325/Handling the Hand.

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Handling the Hand.
Date of Scene: 06 March 2020
Location: Chelsea - Miagani Island
Synopsis: Elektra and Batman trail a shipment of the Hand in Gotham. An unexpected, temporary alliance ensues.
Cast of Characters: Bruce Wayne, Elektra Natchios




Bruce Wayne has posed:
The footprints on the roof are a puzzle.

Not an insolvable one-- not by any means. They're bare smudges to most eyes. But to Batman, a wealth of knowledge. The Dark Knight is hunkered down in a low squat atop the warehouse's sloped roofs. There are multiple tracks ahead of him. Those other tracks are much less interesting. Males, five to tend of them, average weight and build, wearing track shoes.

The set he's examining, however, seem to pique his interest.

"Female," he mutters. The words are practically a subvocalization, audible only to him. "Five eight, give or take. Hundred and forty pounds." Gloved fingertips probe the depositional layers of dirt. "Running stride. Within the last... five minutes."

Only then does Batman activate the thermal cameras that feed into his white eyelenses, and zeroes in on the unique tread pattern. He breaks into a near-silent run across the metal rooftop, graceful and still as a shadow in the moonless Gotham night.

The Bat vaults high and grabs a metal post, uses it to swing higher and gain elevation. Near-invisible he engages in pursuit of his quarry-- the half-dozen men, and the woman chasing them.

The Hand is in Gotham. Things are complicated enough with Al Ghul's mad schemes; a full war of the ninja clans will only complicate things.

Batman approaches the edge of a construction quarry and settles into place atop a derelict lightpost. His cloak drapes around him, deleting his silhouette from view. A passer-by would think he's nothing more than a grotesque, statuary perched for decorative effect.

Below, the Hand's operatives mill about a pair of delivery trucks parked near a locked cargo container. Drugs. Guns, maybe.

Or worse.

Elektra Natchios has posed:
This was a mistake.

Elektra always had one rule when she came to Gotham, in and out. Do the job and slip away without attracting too much attention. But this was also different, the Hand having been taking advantage of the League's advances to attempt to take a foothold in Gotham as well and having sent for her to take point in a few assassinations.

Assassinations she had failed to go through. Getting soft? Hardly. Or at least hopefully not.

She jumps over the ledge of one of the buildings that nears the construction quarry, landing with barely any sound to her. She is dressed in her traditional garb, the black and red suit, a mask up to cover the lower half of her face, hair held up in a warrior's knot. The tell-tale Sais on the back of her sash.

She is watching those same operatives with interest, taking a moment to catch her breath after the running-up to get here.

Bruce Wayne has posed:
Batman's eyelenses narrow to intense slits of focus. Elektra Natchios. 'Elektra'. It says something about an assassin when they can get away with their given name as a mononym. Having a last name comes with complications. Threats to family members.

One only really gets away with that if one's family is no longer a factor.

Batman uses a grapnel to pull himself up from his position and land on a painter's dolly two stories up. A better vantage yet, and darker still. Hunkered down in a squat, peering through the rails, he's barely an inkstain spilled on shadow.

The Hand operatives seem to be enjoying momentary false confidence. A few even have masks off. There are perhaps two dozen of them milling around; most of them have a bare minimum of training. Ninja in name only. Designer track shoes and weapons that look like they were procured off Amazon.

At least three of them are true shinobi, though. Their attire is handwoven and bears more honest dyes. Weapons look well-worned and carried with a comfortable familiarity. The trio stand in a small triangle, separate from the group, and are having a huddled conversation under a catwalk. It's inaudibe at Elektra's current position.

The subordinates start unpacking crates from the cargo container. Military-grade hardware, almost certainly. Boxes meant for transporting machine guns and explosive projectiles. Nothing the Hand will do good with, for sure.

Elektra Natchios has posed:
There were those who argued that it was what had brought her to this life. The death of her family. Others that she had been doing this long before it had become a factor. But then again, there were always many rumors about her. Truth would probably be found somewhere in the middle, as usual.

Some motion catches through the corner of her eye and she glances up, a narrow of her gaze. She is definitely spending too long in Gotham, seeing shadows where they do not exist. She doesn't seem to detect Batman in the dark and to be honest her attention is on the Hand.

People she knew, or at least some. Specially the shinobi. And they might have to die tonight. No regrets, it was the path she had chosen. And she needed something they were supposedly smuggling here tonight.

She jumps up to another ledge to approach quietly the group of three, then climbs up railings to find a good vantage point. Not too far from where the hidden Batman is. Eyes are visible now, full of intent and clearly not on the same side as the rest of the Hand appear to be. No, they seem to be her target tonight.

She haunches down, hands sliding around the handles of her sais and she begins to draw them, very slowly, attempting to listen in to the group's huddled conversation.

Meanwhile the subordinates continue on their unboxing, no smiles, but they seem relaxed. Perhaps trusting that they are well protected tonight.

Bruce Wayne has posed:
"<...five million? You think they'll go for it?>" The conversation's held in stilted Japanese, muffled only slightly by silk masks.

"<Of course they will,>" scoffs another shinobi. "<Falcone's syndicate held the city with blackmail and extortion. We are doing no differently.>"

"<This seems a little crude,>" the third ventures. "<It lacks subtlety.>"

Though all three are nominally of the same rank, it's clear the others defer to the second shinobi who stands in a posture of arrogant confidence with his arms folded over his chest. "<It's Gotham,>" he scoffs. "<This city is so corrupt that corruption has no value anymore. Even mobsters have children. Families. Easier to hold a blade to the throat of a six year old than to embarass a billionaire with his infidelity.>"

The weapons are unloaded and then more crates removed. These, the shinobi themselves look into, opening each in turn. Ancient vases, antique statuary. Extremely valuable artifacts from Japan, and very likely smuggled illegally into the country on the same transport as the weapons caches.

"Box it all up. We'll deliver these to Iron Michael, then the rest to the lair," the shinobi commands.

"<Fucking gaijin pretenders,>" one of the Shinobi hisses. "<'Iron Michael'. Our recruitment standards grow too lax.>"

Elektra Natchios has posed:
Elektra had been there. Holding a blade near the throat of a young child just a few nights back in this same Gotham. Ready to do the Hand's bidding. But then she hadn't. What had changed? Perhaps she shouldn't had gone back to Hell's Kitchen ... It was never good to stir back old memories.

Yet hearing them talk about that told her they needed ending. And noticing those ancient artifacts meant she was right, there was her aim for being here tonight.

The sais come out, she holding them out to her sides and leans just over the ledge above the group of Shinobi. Take the head first, the others will topple.

She prepares herself to drop down in the middle of the group. A bit too confident perhaps!

A brief jump to a lower ledge and then she tosses herself down, sais at the ready, landing right between them.

Bruce Wayne has posed:
The shinobi are momentarily taken aback. Two recover fast enough; the third, the smallest, makes the fatal mistake of taking a defensive posture rather than preparing to fight. It is a trivial effort for Elektra to dispatch him, before his allies draw their weapons and lunge at her with a blurring attack. The Shinobi are well-trained and accustomed to working in tandem, and waste no time in pressing their violent assault against the Greek assassin!

"Fucking Gotham!" one of the Americans spits, and they start hurrying to toss whatever's in their hands into the back of the truck. One brave soul tries to lock the container. Others, seeking to preserve thier own skins, make a dash towards trucks and cars parked nearby to make a hastier escape.

Overlooking the quarry is a classically-dressed Hand operative, toting a modern military rifle. He's got it up and shouldered and is tracking Elektra in search of a clear shot.

A shadow envelops him. It moves on seconds later, leaving him rendered unconscious, and nursing a dislocated collarbone and with freshly applied zipties around his wrist.

Batman's cloak extends and he glides fifty feet overhead of the swirling melee. His cloak collapses at the last moment and he crashes to Earth atop the spines of two fleeing ninja, taking them both out of the fight.

And then he's off again.

Elektra Natchios has posed:
As Elektra suspected, take the head and the rest flee. Noone has the courage to face death in the eyes anymore. Or well, maybe she is being too harsh. These shinobi still do. Once the first one is dispatched she turns to the others, uttering a brief <Die> in japanese, a whisper full of murderous intent.

She pivots and rolls in a deadly dance with the two other shinobi, Sais a blur as they lunge back and forth to find an opening, blows parried and dodged and she doing the same against their wakizachis.

<You shouldn't be here> One of the operatives say. <The Hand will have your head>

Then Elektra's response. <And who will tell them?> a smirk under her mask and she goes back into the fray.

Meanwhile the fleeing thugs begin to run faster, some even stopping from going to their cars and instead attempting to just get out anyway they can. Panicked? They should be. One of them points up. "Who was that?" "We are in Gotham! Who do you think it is?" "We are doomed."

One of the men, perhaps with more spine than the others brings out his rifle. "Screw that. I am not going to be captured." voice on the verge of panic, he takes tentative shots out to the sky.

Meanwhile Elektra takes one of the operatives out with her sais, at the expense of a slice down her arm from the remaining one. She frowns.

Bruce Wayne has posed:
It's like shooting at a cloud. The bullets whip past quite harmlessly and disappear into the night sky. Batman pivots and whips a gas pellet with peerless accuracy at the shooter. The little explosive bursts and the gunman drops to his knees, coughing and hacking violently. Others nearby are exposed to the gas as well, and the iron discipline of The Hand yields to better living through chemistry.

One of the assassins dueling Elektra raises his blade overhead for a debilitating strike. He screams and staggers. Discipline enough not to drop his sword, but his guard lowers while he grabs at his calf and hops a limping pace away. A batarange with razor edges is buried deep in his vulnerable calf muscle.

"<Die, traitor!>" the last Shinobi roars, and presses his full attack at Elektra with a total disregard for his personal safety.

Elektra Natchios has posed:
<I will meet you there> Elektra replies in a low whisper. Full-on attacks are often deadly, that disregard for any kind of safety, knowing full well they will meet their end. Elektra can respect that, but she also takes advantage of that debilitating strike. She slides like a serpent to one side, the one that favors that weakened leg, moving under the shinobi's personal space and sliding her sai through the heart. An warrior's death. At least that much she can offer him, never mercy though.

She stands still now, blood sprayed across her armor, sais dripping blood along with her arm and she looking around slowly... Her targets are dead, one staggering thug still making their way against a crate but toppling over from the gas. Silence falls upon the scene.

She looks up into the night, searching, tense, perhaps unsure if an attack will be coming her way or not.

Bruce Wayne has posed:
"Natchios."

The Batman. He emerges from the shadows at her flank. Cowled, wrapped in his cape, he seems larger-than-life and yet misshapen at the same time. All that is visible is a grim-set mouth with a hint of stubble on his chin, and those eerily luminescent eyes that lack sclera or pupil.

It's easy to recognize a sudden gut-level feeling of dread; that sensation of someone stepping on the grave.

"<You're a long way from Japan. This is Gotham. I don't like clan duels in my city,>" Batman informs her. His tone isn't just somber; it lacks inflection of any sort. Gravelly, a rasp, a thing that sounds more sepulchural than human.

Eyes fix on Elektra, demanding an explanation.

Elektra Natchios has posed:
Most normally go with her first name. Of course that it had to be the Natchios one, closer to home. Her gloved hands tighten about the leather of her Sais and she turns her head just so to look at the emerging Batman. No attack yet but she knows she must be careful with what she says. She probably wouldn't be able to beat Batman at her peak and she isn't exactly going through the best of times now.

Not that she will look fearful, instead cautious, predator looking on predator and gauging intention.

"Batman." a slight nod of her head, one of respect rarely given to others, and perhaps one of thanks as well "There won't be any further duels. The Hand has lost it's grip here." a gesture towards the fallen shinobi. "I do hear you have been having troubles with other groups. A certain league." perhaps she has done more than hear.

Bruce Wayne has posed:
The polite nod is met with that empty white gaze. A subtle thinning of lips conveys Batman's irritation at the mention of the League of Assassins. Whether that's because of his entanglement with them or Elektra's knowledge thereof, though, is anyone's guess. He doesn't advance or retreat, though, wrapping shadows around him and making his outline even more indistinct and haphazard. It does nothing but push him deeper into the Uncanny Valley, something that's not quite human enough-- setting off those alarm bells of 'unnatural'.

"The Hand are like ants. You never see the hive. Just the foragers," he observes. The cowl pivots and he focuses on the scattered crates. Weapons, drugs. There's a twitch of his lips as if he's sniffing the air and he looks back at Elektra again.

"Refined langdang," Batman remarks. "Chinese black henbane. Powerful narcotic. Weapons, too. Not a good combination in Gotham. Means territorial control." The cowl pivots back to Elektra and his chin uplifts at her incrementally. "How did you find out about this meeting?"

Elektra Natchios has posed:
The cut on her arm doesn't seem to be bothering her too much, simply one more souvenir to add up to the others, a slow trail dripping down her bracers and towards the ground. Dark gaze continues to follow the cowled one, fully aware and attentive. To spring for the attack if need be. There have always been some she can't quite pinpoint intention, this man being one of them. "Depends on how deep you go. There is always one head behind it, or many."

Then finally her eyes straying to the fallen shinobi about her. "But in this case, ants." and some those she trained with, or even trained. It does make her wonder if one day it might be her in their place. But she quickly returns her thoughts to the present.

"They have something I want." Is her response about the meeting, if it doesn't exactly answer on -how- she figured out they were meeting here. The less she shows about her Hand connections, the better. "So I am here to collect." she starts pacing towards one of the crates, one of the last to be unloaded.

Bruce Wayne has posed:
Batman has an eerie way of walking. There's no gait to his step. It's like he's on wheels, somehow hunched in that cloak despite how tall he is. For lack of a better word he drifts towards the crates, often moving in the interims when Elektra's attention is not focused fully on him. Familiar tricks for a kunochi as expertly trained as Elektra, though few practionters of ninjutsu internalize the lessons as fully as Batman clearly has.

The Bat makes no motion to stop or intercept Elektra. Only the point of his chin indicates where his attention is; the sightless eyes behind that cowl are unblinking and impossible to read. Whatever Elektra's searching for, however, has piqued Batman's interest-- or the assassin herself has. Either way, it seems she won't be doing the unboxing without Gotham's unsleeping custodian overlooking it.

Elektra Natchios has posed:
Moving between gazes, the mysteriousness, the deceptions that nearly border the supernatural. Yes, someone knows their ninjutsu very, very well. Elektra keeps an eye on the cowled figure while she steps closer to her target, a closed crate. Smallish, at least compared to the others. She drops down to one knee, slipping her Sais underneath the lid to begin to slowly uncover it.

Yet Elektra knows her lessons well too, and one of those is misdirection, toss someone's attention elsewhere so as the focus is not on her. "Have you met him?" she asks in a muffled tone, that mask covering on how exactly her voice sounds like.

"The leader of the League here." She waits just a moment before popping up the crate lid, one dark eye visible over her shoulder while she watches the Bat.

Bruce Wayne has posed:
Batman's teeth are momentarily visible at Elektra's inquiry. A smile? A grimace? It disappears before it can be sussed out meaningfully, and he makes no response until her attention returns to the task at hand.

"League's like a matryoshka doll. You never see the real hand behind the Hand. Wheels within wheels. You're not the first person to prey on them. Seifu Sutikku has been fighting them for years. He doesn't even make a habit of hiding from them. He hasn't stopped them yet."

A beat. "Or your old boyfriend. Seen Daredevil lately?" Batman inquires of the assassin with a tone too convivial to be sincere-- or polite.

Elektra Natchios has posed:
The showing of teeth seems to be good enough answer for her, making Elektra's gaze dance over Batman's form as if she felt she somehow held some kind of upper hand on him. The crate creaks open once she brings her sais up, the lid sliding aside. Within there is a wrapped-up bundle, form resembling a shorter blade. Perhaps a wakizachi of some kind if one had to guess.

Though whatever feeling of upperhand is short-lived. The mention of Stick makes her shoulders tense. Clearly she knows that one well, as Batman most likely is aware. "Seems like you can also play this game. I have always wondered who trained you."

She reaches over to take the bundle with one hand, stopping at the mention of Daredevil. "Why? Are you trying to gauge your chances?" though the pause before she takes the bundle is telling.

Bruce Wayne has posed:
Batman just cocks a brow at Elektra. One can almost make out a reproachful look at her question-- if he had pupils, anyway. Instead of that infinite and unreadable whiteness beneath the hard lines of his cowl. "Only a few true grandmasters in the world, Natchios," Batman observes, electing to answer her rhetorical statement rather than the direct question. "Never too late to go back and start learning again." Whether that's sage wisdom or a jab at Elektra, though, is impossible to discern.

The point of his chin uplifts at the bundle as Elektra's fingers close on that. "You're risking an awful lot, taking that," he rasps at her. "You know who'll come after you. Not just the Hand. People would kill for it. Not just kill you. Kill anyone you ever knew and cared about. Why risk taking it?"

Elektra Natchios has posed:
"There is always that one grandmaster who stands out more than the others though." Elektra retorts just as her hand closes around the bundle, tight. She lifts it out of the crate, Sais away now.

"Yet the time for being a student is long gone for me." The harshness on her tone seems as if she took it as a jab. But then again she seems the type to always think the worse about everything.

Then she finally turns to look at Batman, "Noone will come after me if I kill them first." a sharpness to her tone, though she does look down at the bundle. A momentary pause, then she admits to the cowled one. "But this I am doing, is not only for me." a frown under the mask at talking more than she should.

Bruce Wayne has posed:
In that moment between looking down at the bundle and looking back up at Batman, he's ... gone. No fancy smokebombs, no clanking of a grapnel. Just a sidestep into the shadows and then, vanishing from sight. Only footprints remain where he'd been standing, devoid of tread or track.

Leaving only Elektra and her prize standing under the bleak, sparse lights of the construction site, and her words echoing hollowly off exposed rock and girden.

'not only for me', the wind whispers back, and then that too is gone, leaving only the sounds of the city beyond to countenance any more afterthoughts Elektra proposes to the night.

Elektra Natchios has posed:
Just as Elektra looks up after those words and finds the man gone she can't help but snort under her mask. "Yes, definitely a few grandmasters..." she murmurs.

But it's those last words that linger and stay on her mind. The admission that she isn't doing this only for her. Did she really think so?

Thoughts that will plague her all the way back to New York, the chaos that was wrought tonight sure to come bite her later. That much she was certain of.