6617/Pier Pressure: Follow-Up

Pier Pressure: Follow-Up
Date of Scene:	18 June 2021
Location:	A Bolthole in Chinatown
Synopsis:	Red Robin administers first aid to the gunshot wound Haunt received during their encounter with a smuggling ring on the Chinatown docks. What starts out for Red Robin as a subtle interrogation of an unknown hero gets turned on its head with a healthy dose of resurfacing emotional trauma to go along with it.
Cast of Characters:	Tim Drake, Nicolai Codona

---

Tim Drake has posed:
    The place on Gate Street turns out to be a tiny, run-down studio apartment above a dry cleaners. It's a brisk five minute walk down side-streets and alleyways, done silently (at least on Tim's part) so as to not draw attention. It's late, but not late enough that the streets are totally clear, so more than once they have to wait at a corner for someone to pass.

    Of course, they don't walk in the front door. They access the apartment via the fire escape, which Red Robin has to jump up onto a dumpster to pull down, but then it's a simple matter of climbing up and passing through a window that slides soundlessly once he's pried it open with the edge of a shuriken. "Make yourself at home," he says drily, gesturing to the twin bed shoved into the corner. Which makes up the grand majority of the apartment's furniture; the scant amount of counter space in the corner that qualifies as a kitchen is bare except for a thoroughly sketchy-looking stovetop.

    He takes the literal three steps necessary to walk into the cramped bathroom and bends down to get a mouthful of water from the faucet, swishes it, and then spits out red. A brief moment of tonguing at his teeth confirms that none of them are loose, and then Red Robin crouches down to open the cabinets under the sink. "Do you really just need to crash for a while, or would it be a good idea for me to stitch you up?" he asks as he pulls out a nondescript black bag, which he returns to drop on the end of the mattress.

Nicolai Codona has posed:
    To his credit, Nicolai keeps up well enough and never once complains despite having been pounded on and shot. He even makes it up the fire escape on his own with relative ease all things considered.
    But once inside, it's abundantly clear that he's a little worse for wear. He's sweating and pale - not quite as pale as when he's 'Haunt' mind.
    He soft of flops down on the bed without a car to the run-down condition of the place. He may have been raised in a castle in the Transylvanian country side, but he's from Romanian. This would be considered nice digs in most cities there.
    "I guess stopping the leak might be good before sleep happens," he admits. "But I can do it myself."

Tim Drake has posed:
    There's a closet door that's wedged shut, and Red Robin takes a moment to throw his weight into wrenching it open. Which also wrenches his side, and he breathes in deep once through his nose and presses the flat of his palm against his ribs for a second before he nods. His mouth is thinned into a straight line. "By 'do it yourself' do you mean some sort of," and he hazards a glance over his shoulder back at Nicolai, lenses narrowing, "Ectoplasm-gluing it shut? Or are you another of the multitude of people in this city with a martyr complex who insists on doing their own stitches?"

    It seems for the moment Red Robin is assuming that the former isn't the case, and if it's the later he doesn't seem to care at all, because he pulls a folding chair out of the closet, snaps it open and sets it down in front of Nicolai. "Do local anesthetics work on you? Do you have any known allergies to medications? Any other biological quirks I should be aware of?" He dips back into the bathroom briefly to strip off his gauntlets and scrub his hands.

Nicolai Codona has posed:
    "It's really not a martyr complex," Nicolai replies along with a little quirk of his lips into a barely there smile. "It's... more of a loner complex? I've always done this alone, so I managed my own shit whenever possible. But if you wanna practice your sewing skills, far be it from me to stop you."
    To make the job easier, he gingerly strips off his ruined shirt and tosses it aside. He has some bruising around his left side as well, but it wouldn't look nearly as bad if it didn't stand out due to the fact that the 'blood' pooling beneath the skin is that same glowing green.
    "Also, I really didn't go looking for a fight tonight. I just went wandering... I guess exploring. I haven't been in town long, barely a month." For whatever reason, he feels the need to get the point across that he's not some irresponsible idiot. "...I'm ... visiting from Romania," the accent was a dead giveaway, slight as it is, as to the fact that he's not American.

Tim Drake has posed:
    Red Robin gives a barely there bob of his head at Nicolai's clarification. "Another thing that's not in short supply in Gotham," he adds as he returns from the bathroom and drops down onto the chair, tugging the bag close. Once unzipped it yields a box of gloves that he tears open, clearly never been used before, and in short order Red Robin is snapping a pair on. "These are vinyl, in case you're allergic to latex."

    When Nicolai removes his shirt, Red Robin looks up just long enough to cast an appraising look across his torso, and then it's back to unpacking medical supplies. Everything is laid out in a methodical way on the bed next to Nicolai, sterile-wrapped forceps and packets of gauze and the like. "Good news for you is, I'm one of those martyr-types, so I don't need to practice. I've done this enough times to myself with my arms bent at odd angles that it's pretty easy to do it to someone else," he says, and then scoots his chair forward as he rips open a non-alcoholic wipe.

    "Come on," he says. "Let me take a look, see how bad it is."

    A few moments of careful dabbing at the wound--more than once trading out for a clean wipe, the others temporarily discarded on the floor--follows, Red Robin's head tilted slightly, focus intent. "Gotham isn't the type of city you should explore at night." The corners of his lips twitch. "Even for someone with superpowers. Maybe especially for someone with superpowers."

Nicolai Codona has posed:
    Nicolai gets to the other medical questions first. "No allergies and ... medications, most of them, work in larger doses. Takes more to get me drunk for example." He definitely doesn't seem to be afraid to share. "Transfusions, of course, are out of the question so I do *try* not to get myself in too deep."
    All the poking and prodding and examination of the wound doesn't seem to phase him much. Sure there's a little hiss here and there, but overall, he takes it in stride. He's definitely used to this.
    ...easy going, that seems to just about sum the guy up.
    "I'm from Romania. After I left home, I set up shop in Craivoa. It may not be as big as your Gotham, but trust me when I say it is just as dangerous. It's good to have the lay of the land in a new place though, yes?"
    He studies Tim for a moment before he asks, innocently, "So, the masks, why?"

Tim Drake has posed:
    Though Red Robin is no slouch when it comes to first aid knowledge, there is a limit to what he can handle. Thankfully, as far as he can tell, Nicolai's injury isn't too concerning. "You're lucky. Through and through, looks like a soft tissue injury only," he says, standing once to lean over and inspect the exit wound before he returns to the chair.

    A quick swap for clean gloves, and then Red Robin rips open a preloaded syringe of lidocaine. "This will probably only take the edge off, but it's better than nothing." His hands are steady as he floods area immediately around the gunshot wound with anesthetic with a few quick injections, then stands again to repeat the process on the opposite side of Nicolai's torso.

    "I thought you were just visiting?" he asks. "Why the need for recon?"

    While he talks, he tears open a couple packets of gauze. He hovers for a moment, to give the anesthetic a chance to work. And then, "I'll try to be gentle. Sorry." He works to pack the wound as efficiently as he can without putting too much pressure, and it's a fine line that he's straddling there, trying not to cause undue pain without compromising the wound care itself.

    Then he looks up. "I prefer to keep a clear demarcation between my private life and my," his lips twist into an amused smile, "Extracurricular activities?"

Nicolai Codona has posed:
    "Yeah, I knew it wasn't so bad."
    Nicolai does fall silent through the injections. Those things sting enough that they making conversing through them a little tough, so he doesn't even try.
    When they kick in, it's smooth sailing. Seriously, the residual pain, the stuff the anesthetic doesn't touch, it's nothing in the grand scheme of injuries he's suffered.
    "If I'm being perfectly honest with myself," he begins, his voice a little softer and reflective. "I guess I'm not one hundred percent sure that I'll be returning home for good. Part of me feels I shouldn't leave Craiova... but part of me feels there's nothing but sadness left there since my father was killed." Definitely, he's definitely not afraid of sharing details.
    "I suppose I've never thought about it. There were a few at home that made the connection between me and 'Haunt', but not many. As I'm sure you saw, the two of us look a bit different. Not many seem to pay enough attention when he comes out to play to connect the dots." Because 'Haunt' is one scary son of a bitch even when he's just *standing* there. Creeeeepy.

Tim Drake has posed:
    Once he gets the wound packed, Red Robin holds his hand against Nicolai's shoulder to help slow the bleeding. There's no outward show of emotion when the conversation shifts to the topic of dead (murdered) parents, but he looks away, staring at the wall for a moment. Why the mask has a much more complex answer than he's given, but either way he's grateful for it right now.

    Some things will always sting, no matter how long it's been.

    "And you couldn't have picked somewhere nicer to land than Gotham? The weather in southern California this time of year is amazing, you know." But Red Robin can maybe understand why Nicolai would pick somewhere that's similar, if the comparison he'd made between it and Craivoa is valid, so he cedes the point with a tip of his head.

    He's still putting pressure on the wound, which means he's looking over his outstretched arm at Nicolai. The cut on his lip has scabbed over, but he still can't get rid of the taste of copper in his mouth. "He's... some kind of alternate personality?" Red Robin asks, uncertain. "Either way, though, I wouldn't trust willful ignorance to protect you from long, not in this city."

Nicolai Codona has posed:
    "Well, I actually landed in New York, but the rosin I like for my violin bow was only available in a shop in Chinatown." Even through a mask, the thousand yard stare is unmistakable "I'm sorry," Nicolai murmurs, but he leaves that at that, just a simple and sincere remark that needs no follow up on either end.
    "I followed my father's killer here," he explains further, his tone a little detached from the situation. It's still too fresh, the wound just as open as the one in his shoulder. He has to detach from it a bit. "But that business is finished now." Tim can likely guess what the man means by 'finished'.
    "No, no, not so much alternate but... sideways? Whenever I use any of my powers, I belong more to the other plane than this one, to the Astral plane. It causes my physical form to take on the appearance of my astral form." He always finds it a little difficult to explain in a way that 'normal' people will understand but he tries. "I... live in both and most of what I can do seems to be pulled from that side."

Tim Drake has posed:
    One sharp nod is all the response Nicolai gets for his commiserating apology. Red Robin doesn't ask for further information on Nicolai's target, but he's filing all of this information away for later perusal. Given everything that's been shared so far, he feels reasonably confident he can dig up most of Nicolai's past using his own methods.

    It's easier than asking in more ways than one, probably for the both of them, and even Tim can admit he's a bit emotionally stunted in this area.

    "My knowledge of cosmological physics is pretty theoretical but I think I understand. Sort of like... phase shifting?" That's maybe too much of his engineering background bleeding through, but it's the frame of reference Red Robin has for this sort of discussion.

    He takes a breath and carefully peels back the top-most layer of gauze. A moment of inspection, and then he nods. "I think I can put a bandage on this now, and then you can get some rest. Nobody will bother you here, so you can stay as long as you need until you've recovered." Then he does as he says, swapping gauze for a sterile bandage after a quick application of antibiotic ointment ("Can you even get infections?" he asks, already mid-task) before leaning back to strip off his gloves. His side twinges but he doesn't say anything, just stands and starts to clean up.

Nicolai Codona has posed:
    Nicolai's knowledge of cosmological physics is exactly zero. Is that what he does? Hell, he doesn't know! He just does it. "Uh... yeah, I guess?"
    He falls silent through the rest of the leak fixing other than to say, "I've never had one."
    Tim, being as perceptive a man as he is, may notice that Nicolai keeps glancing off into a corner of the room. Sometimes his gaze lingers long enough to make it really seem strange and once he even shakes his head ever ever so slightly as if in answer to a question.
    Finally he presses his index finger and thumb into the corners of his eyes and lets out a deep, weighted sigh.
    "There's a woman here..." The announcement is made in a soft, barely there, almost tentative voice, not at all like the confident, forward man he's shown himself to be thus far. "...another one of my gifts," because he mostly considers them gifts, mostly... most of the time... but sometimes it's just a pain in the ass. "...allow me to see the dead should they be hanging about."

Tim Drake has posed:
    Another mystery for another day, then. Red Robin could probably find someone through the superhero grapevine that could help Nicolai figure out the nature of his abilities, but that would be presumptive to offer now. So all he does is shrug lightly.

    "Well, here," Red Robin says, and presses a blister pack of pills into Nicolai's hand. "If you get a fever or you notice signs of infection at the wound site--take the full round of these. Amoxicillin, every 12 hours, with food." Then he's on the move, bundling all of the medical waste (including a small disposable sharps container) into a trash bag, which he leaves in the bathroom for now.

    He's watching Nicolai as he does it, never overtly, but the weight of his gaze is always there. And he does notice. Of course he does. When Nicolai explains, despite knowing that he won't see anything, Red Robin pauses and turns, slow and dramatic as if he's trapped in a horror movie, to look into the corner. Where there is nothing, at least not that he can see.

    Generally he's a pretty steady guy, but something that Tim can't see, can't anticipate, can't defend himself against? Well, it's enough to have him blow out a quick breath of relief. "Did someone die in this apartment?" he asks.

    There hadn't been any suspicious stains when he'd passed over a handful of unmarked bills to claim this as a long-term apartment, but this is Gotham, after all.

Nicolai Codona has posed:
    "No." Quiet, but certain this time. His hand wraps tightly around the offered pills, fist clenched enough that the blister pack will likely leave little marks in his palm. "She wants *you* to know that she's here." This is where it always gets awkward. Always, this is where people either break down in tears or tell him he's full of shit and toss him out on his ear. But when they're so desperate, he simply can't ignore them. "... and that she loves you and she's so very proud of you."
    He pauses and just waits for it, the tears or the outrage and denial or both.

Tim Drake has posed:
    Somehow he knows, immediately. Nicolai says it isn't someone who died in this apartment and Tim knows, sudden and visceral, exactly who it is. He's got a hell of a poker face though--especially with the mask--so he says nothing, shows nothing, just goes eerily still.

    Something all the Bats can do to one degree or another, and Red Robin is nothing if not the type to copy his mentor as best he can.

    Nicolai continues, and at his sides Tim's hands clench once into fists and then release. He bites down on his lower lip and doesn't even feel the sting of his cut reopening. "Does she?" he asks, though by the tone of his voice he's not actually asking a question, not one he's looking to be answered. "She didn't know. Before--she didn't find out before she--." He stops. A huge gust of breath exits his lungs, and then he nods once, sharply. "Thank you."

    And then that's it. He takes the snarl of emotions, the thoughts screaming in his head, takes it all and he shoves it deep deep deep down into his chest where it can fester along with all of the other things he isn't allowed to acknowledge about himself. Red Robin zips up the first aid kit and takes it back into the bathroom so that he can wash his hands again and put his gauntlets back on.

Nicolai Codona has posed:
    Through packing and fixing that leak, Nicolai was the picture of stoicism. But suddenly he sucks in a gasping breath that sounds pained. His head rocks back, his back arches... and he's Haunt - pale as death, red eyed and as cold to the touch as the air around him becomes.
    ... yet Tim will *feel* a warm hand on his cheek. It's not Nicolai's, his hands are clenched into fists at his sides. It's there, it feels so *real*, a thumb gently stroking over Tim's cheek as if wiping away an invisible tear and then, as quickly as it began it's just over.
    That breath is finally exhaled in a woooosh of air. He's Nicolai again and he's slumping forward as if he might fall flat on his face on the floor.

Tim Drake has posed:
    Tim's still stood at the sink when it happens. Head tilted down, hair swept over his forehead, nearly in his eyes. He's looking at his hands, checking the snaps on his gauntlets, but he hears the gasp and he turns.

    It's clear he isn't expecting Nicolai's change, and he takes a half-step forward before he feels it. Again he goes still, hands hanging at his sides for the, what, three or four seconds he can feel pressure against his cheek?

    And then it's gone.

    His mouth drops open and he starts to say something, shaping the following vowel, but instead he lets out a strangled noise. He can't think about it, not here, not while he has this uniform on and definitely not while someone else is in the room. So Red Robin does what comes easily to him now and represses it. He crosses over to the bed and puts a hand on Nicolai's shoulder, holding him up and steady, maybe even trying to encourage him to lay down. "You need to rest," he says. "Come on. You'll feel better in the morning."

    He's calm, but his voice has gone flat, thick like he's got something stuck in the back of his throat. But he's fine. He's fine. He's fine.

Nicolai Codona has posed:
    Nicolai is an empathetic man. One can't deal with the restless dead on a regular basis like he does, pass on their messages like he does, and not be an empathetic person. He knows that pain and the denial of said pain. Normally he'd try his very best to help.
    ...but this isn't normally. It isn't often that they can cause him harm and it's not like Tim's mother meant to cause Nicolai harm. She was just so desperate to get through to her son, that she leeched from the one source of energy that she could in order to do so.
    It doesn't take much coaxing to get him to lay down. ...and as soon as he's down, he's out. He was almost out before he was down.

Tim Drake has posed:
    It likely comes as no surprise that Red Robin isn't there whenever Nicolai wakes. The place is pristine: the trash has been taken out, the surfaces have been wiped down, and Nicolai is tucked carefully under the covers, the thin curtains pulled over the curtain to block out what little light they can.

    In fact, the only sign of his presence at all is on the seat of the folded chair, still sitting next to the bed. The blister pack of antiobiotics, two bottles of lukewarm water, a protein bar and then a greasy paper bag that has two foil-wrapped breakfast burritos and a disposable ice pack so that they don't go bad. Lucky for Nicolai, the apartment comes with a tiny but working microwave.

    And a phone. It doesn't have any visible logos to mark its manufacturer and it doesn't really look quite like anything on the market right now, though it's similarly sleek and modern as any other phone might be. The screen unlocks with a press of Nicolai's thumb and it has most of the standard features one would expect: it can make phone calls, receive texts, surf the web, etc. Nothing unexpected except the single app icon on the home screen featuring a stylized O in shades of yellow and orange, but when it's opened it asks for login information that Nicolai doesn't have at present.

    There is, however, a single text from an unlisted number: "Lock the door when you go out, please."