2012-10-14 Good Mark - Secrets Only Get in the Way

Late evening in the bar. The kind of crowd most people would cross the street to avoid, that's who finds solace here so late. The sort of people who want only to be left alone to go about their usually illicit lives. Most are quiet, though there's a trio of men at the far end of the bar, near the television. Two are big an burly, but one--one isn't. Dark hair, cut a few inches from the scalp, might have been tamed at some point, but not in the recent past. A scratchy few days' worth of beard is on his angular face, drawing more attention to his jade-green eyes. He wears a blue work shirt, buttoned but not tucked in, over which he wears a light windbreaker, with well-worn and scuffed-to-hell work boots. He, like his two companions, have more than a few bruises--the kind earned from fighting. The shorter man has the most, and there's still a dark mark around his neck where something was yanked off. They're chugging domestic beers from bottles and sitting on the mismatched stools, hunkering in that defeated sort of way. "Fucker came out'a nowhere, too..." says the shorter man, between the two burly men. "Fucking hell--then I get dumped here in Gotham by my so-called 'friends'..." A grunt, then he lifts his bottle. "Fucking hell," he mutters loudly, then takes a swig.

Helena Bertinelli hates this place. She has always hated this place. But, it's one of the few establishments in Gotham where she knows she can spend more than a little time and remain unnoticed. She's been trying to get a hold of Robin, and it's honestly worrying her that she's been unsuccessful. Hence, then alternate reason for hanging out here. This is a seedy enough joint that if she eavesdrops, she'll likely get a bead on the activities of some Bat or other. Hopefully. She's been nursing a beer hopefully at a pace that isn't obvious, and finally a snippet of conversation catches her attention. Without letting on in her facial expression, her focus zeros in on the speaker, and she abruptly realizes it's the dickbag from New York.

While there's no Bat to talk about, the jerkwad does seem to have a lot to say. His companions do help with that, though. "Still can't believe a skinny little runt like that could just appear out'a nowhere," says one of the larger men, shaking his head in utter disbelief before taking a swig of his beer. "No shit, right?" agrees the shorter man. You'd think he was one'a the god damned Bats or something--but this was Manhattan!" The other burly one speaks up net. "I still think it was one'a them super-types, like in disguise or something. Probably one'a them Justice Leaguers or something..." Dunno, but if he hadn't caught us by surprise, you know we'd've cleaned his fucking clock." The shorter man glances to his burly companions, and looking to the last, his gaze happens to slide past an focus on the dark-haired woman nursing her beer. At first, nothing, and he starts to turn back--but then recognition dawns in his eyes.

Manhattan. Someone in NEW YORK kicked this dickbag's ass. GOOD. But then, out of her peripheral vision she catches movement from that direction and she is very careful to NOT react visibly. She's of course ready to defend herself if anyone approaches, including having taken a page from Mick 'Crocodile' Dundee and keeping a large hunting knife concealed under the back of her denim jacket.

The beer is set down on the bar, and the short man lightly taps his companions on their arms. "You were there, weren't you, girlie?" he says, loudly enough for her to hear as he slides from his stool. "Yeah, I remember you." He arches a brow and grins at her, adding, "Ever since seein' you that day, I've had shit for luck--but I'm thinking my luck's finally starting to change a little. What do you say, boys?" The two burly men, sliding off their own stools, just chuckle, then all three start to approach the dark-haired woman.

Helena Bertinelli drops some cash on the table, then moves to stand and place the table between herself and the three men. Not catching her by surprise this time, dickbag. Though the odds are considerably NOT in her favor. Damn it. "What, you don't think you can handle me by yourself? You know, you're probably right."

The man looks at his companions, then back to her, still grinning. "Nah, I think there's more than enough of you to go around. 'Sides, I think all three of us deserve a little--fun. And what's a pretty young thing come in here for if not to have a little fun, eh?" The two larger men just chuckle, the sounds not exactly pleasing, and all three are continuing their slow advance toward her. The bartender--has seen this kind of thing far too often. He He looks almost bored, actually. But what do you want from Gotham City, really?

The Basement Bar. Proving to be just as seedy as always. And today, three characters appear to be wanting to speak with Helena about something. Something that has them leering and her studying them like one would dangerous adversaries. She's still mentally cursing that some ... trollop has been smearing her name so she can't have her crossbow close at hand, but, she'll make do with what she can. Namely, a Dundee-esque hunting knife hidden under the back of her denim jacket, a smaller knife hidden in each sleeve, two more in her boots, and in a pinch the fact that her belt is chain-reinforced leather. Paranoid much? Never. "And for the record, I came in here for a quiet drink, not to entertain mouth-breathers like you three."

"Oh, please," says the shorter of the three men, the apparent "leader". "We know what a sweet-lookin' thing comes in here for, don't we boys?" He grins to his companions, who just chuckle again, the one to the shorter man's right nodding his head and leering a bit more than the other two. Dark hair, cut a few inches from the scalp, might have been tamed at some point, but not in the recent past. A scratchy few days' worth of beard is on his angular face, drawing more attention to his jade-green eyes. He wears a blue work shirt, buttoned but not tucked in, over which he wears a light windbreaker, with well-worn and scuffed-to-hell work boots. He, like his two companions, have more than a few bruises--the kind earned from fighting. The shorter man has the most, and there's still a dark line around his neck where something was yanked off. The trio continue to slowly approach the woman, fanning out a bit so they can encircle her and make her trying to keep a table between her and them pointless. They're tensing up, too--seasoned fighters will see one of the burly men readying to make a sudden feint like he's going to charge, so the other burly one can try and grab her.

It's easy to overlook the slouched drunk in the corner. He's wearing a long, brown coat that smells of liquor and hard living, a wide-brimmed hat that in the dingy, dimly lit basement all but completely obscures his face, and the way it's all wrapped around him and the chair is propped in the corner, while his chest rises and falls in slow rhythm? It's easy to figure the patron passed out before he finished the bottle of Jack in front of him. Appearances can be deceiving, however, and this particular apparent lush hasn't actually drunk a drop-- not in years and years, in point of fact. So it is that there's a fourth man in the fray, and not on the same side as the ruffians to say the least; faster on his feet, and taller than anyone could have expected from the 'napping bum' in the corner. It's the tense, ready momentum of the burly man's lunge that brings a booted foot around, scarce effort seemingly applied in a perfectly timed countering sweep. One thickly corded arm darts in high, adding leverage and force to efficiently flip the fellow heels over head out of his charge-- end over end-- up and then down again into the center of Helena's table. The aged wood cracks and splinters, collapsing under the impact as a flourish sends the coat to one side, the hat to the other, and seemingly simultaneously replaces both with black cape and cowl-- it's like they were always there, along with the concealed, armored costume. "She's busy." The Batman gruffly, gutturally intones, stepping without fear forward, seemingly all too happy to allow the remaining two on his flanks, as close as they'd like to stay.

Helena Bertinelli actually startles at the man's abrupt intervention and equally abrupt revelation of black cape and cowl. She could react the way Huntress would, as is her habit when the Bat or one of his ilk are about, but that would be a bit of a giveaway. So, she opts to play civilian in keeping with her current attire and she hastily backs away from the three men still standing to put her back against the nearest wall. She might even get out of this without having to pull a knife. She's not betting on it, though.

When the drunkard leaps into action, the other two are--surprised, to say the least. Especially when one of the burly jerks are taken down like he ws a paper doll. The short man growls and smacks his remaining burly companion on the back, and he's just about to try and shove his companion at the newcomer--when that hat and coat come off. "...oh holy shit," he mutters instead, the color draining from his face. He still shoves his companion forward, but only as a distraction, so he can turn and RUN like HELL for the door. He may not be the sharpest kitchen in the knife, but he knows better than to mess with the Bat. As for the other patrons--they scatter like rats, for the far corners of the place. Maybe they can get out of this without any Bat-attention being turned their way.

As the patrons scamper up the staircase leading out into the street, a figure clad in bright colours presses through the throng to find his way inside. No, he's not a woefully ill-timed and misinformed tourist. A red tunic with short, green sleeves. A bright yellow cape draped over his shoulders. Bare legs and a pair of green pixie boots? All this and a stylish 'R' emblazoned on his left breast. The young man in the Robin outfit is dressed differently to what the underbelly of Gotham might expect from the other half of the Dynamic Duo and noticeably shorter, too. As he makes his way through the crowd he comes face to chest (face it, he's not tall) with the last, fleeing jerk and drives his fist viciously toward the man's jaw. "Moron."

It's unlikely Helena's cagey, careful standoff with the ruffians went completely unnoticed even if she does retain a noncombatant poise-- but that doesn't exactly give her away, either. Being more than one seems is something that sometimes seems a universal constant in Batman's line of work. Without overt hostility from the shocked hooligans, the Dark Knight's job is exponentially easier. The Bat intercepts the burly brawler as he's involuntarily staggered forward, a viselike grip finding forearm just above the wrist as the Caped Crusader abruptly turns in the same motion that brings him fluidly around behind Helena's second assailant. In a moment of confusion and a show of overpowering strength, the Batman simply zipties one wrist to the other behind the man's back with a reinforced, jet black length that self-locks as it's tightened, and kicks him forward to fall in a pile with his groaning compatriot, amidst the scraps of table. The speed with which a batarang is whipped into suddenly vacant hand is a testament to just how those restraints got from utility belt to grip so quickly, with the ease that a practiced stage magician palms an object into or out of his current trick. It's flicked open with a simple gesture, the bladed length of this particular weapon augmented by a tiny LED display, and the Dark Knight's thumb grazes over a few touch sensitive buttons... then it's flicked shut, as Robin's arrival stops the first man's egress cold, and batarang disappears back into the utility belt. The Batman's cape floats about his shoulders, arms all but disappearing within as he stalks forward to Helena, and lowers his voice to the scarcest murmur, eyes even on hers. "Come with us, Ms. Bertinelli." He doesn't sound accustomed to making requests, but there's no malice or threat in the intense tones.

Helena Bertinelli keeps her back against the wall while Batman makes embarrassingly quick work of the second big thug and dickbag is stopped by... oh crap. It's the PoisonBat. And it's a WALL of Bat. She blinks quickly and just nods at Batman. This. This does not bode well, but at least she knows enough to not try to fight back or cut and run. She might even be doing a decently believable job of looking like a freaked out civilian. Hopefully.

The short thug barely has time to register the red and green, and only gets a fraction of the "oh shit" thought actually sparked before he's suddenly on the ground, groaning and clutching his face. Clutching his bleeding face, all he can do is lay there and whimper, though there's more than a little writhing for good measure. The big man shoved at Batman--he just closes his eyes. He knows it's going to hurt, and he knows that trying to stop it will only make it worse--and he's right, of course. He lands on his companion with a huff, and has the good sense to not move. He'll happily go along to jail, and be one of the most accommodating thugs Gotham P.D. will deal with tonight. Outside, watching from a dented, pock-marked car with more primer-grey than anything else, is a blonde woman in a business suit, with a wide bandage over her nose. The car blends in enough to let most people not even consider looking inside. The young man in the red and green go into the bar, then fleeing fleeing patrons come out. Hmm. Pursing her lips in thought, she reaches into her suit coat and pulls out a small disc, about two inches wide, and places it against her ear, tapping a tiny button. "He turned out to be a magnet for trouble..." she says quietly, eyes narrowing as she watches the entrance to the bar. "No--Robin." A beat. "Got it." She starts the engine, and starts pulling away from the curb.

Robin leaps down the stairs deftly, taking them all in one nimble maneuver as he lands alongside the writhing thug he just punched in the face. He looks down at him, his upper lip curling into a sneer as he lays his boot into the man's ribs. No harm in a few extra fractures, right? "Roll over," Robin demands, crouching down so he can retrieve a cable tie of his own from his belt and bind the thugs hands, "Try not to choke on your own blood." That done, he stands up and turns around with the fist of one hand clutched in the open palm of the other. His eyes glare at Helena from behind the mask, a grim frown on his face. He opens his mouth as though he's going to say something snarky, thinks better of it and then just waits for Batman to lead the way.

Damian's brutal efficiency (with a little extra brutality) is noted, but in this forum, the Dark Knight doesn't even mention it. He steps back from Helena as she concedes, and rather chivalrously gestures with one arm for her to precede him. He'll follow her out the door smoothly, and calmly, so long as she remains cooperative. Intimately familiar with fear and inspiring it, as well as body language itself, the Bat's brows knit tightly hidden within the cowl; but he leaps to no judgements or rash actions where the missing teacher is concerned. Sirens can already be heard approaching the establishment by the time the trio would make it back to street level, the Batman's grapnel gun coming to his grasp as his left hand emerges from the shadows of his cape, and he fires the reinforced line straight upwards, to the rooftop ledge of the aging building above them. A sturdy arm is offered to Helena, and no further instructions are spoken to either her or Robin. The simple, informative phrase really works for either of them-- but in this case, he's looking at the woman. "We need to talk." Away from prying eyes and ears, it seems.

Helena Bertinelli steps toward the exit at the Bat's gesture, and, OOPS! She just happens to trip over Dickbag in the doorway, giving him a pretty good kick in the gentleman's plums in the process. As soon as she's out of the bar she out of habit looks around the parking lot. She frowns at one car in particular and the passenger she thinks she sees inside, but before she can confirm it the Bat has a hand extended to her. Okay, this is awkward. She hesitates for a moment, because there's no way the knife in the back of her jacket will go unnoticed. There's no choice, though, and she's not gonna keep standing around here. Too many places for eyes to be watching. So, she finally takes a step closer to Batman with an honest look of trepidation on her face.

Robin follows Helena and Batman out the door, bringing up the rear and stepping on the goon he just handcuffed as he does so. The pained groan from the downed man elicits a half-smirk from the young man, obviously pleased with his own handiwork. A short time later when they're rooftop bound, Robin wastes no time in following along. He doesn't use his grappling line, instead he bounds from narrow window ledge to jutting flagpole. Somersaults and handsprings all the way - his uniform is, after all, the modified costume of a circus acrobat. Why not play the part a little? He's also in a good mood because he hasn't been scolded.

Batman is, despite his fearsome reputation, thus the only one who doesn't give the would-be assailant one last painful reminder on the way out the door. His own perusal of the street lends little of note, nothing of particular interest drawing his attention about the escaping vehicle. A bit of a ghost in his comm scanners, well.. that goes forgotten for now, as well. He'll need the resources of the computer to properly analyze the transmission-- if indeed there was one-- and it will take time. The trip up is smooth enough, as if Batman's hoisted a thousand people off the street and to the rooftops under conditions many times more stressful than these-- which is probably quite close to the actuality of it. The Bat remains a secure brace until his own footing is secured, at which point the Dark Knight simply releases his passenger, tangibly grazing the knife in what's likely an intentional statement.. and gets down to business. "Ms. Bertinelli. You were a teacher at St. Mark's? For how long?" Even without a polygraph, it's wise for an interrogator to get a baseline. Exactly why he wanted Damian's help with this remains, for now, an exercise for the boy's own logic.

Helena Bertinelli stumbles a tiny bit when the Bat simply lets go of her -- she's not used to being a passenger with that particular mode of travel. The hand grazing across the knife at her back doesn't go unnoticed, and as much as it might help matters if she offered it to him, she won't. If only so that he doesn't think she's trying to pull it on him. When he asks her about being a teacher at St. Mark's, she looks at him sharply, noting the Bat's choice of words. "Were? SONofabitch." She looks down and clenches her fists for a second, then looks up at the Dark Knight again. "Please tell me they've found the girl."

The point seems a little lost on Robin, who climbs up onto an industrial-sized air conditioning unit and settles into a relaxed crouch. His head tilts to the side as Batman asks his question, eyes fixated on Helena in a predatory way. And then, because he's easily distracted, he fishes a batarang from his belt and begins to balance it by the point on the tip of one finger. He flicks it into the air, watches it spin and then snatches it back. When Helena answers he rolls his eyes behind his mask and calls out impatiently, "Answer the question."

"You haven't been seen there since several days prior to the kidnapping, Ms. Bertinelli. This comes as news to you?" Batman isn't quite as dissatisfied as Damian seems to be with the response. It speaks volumes of its own even without actually answering his initial inquiry. "What happened before you left the school? Tell me about the missing girl, in your own words." Sure, Batman's read the police reports, run down the girl's family and history; he's clearly looking for Helena's take. "Have you ever crossed paths with a vigilante who calls herself the Huntress?" He doesn't directly answer her question either, but she can make her own deductions from the state of his investigation; not to mention, turnabout is fair play. A subtle hand gesture attempts to silence Damian-- and his ire.

Robin makes a short, annoyed scoffing sound but otherwise he keeps his mouth shut and doesn't interrupt again. Instead he goes back to spinning the batarang on the tip of his finger, watching it turn while occasionally glancing up at Batman and Miss Bertinelli to keep up with the conversation. Contrary to how it looks, he actually is listening and it's evident in the way his head turns slightly from Helena to the Dark Knight with each tick of the conversation. To the casual observer, however, he couldn't look any more bored.

"If you want to help find Angelique..." there's an undertone of urgency and sincere concern in the words, despite his stern demeanor Batman clearly does-- and at this point has little reason to suspect Helena does not. "You'll start at the beginning, and not spare any detail. The longer this goes on, the more danger she's in. The more information I have, the faster we can find the girl. .. and whoever did this." Blank white eyeslits narrow intently on the statuesque woman, his attention focused now that he's confident Damian's is, as well.

Helena Bertinelli looks at Batman for a long moment, then looks over at Damian. Even if she says nothing, her expression is pretty easy to read. She's not sure she can safely talk in front of the boy wonder over there. But, after muttering something in Latin, she starts talking. "I was contacted by a group of people in a ... unorthodox method, a bunch of suits and dickbag from the bar. They threatened to blackmail me if I didn't do something for them, something I won't ever do for anyone." Yeah, she's skipping a few details there, mostly Huntress related stuff. "So instead of doing what they said, I told the school I had a family emergency and skipped town." She grimaces then. "Of course, it didn't work worth a crap, and when I heard about the kidnapping, I came back. Those bastards are going to PAY if anything's happened to that poor kid."

"They certainly are," Robin calls out, sounding entirely pompous as he suddenly flings the batarang and embeds it in the wooden door leading down the building, "I hope they don't mind eating through a straw." Robin's heart may be in the right place, but to get there you have to take an exceptionally long detour down 'Psychopath Way' by way of 'Brutality Avenue'. Kidnapping kids is frowned upon.

"Unorthodox method?" There's a bit of impatience, now; he asked for details, for War and Peace, and can't help but feel he's reading the Cliff's Notes. The Bat doesn't bother to hide that dissatisfaction. There's honesty, and then there's honesty, after all. The Batman's narrowed eyes don't widen again readily, there's a clear frown behind the mask even without seeing his eyes; it's written all over his mouth, in the stern set of his jaw, the way he clenches and then unclenches the muscles therein. "Why would you regret helping me, Ms. Bertinelli?" She may not have said it in English, but she doesn't need to. That card is laid down on the table. Along with a few more, "Your story doesn't add up. I can help you, especially with these people still after you. What else do you know about who they are? How does the Huntress fit in?" This time, there's a grim nod along with Damian's interjection. Brutality avenue is the route Batman takes almost every time he goes after criminals who target children; for some reason. "We can make sure they pay. When I find the answer to this puzzle, if there are pieces you're not sharing with me now, I'm going to be very, very upset, Ms. Bertinelli." The Dark Knight actually gets quieter as he intimates this fact. The Hulk isn't the only being substantially more unlikable when enraged.

Helena Bertinelli tosses a very brief glare over at 'Robin' -- it's clearly not the young man she's dealt with before and learned to trust, so it has to be the green and black clad kid that half-kicked her ass and then tried to make her take the blame for HIS slicing up a mafia meeting in progress. She has NO love for PoisonBat, and even less trust. And perhaps because of that mistrust she totally doesn't pick up on the fact that the Bat responded to her mutterings in Latin. Taking a deep breath and huffing out a slightly annoyed sigh, she keeps right on pacing. "Can we just leave it at the fact that I have justifiable trust issues at the moment?" Her eyes flick toward the young man nearby again as she speaks, almost screaming where her mistrust is mostly aimed.

"This is annoying," Robin announces, rising up from his crouch on the air conditioner unit to stand with his arms crossed, "So she has trust issues. Who cares?" Robin looks at Helena, shaking his head in disbelief and gesturing towards the Batman, "Do you think he'd have me here if I couldn't be trusted? Why don't you just tell him what he needs to know so we can save this girl?" He jumps down off the unit, pointing a finger at Helena and addressing the Bat, "We're wasting time."

"He's right." Batman notes that without missing a beat, tracking Damian's motions for a moment (probably to make sure he doesn't try to half-kick Helena's ass /again/ or drape her off the ledge like he's seen daddy do), and holding his own tongue and actions until the would-be Robin has finished speaking. At that point, the Dark Knight reaches into his utility belt-- keeping his motions slow, visible, and unthreatening-- and comes out with two rather small objects. One is slightly larger than the other, a reinforced black metal disc like a flattened sphere with a speaker built into one side and a simple activation switch on the other. "If you get into trouble, this will act as a communication device and beacon. I don't have time to waste, if I'm going to save the girl." There's a certain irony to the offer that the Dark Knight is purely unaware of, at least for now. The second object he offers over is a smaller, smooth and perfect sphere, also jet black. "Look closely." He encourages, before pressing a button in his gauntlet, and detonating the pellet. It erupts into a cloud of non-toxic, nearly clear smoke that all but consumes the local area. He might be able to get the information out of her, here and now, it's true-- but there are other ways. "I'll be in touch, Ms. Bertinelli." The Caped Crusader calmly assures her, even as he's stepping back out of the cloud and dropping, abruptly, directly off the ledge of the roof. Apparently her level of cooperation only earns her the fire escape route down.

Helena Bertinelli snaps at Damian without thinking, "God, go slice something up with a katana already. You're gonna blame this shit on me either way." Her eyes go wide the moment she realizes what she's said, and she actually claps one hand over her mouth in a classic 'oh shit' expression. But then the Bat is offering her a little communication disc very much like the one the REAL Robin gave her, and she's barely had a chance to take it before he's done the whole ninja bit with smoke and everything. "The fuck?" She coughs even though the smoke isn't in any way toxic. "Damnit, wait!" Now she REALLY wants her crossbow.

Robin swings away alongside Batman, still laughing so uproariously that it is actually difficult for him to maintain a decent trajectory alongside his father. Difficult, yes, but he manages it. He reaches a free hand for a moment to wipe a tear from the corner of his mask, still chuckling quietly as he speaks. "You know she's the Huntress, right?" he asks, the last thing she blurted out basically clinching it, "That's why she was being so petulant. I found her snooping around on rooftops near a Cosa Nostra meet-up and presumed she was with the enemy. She holds a grudge." A pause and then he laughs again, "Right in her face!"