2014.03.25 - The New Guy

It is late night in Gotham and dark, but it is usually dark in Gotham City. The winter still hasn't given up all her grips on the city. A chill is in the air and the breath from Luke Cage puffs out in little bursts of steam. He has on a light jacket and a pair of jeans, but doesn't really seemed to bother by the chill. He is coming out of Thompkins Clinic carrying a box of supplies. He has been working with a similar clinic back in Harlem, and the two have worked out a partnership of sorts. Harlem had extra antibiotics while needing more antiseptic and bandages. Works out best for both. Luke is carrying the box under one arm as he comes down the steps to the street. He looks back and forth for a moment before beginning to head towards the bus station.

"Hey, man," calls a voice from one of the gloomy alleyways, "Where you goin' with all that stuff?"

A quartet of young men clad in gang colors sidle out of the night, three of them hanging back a few paces while their leader - a diminutive figure - lifts the hem of his t-shirt to reveal a pistol tucked into the waistband of his pants.

"How 'bout you hand that and your wallet over and we let you go?"

As those to emphasize the point, the other three men produce weapons of their own. Not pistols but knives and, in the case of one, a baseball bat wrapped in tape.

Luke just raises an eyebrow and regards first the leader for a moment. He looks down at the box in his arm and then back to the gang. Finally, he just shakes his head. "Sorry, man. I can't do that." He takes a few steps towards the group with casual ease. "Look, I've been where you guys are." His free hand reaches into his coat pocket. "Come by and we can get you out of the gang life. That way doesn't end well." He pauses and the somewhat kind demenor drops. "As you will look mighty silly with pistol holstered into a very uncomfortable place."

“Man, did you not hear what I said?”

The leader pulls the gun from the holster, holding it up level with Cage’s chest as the man starts to approach him. He even holds it sideways. Amateurish. The kind of thug who sees more gunplay in the movies than in real life.

“Drop the fuckin’ box and back up before I shoot you in your fuckin’ face!”

‘C’mon, Ty,’ the big man with the baseball bat enthuses, ‘Do it. He’s disrespecting you.’

‘Shoot him!’ insists another with a knife, glaring at Cage as though he’s personally offended him.

Luke Cage just shakes his head. "You think respect comes from the barrel of a gun." He reaches out as he steps closer and just puts his hand over the front of the weapon. He does nothing more than just cover the muzzle. "This stuff is for folks in need. Sick folks back home. Think you can get much for neosporin on the street? Give you one last chance, Tough Guy. Walk away." His voice is definitely not friendly any more as he speaks the last. If the punks are receptive to that, they may pick up.

“Man, fuck you!”

The lead punk pulls the trigger, only to find the pistol backfire in his hand. It turns out that ricochets off indestructible flesh right back into a full clip do not do wonders for a firearm. The thing basically explodes in his hands, sending up a gout of blood and leaving his fingers broken and splayed – some hanging from little more than a thread. The leader screams, staggering back shocked and holding his hand tight against a t-shirt that quickly soaks through with blood.

The big guy with the baseball bat strides forward, furious. He lifts it to bring it down upon Cage’s head, putting all his strength into it. One of his friends with a small switchblade lunges forward too, directing the blade at his newfound foe’s ribs.

The last ganger, however, takes a few steps back. Normal people don’t make guns explode with their hands. A little brighter than his compatriots, he backs up only for a loop of thin, black cord to descend from above. He barely gets out a started ‘Hey--!’ before it tightens around him and draws him swiftly upward, leaving his arms bound to his chest and dangling about fifteen feet in the air from a stony parapet.

The big guy who, until moments ago, had a baseball bat lunges at Cage with his bare hands. Some people never learn. Before he can get close, however, a figure swoops down from above.

His cape billows out about him, eclipsing the moon momentarily like the wings of his namesake. He lands behind the big man, a whirl of shadow as he drives a practiced fist into his kidney. The big man goes down hard, the pain blinding and debilitating. To seal the deal, the shadowy figure drives his knee down hard into his head. Sending him firmly into the realm of the unconscious.

The leader is taken care of next, an open-handed palm strike darting forward to catch him under his caterwauling jaw. He rises from his feet, hanging almost comically horizontal in the air before landing with a thud on his back and moving no more. The man with the knife, still reeling from Cage’s push, does the smart thing and turns tail to run. Or would. The shadowy figure produces something from his belt, swinging it above his head with a whir before hurling it at the fleeing man. The bolas tangle about the man’s ankles, sending him toppling to the ground with an ‘oof!’

When the chaos dies down, the light catches the figure. Batman. He turns his gaze sidelong to Cage, his mouth a grim line.

“Cage.”

"I'm going to go out on a limb and say I have met the Batman. Man, didn't think I would see you on my first trip to Gotham." Luke gives a soft chuckle and a shake of his head. "I almost feel important." He looks over the down, groaning, or incapicitated bad guys around them. "Even got a bit of local color. Think it was 'cause I was walking alone or because I forgot to pick up the visitor badge at the City Welcome Center?"

“Tyson Williams,” Batman answers, crouching down by the leader and binding his wrists deftly with a black cable tie as he nods his head, “Not known for his common sense. Tried to rob the Clinic four months back. He’s only been back on his feet a week.”

Nothing in the Batman’s voice suggests pity for the man with the now-mangled hand. He made his bed and now he’ll lie in it. He sets about binding up the big man as well, using two cable ties just to make certain.

“I was following you,” he states plainly, “This isn’t a coincidence.”

Luke raises an eyebrow. He doesn't look crazy about the fact that he was being followed and had no clue about it. "You do that a lot then? Follow folks bringing supplies to clinics? Don't you have some boy scout to harass as he helps some old lady across the street?" His voice takes on a challenging tone now as he obviously tenses. He looks at Tyson. "Going to be hard for that kid to ever hold a gun again which I suppose is good. Sure wish whoever taught these kids to hold it sideways like that would just be beaten. Such a stupid thing to do."

“He’s got another hand,” Batman almost growls, eyeing the smoldering remains of the firearm with a look of almost disgust.

He stands back up again once the ties are done with, drawing his cape about himself so that the only part of him easily discerned from the shadow are the gleaming, all-white eyes of his cowl.

“You’re new to the League. I wanted to be sure of you.”

He makes no apologies or excuses. Merely offering the facts.

"Yeah, the private sector isn't treating me like I was hoping it might. Got to do some good some where." Luke reaches down and picks up the broken blade of the knife. He shoves it through the flaps of the box he has in his other hand. Better to not leave that sort of thing laying around in this area. "Didn't think anyone in the League really knew who I was yet. Haven't gotten a chance to meet many of you guys after the initial orientation and all. By the way, love the Handbook. You write that?" The sarcasm and challenge are dripping from his words.

“If you don’t like it there are other operations,” Batman offers, though there’s nothing defensive about his tone. Again, merely facts.

“You’re Luke Cage. Born Carl Lucas. Harlem. Former street tough. Convicted of drug trafficking. Volunteered for cellular regeneration treatment trying to recreate the super soldier program.”

He’s done his homework, it seems. Who knows what government installation he stole into in order to find out about the super soldier thing.

“I know about you.”

"Not with the kind of impact you guys have. You ain't about just sitting in a tower and battling space gods. The League seems to be a little bit of every where. Might even have a chance to do some good among the people of Harlem and Gotham City." Cage does bristle though as Batman begins to rattle off his biography especially the parts that were supposed to be hidden now. "Did your library card tell you that my conviction was a set up? Would never do that crap."

“No,” Batman admits, “But I did some digging. One of your so-called friends set you up.”

He crouches by the unconscious leader, tending to his injured hand. He may beat punks like this senseless but he doesn’t let them die. He bandages up his wounds, setting everything in place with a field dressing that the ambulance can deal with when it arrives.

“I wouldn’t be speaking with you if I thought you were guilty. I’d be arranging to have your membership revoked. Nothing you’ve done seems to suggest that your change for the good wasn’t legitimate.”

"Appreciate that." Luke's stance and tone are still a bit on edge and it shows. "Not used to fellas knowing that much about me without at least some flowers or something." He is trying to calm down a bit now. "I take it you are like this with everyone? I'm not getting any kind of special scrutiny am I? Here I was hoping that I was hot stuff for a moment there." He sets down the box on the ground next to him and extends a hand out to Batman. "Well, even if you know already, my mamma still taught me some manners. Luke Cage. Feel free to just call me Cage or Luke. Either works."

“You can’t be too careful,” Batman answers flatly, not offering any explanation as to whether he does this with everyone or not.

He looks at the hand and for a moment it seems as though that’s all he’ll do. Then, contrary to the stony front he’s been putting up, he extends his own hand and shakes.

“Welcome aboard, Luke.”

"Thanks." Luke Cage shakes the hand of the Batman, looking the Caped Crusader in the eyes as much as the cowl will let him. He drops the hand and bends back over to pick up the box of supplies. "I've got to be getting these back over to Harlem. Guess I will see you around the club house."

There is no answer to Cage’s statement.

In the moment before he crouches down to grab the crate of supplies, Batman is standing there as stoic as ever. When he rises again with the box, however, the Dark Knight has gone. There’s no sound of his departure nor any sign that he was here save for the bound and unconscious thugs.

Welcome to the Justice League.