9223/Different times

Different times
Date of Scene:	22 December 2021
Location:	Burnley - Bleake Island
Synopsis:	A bar fight in Gotham. How cliche. A fully armoured knight in a bar fight in gotham? LESS CLICHE!
Cast of Characters:	Cassandra Cain, Dane Whitman

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Cassandra Cain has posed:
The night is quiet. Nothing amiss, people walk the streets of Gotham assuming that it could go badly at any moment. It's a place where quiet is often shattered.

Shattered.

SHATTERED.

The first person to fly through the jazz club's window is black and beautiful, or was before his face hit the glass. He lands in the street, trying to get back up, and manages to roll over so he won't drown in his own blood.

The next person to fly out is a biker of some sort. Leather jacket, chains. He lands heavily, his oversized body absorbing a lot. Then he's up again, staggering to his feet. He wants to go back in, where the fight rages. He seems uncertain, then rushes back into the club. Fight's on!

Dane Whitman has posed:
Dane Whitman was here for a change of pace. He had heard that the music scene of Gotham is in a league of its own, and has not thus far been disappointed. The only problem is...

Dane is under orders to relax.

Nobody told him that Gotham isn't where you go for that. He has no complaints so far. He hasn't been to the really mean parts of the city to know how this place can be rowdier than most. Including New York where he oft resides.

When the fight broke out, Dane had been enjoying a glass of scotch and watching the band. He had no idea what started it, but when people got to running at the shattering of glass, he decided he needed to follow the crowd...at least for a moment! A big shape looms in the midst of several suits, one he can't see distinctly save that it's holding its own! Who is fighting who? He's not sure...

But the lights dim and flicker when he ducks inside the restroom.

And out walks a knight in somber raiment. There is nothing batlike about this one either.

Cassandra Cain has posed:
It doesn't appear to be anyone specific. The group simply exploded into violence, there was no noticeable trigger moment or anything to pin down. Which is why it feels so surreal; nothing happened, yet suddenly everything his happening. There are chairs being thrown, which is odd since they were bolted to the floor, and people getting badly hurt. One even sees the knight and backs away, while others do not.

A group of big guys grab another, throwing the guy in Dane's general direction. The hapless victim is airborne for a good second before the potential impact. He's a fairly decent-sized guy, who probably did something to deserve this treatment.

But the thing that would really get Dane's attention, bypassing the person being chucked in his direction, would be the chill in the air. Like something just passed by. And a glance at the window would show someone standing there who wasn't a moment before. Smallish, dark. Hooded. Terrifying.

Dane Whitman has posed:
The man thrown in Dane's direction is sidestepped with an ease belying the mass of genuine plate armor over actual chain. Somehow there isn't even the expected rattle or scrape as he then advances on the group. Only the heavy footfalls of boots against marble floor.

That warblade at his hip stays, these people aren't worthy of being dispatched thus, but otherwise watching the advance of the gold trimmed obsidian figure might conjure to mind a ghostly fanfare of trumpets along the walls of a far away fortress. The crimson warbird encircled round on his breastplate bobbing with this stride.

A raspy voice issues metallic through the faceplate obscuring his features,"Get thee gone."

The one warning before the armored stranger gets to work snatching the closest first, his armor more than equal to the task of stopping ordinary gunfire or metal chairs. Fists reinforced with articulated steel...

Cassandra Cain has posed:
The figure in the broken window is there, then not there. Five more people come in from outside, joining the melee, and nobody sees what it was. And as the man in armor grabs up a human, simple, stupid, he sees something over the person's shoulder.

Not the guy's fist, that would do no good against him anyway. That's happening, but it hardly matters. He sees chaos. He sees weapons.

He sees a black figure reach out from a shadow, grab a person, and then both of them are gone. Then a motion from that shadow, to the right. Fast, silent. But right in his vision. It wants him to see it.

Dane Whitman has posed:
Brows furrow 'neath the helm of that dour stranger. The foolhardy toughs rushing at him find one by one that their skulls are not equal to the mailed fists of a knight of old. No, they're used to the fists of a very different sort of knight local to these parts whose methods are perhaps more refined.

He notices that figure in the windows, for how could he not? To one who is trained to fight thus, the eyesight through a visored helm is not so restricted as one might expect. It's less about eyesight, and more about balancing the loss against the other senses. This isn't a concept unique to the east, it turns out...

"Who the hell are you?!" Demands one of the goons...

"Se Cnichte Blaec," snarls the knight in sinister reply as he grabs him roughly, ragdolling his head into his helmet before tossing him at the window that he just saw figures disappearing through...

He is the Black Knight.

Cassandra Cain has posed:
And she is the Black Rogue. She is nothingness, she is diving behind cover that should not hide a person, and making it work. She is taking the people who are likely to be hurt and making them sleep. The ones who are innocent, placed behind the bar. The ones who are sick, or scared, beneath their own tables.

The ones who are stupid, she leaves for that 'guy' to take care of. Her eyes look at him from inside her hood. She saw him take down one, ready to leap on him if it became necessary. Oddly the man in black isn't really hurting them. If anything he's being...gentle? She doubts that the guys he's taking down would agree with her but it's still true.

She reaches out, taking the bartender down. He was about to hit someone, and it would have drawn attention to him. He's untrained, he'd get hurt.

That's when she sees someone try to shoot the guy in black.

"Evade!" A word, shouted from the darkness.

Dane Whitman has posed:
At the sharply delivered warning, Dane reacts with a swiftness that sends his fur lined cape fluttering round though not to dodge...

From his wrist springs an unexpected marvel more likely of science than eldritch make! Interjecting itself between he and the gunman is a shimmering of golden light taking the likeness of triangular shield. Indeed, an actual transluscent kite shield! The bullets fired impact the hardened light causing ripples in the air and a barely audible hiss. His eyes glance momentarily to where he heard the voice call from, then it's back to the task at hand...

Those warstompers will hammer into the earth rhythmically as he charges shield first at the gunman like a runaway train! Anyone in his path will get bowled aside as that shield of light is shown to be quite solid when it rams home and pins the man's shooter against his body...a prelude to the gunman getting pinned against the wall!

The Black Knight growls to the crowd,"See this man now...get thee gone lest ye follow his example..."

If he was gentle before, now he's not. That shield vanishes before he delivers a punch meant to pulverize ribs!

Cassandra Cain has posed:
It's the Batman.

It must be him. It's not Batman, I've seen him.

It's him. It's not him. It's someone else. It's something else. It's not, it is, it isn't. Voices. Words. People have stopped throwing things, stopped attacking. The Black Knight's move drew all the attention, all of it, all at once. Even hers.

She watches the gunman get dropped with one punch. She's seen, done, worse. He deserved it. She stands up behind someone who's tempted to try on the Knight, see if he's really that tough. The man before her slumps in her grip, her arm around his throat from behind.

She's visible a moment. She lets the Knight see her. His body language is so hard to get through his armour, but not impossible. Just difficult.

Dane Whitman has posed:
That armor is exceptionally well made for something so...anachronistic.

He really does have a flow to his movements. The movements of an experienced fighter. He's no ninja, he's thriving in the spotlight as it were. The fear he capitalizes on is not the fear of the unknown. He's a known quanity, one they can do nothing about.

And he wants them to KNOW IT.

The punched man will double down, removed from the fight and conscious as Dane stoops to pick up the pistol, again as if wearing nothing at all. But there is the subtlest scrape of metal on metal with that movement proving that it is indeed what it seems. The gun is dismantled in the space of moments then discarded as he looks directly at his silent and unexpected backup. Then to everyone else watching he snarls,"I SAID GO!"

Cassandra Cain has posed:
Not quite yet. One more person dares try, taking up a stool from the bar in his hands. He flexes huge arms, he rips the stool free. Then he launches himself at the Knight, stool over his head, beard a viking war cry all its own. Not counting the actual war cry.

He leaps, he brings it down at the Knight.

The shadow girl doesn't move. Not even her eyes. She was already watching him. She has no need to turn.

Dane Whitman has posed:
As a hand to hand fighter, the Black Knight is good compared to these peasants. He probably could have held his own in the suit he'd worn to enjoy the music, but he understands the value of anonymity. His specialty isn't mere fisticuffs however.

When the metal stool comes down, the Black Knight makes what he earnestly hopes is the last display this mob requires.

A sliver of light lashes out, and the chair falls to pieces around his feet.

The bearded man, now holding a pair of ineffectual metal tubes blinks in confusion. He hadn't hit anything. The seat of the chair lies beside Dane, having bounced harmlessly off of his helmet. From his hand is a three foot shaft of golden light burning bright, now pointed at the floor as his arms rest at his sides. He fixes the man with a stare for a moment longer, hoping that the point has sunk in...

Then it's boot to the chest, knocking the man back and to the floor!

Cassandra Cain has posed:
The city has a rule. If it's probably the Batman, you're allowed to run away. This isn't the Batman. Which nobody gives a crap about anymore, the light blade overruling logic.

One person starts to run. Then everyone still on their feet is joining him. People flash past, the rules for mobs allowing even the huge viking to flee without losing face.

The only one not moving is the shadow. She waits, allowing him a moment if he wishes to take it. She can't really read this one. So, since they've fought beside each other, he deserves a moment.

Dane Whitman has posed:
When the mob finally breaks, the Black Knight stands his ground and watches. There's no smile beneath that helmet. Either that would break his presented character, or he really doesn't appreciate that it came to this.

Or he does, but refuses to allow himself to revel in it.

When they're out the door or whatever chosen escape route, he dismisses the shaft of light with a barely audible click and returns it to its spot beneath his cape. A hero needs a cape, even outside of Gotham.

Peering at the stoic one standing more still than himself, he greets in more conventional parlance though the voice is slightly metallic through the faceplate and visor,"My appreciation for the assist. I am called the Black Knight."

Cassandra Cain has posed:
The chance to really look at her would reveal no super-outfit, nor armor. A hoodie, in the newer parlance. Pants, shoes. Nothing special? Far from it, as the knight's eyes spot hints of rigidity under the clothing. She's armored, just in the places that are necessary. She has no wish to advertise. And she has that look, those eyes that see through you.

She doesn't talk. It had to have been her who called out. Yet not now. She looks at his visor, and only his visor. She waits, motionless. If she parlances, she does not choose to do so yet.

Dane Whitman has posed:
The knight in somber raiment stares with the stillness of the very guardian of the gates from which he is descended. He knows that look, it's likely not too different from his own after having spent years in actual war with a proper sword in hand. It's hard not to kill once you've done it to live.

Hers might be harder having been born to it.

He's not a judge though. Eventually he offers,"As you wish."

Then marches forth in the wake of the crowd he just drove forth. A beating of wings and a shrill whinny announce the arrival of his ride from high overhead and descending gracefully...

Cassandra Cain has posed:
That's not what she'd wished. She frowns. She looks up and about as the sound happens, the horse arriving. Then...she gives the hint she's capable of.

She pulls back her own hood, exposing her face. That's all. Her hair is shoulder length, dark, and delicate. It's odd that she'd be so human looking under the hood.

Then the tiniest quirk to her right cheek suggests a smile.

Dane Whitman has posed:
The Black Knight doesn't read intent as well as most. He's a fighter, but he's no Gothamite. He didn't hail from any prestigious mentorship. Seeing her gesture, he turns as the winged horse causes a commotion of her own, cars screeching to a halt as pedestrians scramble...

And lifts his visor in the universal gesture of recognition from old. Dark brown eyes beneath a crown of almost black hair and lined with insomnia. More alert than most and likely cursed with mania...

But that's nothing unusual.

He returns the grin and lowers the golden visor with a sliding click before anyone manages to get a photo. Dane practically vaults onto the horse with practised grace, those powerful wings fluttering as the horse capers round proudly, hooves clopping as if he knows he's better than any batmobile!

Cassandra Cain has posed:
She waits for him to be gone, out of sight, before she moves. Then she takes a second to look around. A glance left, and another to the right. She looks behind her, even glances upward. Just making certain that she's alone.

Then, and only then, does she giggle and do a little jiggle-dance that shows how much she enjoyed that! She spins around on her toe, a pirouette that her dance instructor just taught her, and she laughs without words!

And then she turns, bouncing off in a very non-bat-like exit. Because she had fun, and has dance class later. How could a day get any better?

Nice guy tho.