2014.04.11 - Myth To Reality

A pall seems to have fallen over Gotham as of late.

The Joker has been running amok. Two of its most prominent citizens were murdered in their hotel room. A gangland meeting in a South Gotham warehouse just two nights prior turned into a vicious bloodbath. On top of it all, the Dark Knight is nursing a number of injuries - not all of which are physical.

In Gotham's Bowery - the slums inhabited by the criminal element who would rather take than earn - he waits. Tonight's patrol covers less ground. A fractured rib means his usual circuit of several miles must be cut into quarters. Thankfully there are others to fill in for him. But still he leaves the Bowery for his own. He leaves Crime Alley for his own.

Spies go where spies must. And so there must be a good reason of some sort or other for the nondescript but heavily upgraded black SUV to be parked in the highly disreputable alley behind Hing Loon Chinese Restaurant in the dead of night, well after the kitchen has shut. A minute or two ticks by while Gotham's battered protector lurks nearby before a coppery-haired figure in a stark black suit slips through the metal fire door at the back of the restaurant.

Her heels click a sharp rhythm against the pavement, her chin tucked down a little as she looks left and right on her way towards her hastily parked vehicle. But, despite all her training, she neglects to look up.

Batman’s eyes narrow. Even as the facial recognition software in his cowl zeroes in on the agent’s face and makes an identification he knows her. He slips back imperceptibly from the edge, hoping to keep out of her vision as she steps from the back door of the restaurant to the the parked car.

‘’SHIELD,’’ he thinks to himself, ‘’Why?”

A moment later, a trio of men all similarly clad in clothes that seem to be hastily painted white on one side and black on the other step into the mouth of the alley. One whistles, the other idly lifts his shirt to reveal a pistol tucked into his belt.

“Nice car, lady,” the one in the middle calls out, “Too nice for you.”

Henrietta's just got the door open when she's hailed by the erstwhile leader of the parti-colored thug brigade. She pauses, looking him up and down with a sweep that takes in the weapon before flicking a gaze to each of his friends in turn, her expression a neutral semblance of mild confusion while she makes a quick assessment about who's likely to have more guns where and what other factors she might need to account for.

"Really?" She drawls in her British inflected voice. "I thought it was just the right amount of nice for me actually. And it has ample trunk space." She observes, ducking ever so slightly behind the door and drawing her beloved matte black H&K .45 compact from the holster beneath her jacket.

"Want a first hand look, ducks? I just had new plastic liners put in so you needn't worry about the mess you'll make..."

“Woah-oh-oh,” says the leader, holding up his hands, “She’s packin’.”

“Man, forget that,” the one with the gun answers, pulling his weapon from his belt, “Let’s just burn her and take the car. Boss’ll love a fancy ride like that.”

It seems the gun has done little to perturb them, though the leader seems to be holding back a few steps. The cool demeanor with which Henrietta meets them is disconcerting to say the least.

“Naw,” the leader says with a shake of his head, “Naw. I’m out.”

Then all hell breaks loose.

The man with the gun goes down first. A broad, heavy shadow seems to plummet from above and land squarely on his shoulders. He crumples like a rag doll, falling unconscious as his gun skitters across the pavement towards Etta. The leader, already turning to flee, lets out an almost comedic cry of panic as his legs vanish out from under him thanks to a sweeping leg that sends him dropping horizontally to the ground with an ‘oof!’

More visible now, the Dark Knight crouches under a pool of grimy light over the two prone thugs. The third does what is sensible and runs away from Batman. The not-so-sensible fact of the matter is that he’s trying to run right back Henrietta to get away.

She stops the skittering gun with the toe of her stiletto-shod foot entirely by reflex. Mostly because what is almost a run-of-the-mill scene in this regrettable day and age suddenly becomes... well, honestly, she's not sure, but something remarkable enough that she's dumbstruck enough to want to stand there and watch it unfold. One down in the beat of a heart. The second in four. She watches the urban legend manifest in front of her with slightly parted lips and an expression of wonder etched across her pale face.

...Which doesn't /entirely/ stop her from noting the guy running towards her, mind, but it is quite distracting. She waits until he's just about to blaze past her and opens the door wide, cracking him square across the brow with the upper edge of the door. Thank goodness for fully armored SHIELD SUVs.

He goes down like a proverbial sack of potatoes and then its... silent. Eerily silent, and oddly fitting for the tableaux set before her. She stands mute for a long stretch of seconds before it becomes unbearable and she says the very first thing that occurs to her.

"...Hullo."

Slowly, the Batman rises to his feet. His fists clenched at his sides. Already, the two downed goons seem to have had their hands bound at the smalls of their backs with cable ties. It’s a well-practiced art perfected over many years. Even as Henrietta was bringing down the third man, he’s made sure the other two go nowhere fast.

He strides across the alleyway, closing on her with purposeful intent. He is but a scant few feet away when he stops, crouching over the thug knocked out by the door and bringing his wrists together with another durable tie.

He lifts his eyes, looking at Henrietta as he does it and: “Agent Black.”

She gasps, audibly gasps at the sound of her name intoned in his gravelly voice. And where angry young men with guns barely ruffled a hair on her copper-blonde head, the sound of her name makes her edge a half step away from his crouched figure, like this had suddenly become a fairytale where such things had power beyond their normal ken.

A turn of her head slightly to one side has her eyeing him with narrowed eyes from a slightly different vantage before she says, "I didn't expect to be on a first name basis with a myth. Especially without introducing myself." This is clearly a concern, but just as clearly, she's not quite sure what to do about it. Though apparently nothing so foolhardy as pointing the gun clutched in her hand springs to mind. She purses her scarlet lips slightly in thought before muttering to herself, "How worrisome."

“It’s not,” Batman answers her muttered words, rising to his feet once more to stand opposite Henrietta, “You’re alright?”

He looks her over. He knows the thugs didn’t manage to land a blow but who knows what she’s been up to in the Bowery in the dead of the night. The lenses of his cowl perform a careful scan, looking for any sort of obvious injury.

The worst she sports at the moment is a few fading bruises and a lightly pulled ligament in her left shoulder, all days old and well on the mend at this point. It would seem to have been an uneventful night for her, the obvious exception aside. Though she does look, perhaps, ever so slightly irked at having her concerns dismissed so off-handedly.

"It bloody well is, in point of fact." She says a bit sharply. "You're not even real and you know my name. So /now/ I have to assume every questionable personage that I might otherwise have been interested in keeping tabs on has not only my name but a picture of me tacked up in their locker for easy reference, if for no other reason than they exist in the world where you, as far as I have previously been led to believe, do not." A moment's reflection causes her to consider that this is, perhaps, not the most polite way to thank someone for interceding on her behalf and so she adds in a moderately softer tone. "And... thank you, of course. For..."

She sort of makes a sweeping gesture with the gun to encompass the unconscious bodies littering the alley. That. Thanks for that.

“Put the gun away,” the Bat demands tersely. The last thing he needs is to get shot by accident, even if he does trust a SHIELD agent to handle a firearm.

“I exist. But I’m not every questionable personage. This is my City. I make a point to know the people in it. Whether for good or ill. You weren’t easy to identify.”

The last part is a lie, of course, but it needs to be. Only a false truth will aptly hide the real reason he knows who she is.

She looks quite testy for an instant despite the speech, though she obliges him by clicking the safety back on and sheathing the gun back in its holster. 'Alright then', seems to be just about where her mind is at just now. And so after she's acceded to his request she steps out from around the car door, careful not to trip over the prostrate form of the unconscious hooligan, and right into the bubble of his personal space.

When you read faces professionally, masks are tricky. But she's managed before, though she herself couldn't tell you how, and it's certainly worth a shot. Her chin tilted up she peers directly up into the veiled outline of his face, unrepentant in her study of him for a long moment. Whatever she sees is enough to dull the look of irritation, which fades into something thoughtful and slightly concerned. "Worry about you rather than me. I don't think I was ever in much trouble. But you... " Her brows furrow together slightly, and on impulse she reaches out to brush the tips of her fingers across his forearm. "Are you alright? You're in pain..."

"I'm fine."

The words come almost hastily, yanking his arm away as she touches him. Not afraid, necessarily, but wary. Should've just left, he thinks to himself, cursing his own curiosity. That little voice so often drowned out that told him he should let her know that it was Batman who swooped in. Though judging by the gun it may have very well been Batman saving these thugs from a few SHIELD-issue rounds to the midsection.

He takes a quick step back, the corner of his mouth ticking just slightly. The only mark of emotion that crosses the otherwise grim and impassive line of what can be seen of his face.

"Mm-hmm"

All the skepticism in the world might well be contained in those two nonverbal syllables, and whatever remains lingers in her expression as she looks back at him. And having run through alarm, concern, irritation and worry, she allows herself just the tiniest bit of curiosity at last. Her eyes run over him, gathering a wealth of minutiae that will almost certainly end up in a report later, though just at the moment she wants it for her own ends.

"Sorry." She says, sounding genuinely chastened now. "It's likely no way to repay a kindness, but... call it habit. Or default." She glances down at the unlikely sleeping beauty at her feet and asks, "Want to chuck these gentlemen in my trunk or will your fine law enforcement officers be by to collect them? I ask because I might otherwise have to run over the two at the end of the alley. And then there'd be paperwork."

Gallows humor, of course. But then he likely knows a thing or two about that.

The Dark Knight pauses a moment, bringing a finger up to the place on his cowl where his ear might be. He says nothing, simply standing impassively like a statue.

“The GCPD are on their way,” he announces, “If you want to be gone by the time they arrive, I’ll move them.”

Non-violent encounters with the Batman are few and far between. Those where he opts to be helpful in this fashion are even rarer. Still, he doesn’t wait for an answer and turns about to walk to the two unconscious men at the mouth of the alley. He crouches, lifting them both – each one’s collar clasped in one of his hands. He’s strong, that’s for certain.

He tosses the two men out of the way, sending them tumbling unceremoniously into a pile of neglected garbage cans.

“Go.”

Far be it for her to overstay her welcome.

She looks at him a long moment more before, as a parting gesture, kicking the abandoned gun in his direction. It skitters along the concrete till it bumps against his booted feet. But before she very belatedly slips behind the wheel she ventures a small but entirely genuine smile that has something of her initial wonder about it.

"Thank you."

And then she's in the car, the plated door closed behind her with a solid-sounding thunk. The engine comes on with a purr, the lights an instant later, rendering her just a silhouette there in the driver's seat. She takes one last look, knowing that she's unlikely to be afforded the view again. And then she puts the car in gear and rolls out of the alley, careful not to accidentally crush any errant bad guy limbs on her way.

“You’re welcome.”

Batman waits. He watches Henrietta go, catching the gun under his own booted foot as it slides towards him. He doesn’t steep to pick it up, instead leaving it there. The police will find it, no doubt, and want to run forensics on it.

He’s still standing there as the car rolls past, eyes never leaving the driver’s side as he watches it go past. Should she try to glimpse him in the rearview mirror, however, she will find he has already gone. Disappeared without a sound or a sign into the Gotham evening.