2013.04.15 - Lesson One

Gotham is not known for smelling like daisies. And while in normal cities, rain brings the fresh scent of ozone and washes everything else away... it really just makes it a little more tolerable to be outside... if you're wearing something waterproof, as Speedy is. With her hood pulled up over her head, she watches the building across the street from a rooftop (because this /is/ Gotham), using the binocular-like function of her mask's lenses to get a close look before going in. It /looks/ quiet. If she plays this right, she should be able to get in and out of the mob hitman's penthouse without getting killed in some horrific way.

The building has been under another's surveillance for quite some time. But rather than watch in person, a CCTV camera inconspicuously fastened beneath a nearby smokestack. When you work alone you can't be everywhere, and so information must be gathered via other means. A half an hour ago the camera silently flicked off, the feed cutting out and the circuitry within frying itself. The small plume of smoke as the device self-destructs may have gone completely unnoticed in the rain and the miasma of the city.

Not far away, a figure moves across the rooftops swiftly towards the camera's location.

Speedy doesn't see the camera. But she does catch the movement out of the corner of her eye, and jolts, setting her lenses back to normal night-vision mode. "This one looks new," she murmurs to herself, and watches for a few more moments, trying to measure how much of a threat he might be. Curiosity wins over self-preservation, and she springs off the roofledge, onto a fire escape, and makes a few more parkour-esque leaps to quickly and quietly follow the stranger.

The man moving across the rooftops does not seem to notice his pursuer, not slowing down nor turning to regard her. He vaults over a narrow gap between buildings, keeping his pace as he lands and moves on to the rooftop just adjacent to that which Speedy was observing. He slows to a stop, reaching into his pocket to produce a clunky-looking cell phone and beginning to type in a number.

Damn it, Ollie went broke before they could invest in some of that sound-amplifying spy tech. That would be way, way safer than what she's doing now- sneaking, inching closer and closer to where he's stopped. The soles of her boots are soft and don't make much noise... but one step crunches just enough gravel to be heard. She freezes.

The Red Hood finishes typing in the number on the phone, though he does not lift it to his face as though he plans to make a call. In fact, he barely even moves when the crunch of gravel nearby gives away Speedy's position. He doesn't reach for his weapon nor move to evade her, merely standing there for a moment and then speaking.

“You're noisy,” he says, his voice modulated into something vaguely unsettling by the amplifier in his mask, “And obvious. You're a good marksman, but that won't help you if you're seen or heard while you're waiting for that shot, Mia.”

"Do I /know/ you?" she asks, sounding less /scared/ about his knowing her name, and more annoyed. She holds her bow, and slowly starts to reach for an arrow. Just in case he's someone these goons have hired for extra-deadly security.

“I doubt it,” answers the Hood, his hand a veritable blur as he draws the M1911 pistol from it's holster and levels it at her even as she reaches for her arrow, “And you never will if you don't keep your hands at your sides.”

He turns his attention towards the building they have both been surveiling, inclining his head towards it, “How long have you been watching the hitman for? Met his guilty little secret yet?”

She puts the arrow back into the quiver, and lowers the bow. "About an hour," she answers. "So far, it's been a whole lot of nothing- unless you count the maid stealing some spare change. I'm inclined to let her get away with it," she says, putting the bow over her shoulder, then holding her empty hands out.

“She could probably use it,” the Hood answers, lowering his own weapon and letting it rest upon the top of a nearby air duct, “She's working two jobs. But I'm not talking about her, I'm talking about the lord of the manor.”

He reaches into his jacket once again, this time producing a manilla folder which he tosses in Speedy's direction. He doesn't seem to have much care for whether it gets ruined by the rain, continuing to speak regardless of whether she moves to catch it or not.

“Take a look at those photos. But first, tell me what you were planning to do with this guy once you got him in your sights.”

"Tonight was recon only, unless something happend. Then, I'd have brought GA in," she responds. "There. I answered your questions- how 'bout you do the same? Who /are/ you?" Then, she frowns. "And how do you know my name? Is that /all/ you know?"

“And he'd have shot arrows through his ankles or his wrists and clicked his tongue at him and called him a fat cat and seen him off to jail,” the Red Hood practically growls this, his tone suddenly snappy and agitated. It only lasts a moment, however, and he soon regains his composure.

“Mia Dearden. Nineteen. Also known as Speedy. Big deal, right? I could probably get that just from following you home. Runaway. Your father's a real Class A scumbag. You gave prostitution a turn for a while before you decided it wasn't for you and cut your pimp up with a kitchen knife. Queen found you at a party plying your trade, took you in and taught you the family business. You're HIV positive. Have I missed anything?”

He shakes his head slightly, “I do my homework. Which is something I want you to do on the hitman here. Open the folder.”

She gives him a cold glare, suddenly feeling very small, with all her secrets dragged out into the open like that. Things some of her friends don't even know. Things he has no right to know. She takes a long, deep breath before opening the folder and looking at its contents. She'll punch him later, she assures herself.

The folders contents are gruesome. Photographic evidence that the hitman Speedy has been scouting does not limit his depravity to killing for money. Sordid photographs taken through windows and screen captures from covert video. Child prostitution. Human trafficking. Drugs. The man is a true monster. The Red Hood remains silent as he lets Mia get a good look at every single photograph in the collection.

“I want to ask you a question, Mia. Do you think this man deserves a stint in Blackgate? A stint that he'll probably avoid given how much the mob love him? That's assuming it even makes it to trial and they don't vanish him to Europe or South America until the heat dies down.”

Speedy has seen things like this before. She saw these sorts of things all the time as a kid. She'd thought she'd grown numb to them. A photo of the man beating a girl less than half his size makes her hands shake, and she drops the folder, taking a step back from it as if the paper burned her. "Fuck," she says, putting a hand over her face. She's good at keeping the panic at bay, but not so good at hiding how much effort it takes to do so. "Fuck you," she adds. "You could have just... told me." If he knew her past so well, he had to know what the pictures would do to her.

“Fuck you,” the Red Hood retorts, his voice flat and matter-of-fact, “If I'd just told you, would you have believed me? You should be mad, Mia. You should be fucking furious. You should want to watch this bastard hanging by a thread, look him in the eye and then cut the cord. This is human filth. There is no coming back from this. There is no amount of rehabilitation that Blackgate can provide. These are leeches.”

He looks down at the phone in his hand once again, contemplating it a minute and then looking back at her.

"I /do/ want to kill him. Believe me. But I won't," she says. "And he's definitely not the first person I've had that thought about." She shakes her head. This guy has her on edge; she's clenching and unclenching her fists, trying to figure out her best option. Kill the bad guy? No, definitely not. But... save the bad guy? She's not sure she can do that, either. She crosses her arms over her chest in a defensive, avoidant posture. "Why do you care? You can clearly take the guy out yourself- why the hard sell?"

“Because you're not lost like them,” he answers, still glancing at the phone in his hand as though it is some sort of treasure instead of a cheap disposable cell, “You can see the forest for the trees. You know what you should do and you're not so bound by some self-imposed code that you won't. I know you, Mia, whether you like it or not. You can make the call. You won't be a murderer, you won't kill them unless they deserve it ... “

He holds up the phone, showing a string of numbers on the screen, “I'm can kill him, yes. I will. You can try and stop me but you'll fail and he'll be dead anyway. This isn't about his fate. That's decided. He decided it for himself when he decided human decency was something he could live without.”

"If I can't stop you, fine. But I'm not killing anyone." It really shouldn't be this easy to /let/ someone commit murder. But after seeing those pictures, she's perhaps just a little too willing to accept that she can't stop him. "Do I at least get to know your name? Seems only fair. Otherwise, I'm just gonna call you Dickhead."

“Dick wouldn't be that fitting, considering,” he answers, quietly amused by his own in-joke, “Red Hood works. I'd prefer to keep the scales tipped in my favor for now. But I want you to know I'm not doing this to punish you. I didn't set out to make you suffer. I want to open your eyes. There /is/ good you can do, but the way you're doing it now … you're putting a band aid on a bullet wound.”

"I'd rather not be on their level," she says, and starts to walk away. "Can you at least wait til I'm gone to do this? I've seen people die, I don't like it."

“No,” the Red Hood answers, holding out the phone and finally pressing send, “I can't.”

The explosion is quick and contained. Whatever the explosive was, there wasn't a great deal of it. The floor itself is unharmed. The bedroom, where the victim had been sleeping, goes up in a sudden gout of flame that blows out the window. As quickly as it goes off, the building's fire extinguishers put it out. Small and to the point. The maid is still very much alive and kicking, shouting for help from the living room and fumbling with a telephone.

“We're not done here, Mia. You've got lessons to learn and this is the first. If you don't want to be on their level you can't be in the game. I'll be in touch.”