point she was bitten by the spider, and she was a teenage girl. The amount of training required for a grown man to be that agile _and_ that strong...

...well, it reminds her that she still has a lot to talk to him about. A lot of life stories to hear. A lot of comfortable evenings sitting on the couch with a cup of tea and taking. Because he's not ruthless. He's not fighting out of hate. He's fighting -- he's down there risking his life -- maybe for the same reason she is... because if he doesn't, who else will? Someone less capable? Someone that would get themselves killed? Maybe no one?

It's easy to get lost in him, up here, especially as the Rustborn's attentions all start to turn away from the rafters and towards the sound of fighting...

But it does give her an easy opening, and as even as his call for her to 'bring it home' rings out inside her mask, she's lowering herself silently from the ceiling on a single web strand, upside down, her soles of her Chuck Taylors dragging along the webbing as she goes.

Foot by foot she slides down behind the last remaining guy, until she's close enough to reach out and tap his shoulder.

Which, she does. "Hey."

The guy screams, almost topples backwards over the catwalk railing, but Ghost-Spider reaches out and grabs his shirt to keep him from going over backwards.

"Easy!" she chides. "You're going to get yourself killed. Can you do me a huge favor and drop that? Otherwise I'm going to have to punch you in the face..."

The gun clatters to the floor.

"Nice. Awesome. So, here's what's going to happen..."

She raises a hand and covers his mouth with a web, then spins him around a couple of times, wrapping webbing around his arms and pinning them to his sides. A couple of carefully placed shots bind his ankles together.

"We're going to drop you off as a late Christmas present to GCPD with a note that explains where they can find the rest of your friends. _You_ are going to keep cooperating. Otherwise, the Ghost of Christmas Present is going to kick your ass. Are we good?"

There's some nodding, and Ghost-Spider's pink-rimmed eyelets smile.

"Good boy."

Dropping off that web-line, she dips slightly to scoop up the Rustborn and sling him over her shoulder, taking a few jogging steps down the catwalk and then leaping over to land lightly near the big front entrance.

The webbed up goon struggles a little, makes a few noises, but otherwise doesn't struggle too much. Who wouldn't, really? Some five-foot-nothing hundred-pound girl just picked him up and jumped off of a second story railing with him like he weighed nothing.

"Sorry I'm late," she announces, already walking towards the van outside. "I was picking up that last minute gift we talked about."

Dick Grayson has posed:
By now the smoke pellets that Nightwing liberally distributed about their field of battle have begun to dissipate, the combination of evening breeze and falling, wet snow doing a number on the veil of concealment that he laid down. But given that they no longer need it, it's fair to say that it did the job.

When Ghost-Spider strikes, when she lays into the last Rustborn standing, he takes his own moment to appreciate her approach. Yes, it might not be as ruthless or efficient as his Bat training would lend itself too, but it still gets the job done. Heck, in this case it convinces the man to more or less surrender himself. That's not a luxury that usually presents itself to the Bats.

While he could admittedly watch her all night long, the warehouse is not all that picturesque and the weather is not all that inviting, so trusting her to do what is necessary, Nightwing starts moving amongst the fallen, binding their hands with zip ties, frequently leaving them tied to posts or barrels or securing them by other means so they won't just wander off before they can be picked up.

So by the time that she emerges from the warehouse, through those last tendrils of mist that linger in the doorway, Nightwing has taken care of a lot of the cleanup, still in the process of binding the last couple of thugs, but otherwise more or less ready to do the necessary.

With her arrival, her declaration, he glances up with a grin, prompting a little grunt from the man he crouches on as he tugs those bindings tight, only then rising back up to his feet. "It's exactly what I wanted too," he gushes with an overabundance of exuberance, the corners of his mouth quirking in amusement. "Keep this up and you're totally going to spoil me for working with anyone else," he says, wagging a finger at her playfully before dipping his head in the direction of the van. "I figure we can take a peek inside, see if what they were after is still there. Then load up a few and drop the whole thing off at the nearest precinct, let the GCPD earn their keep on this case too," he suggests, reaching down and grabbing the two nearest Rustborn by the collars of their jackets, beginning to haul them bodily across the cold, slushy ground towards the rear of the waiting van.

Dropping them by the back bumper, he doesn't bother going searching for keys and instead just pulls out lockpicks, rather casually unlocking the door - seems like someone would have made a pretty good thief if life had taken him in a different direction - finally getting access to the van.

Gwen Stacy has posed:
"That's the plan," Ghost-Spider says, eyelets grinning mischievously at his mention of spoiling him for anyone else. And while it's very much in answer to that specific statement, there's something possessive in her tone that hints at something much deeper.. and much more serious.

Leaning forward, she dumps the guy she's toting rather unceremoniously with the others and points to him with a white, gloved finger.

"Stay."

And in fact, she's barely managed to accomplish that before she looks up and Dick is already hauling the newly unlocked door open.

"Look at you, Bird Boy," Ghost-Spider muses, those eyelets widening. "You don't need to be able to lift a van when you can steal it. We apparently need to do this more often. I'm learning _so_ much about you. Any other 'special skills' I don't know about?"

That lilt is so warm, but it's also so playfully suggestive. It's also rhetorical, because without waiting for an answer, she leaps up into the back of the van and tilts some boxes.

"Gotham Medical Logistics. Same company as the truck that got hit on the bridge," she announces, moving a few to make some room. It's hard to tell how much they weigh. She just picks them up and re-stacks them like tissue boxes. Once they're piled to the ceiling, she webs them in place -- presumably to keep them from falling over while driving.

"I'll make some room in here for our friends, load them up, and web them to the crates. It'll be like gift wrapping," she muses. "And then, after we drop this off, maybe you and I can talk about ways to warm up..."

There's a groan from the guy she webbed up earlier, though his mouth is still held firmly closed.

"Hey! I don't need your judgement. It's not exactly like I get a lot of practice flirting. I'm too busy dealing with losers like you."

Shaking her head, she finishes webbing up the crates and jumps down out of the van, picking up one guy at a time and shoving him in.

"Everybody's a critic," she mutters.