2013.07.06 - A Night Out in Gotham

((OOC Note: Not Sure why but when I tried posting this a bit ago it didn't post. I did have net problems back then so it's quite possible my net freaked out. I remember editing this but it didn't post.))

It's a dark night in Gotham, but, then, aren't they all? This one in particular has a bit of fog on the street and, strangely, fog on the roof, although this fog is unnatural, cloying and has a very distinctive effect on those who breathe it. The Sandman looms over a pair of thugs, clad in the colors of the Kings, one of Gotham's nastier street gangs. The gas grenade he subjected them to lays in shards around them as he stands up, taking the pocketwatch from his hand and sliding it back into the pocket of his suit. Nothing. These two know nothing. Another dead end, even with the hypnosis to learn that they didn't know things that they didn't even know they knew. Yes. That. The distortion of the Sandman's voice, an addition to the mask, makes his words sound alien, inhuman, sinister. "I wIlL bE iN cOnTaCt wItH tHe AuThoRiTiES sHoRTlY. UnLeSs yOu pReFeR I leAvE YoU fOr ThE BaT?"

Huntress has been going about her usual nightly patrols, rooftop hopping a little more slowly than usual thanks to some sore ribs she earned helping Oracle and a bunch of others just the night before. That wouldn't have been so bad, really, if she'd just managed to stick to the more mundane stuff. You know, like NOT stumbling upon a rooftop doing its best to imitate B-movie graveyard fog and the stink of too much RAID sprayed in one place simultaneously. Because, seriously. What the hell? She stops on an adjacent rooftop, shadowed from casual view by an air handling unit, and waits to see what is actually going on across the way. Because unlike SOME people, *coughtheBatcough* she doesn't travel with her own personal oxygen supply.

Gotham City, the architecture of yesteryear looks as gothic as he remembers. All of the points facing skyward from churches and other buildings dating back to the 1800s. In brighter times the city would be considered a small slice of European architecture sitting in the United States. Now with the layers of darkness and fog all of the points look like the city is trying to spurn God, and anyone else of thinking from entering the city for the sky. There's no place for angels in Gotham. Good thing Hawkman is no angel despite the wings.

Looking at the old sights of Amusement Row, Carter remembers when they were new. All of the rides and attractions to bring people in during the 30s were still cherished in the 40s even in the 50s. By the 60s and early 70s the attractions were well loved but with rust spots and other character quirks. When the 80s came the rides were far from loved and eventually forgotten. Now they stand like living ghosts of a distant past.

Hawkman's eyes look over the city and he lands near the guy with the alien voice, "There are worse things than the Bat out tonight." The hunter green pants cling to his skin, the red leather boots with bits of faded yellow trim, leather straps weave around his chest into a red and black hawk symbol, a leather belt holds various pouches and a mace hangs from it, intense eyes hide within a Hawk mask made of metal with bits of wear and tear dents that tell the story of many battles, and for effect the hero spreads the wings. Figuring the guy in the coat is one of the city's many vigilantes he asks, "What's the situation?" The Sandman tilts his head towards the Hawkman as he descends, the tilt of his head adding to this slightly surreal demeanor, an affectation he's learned to keep potential adversaries off-guard. Never underestimate the power of being creepy. The creature before him sparks something, though, the shards of Dreaming within him bleeding into the edges of his vision. There's a flap of wings in his ears, a splash of blood that runs at the corner of his sight. A woman, beautiful and exotic, flashing for a split second. The taste of sand in his mouth. He returns his gaze to the half-drowsin souls at his feet, putting his foot on the chest of one, the thug's head lolling drowsily, his eyelids fluttering as he mutters, "Please...please, I don't know nothin'...bugs...make them..stop..." he whimpers, his eyes rolling in his head. "A fEw NiGhTMaReS, wElL-EaRnEd aNd FrEsHlY dElIveReD. aRe YoU HoRus, tHeN, HaWk-FaCed anD heRe tO DeLiVeR yoUr JudGMeNT? HoW wiLl yOu WeiGh My SouL?"

HOLY... Huntress is now really glad she didn't automatically draw attention to herself, 'cause that over there, the dude whose wings aren't just a clever trick with a cape, that's just all kinds of messed up. It probably doesn't help that she DID get a whiff of whatever that fog is comprised of, because it's got to be messing with her head. She sees Dodds there in the midst of it all, and what little she's catching of his voice is really messing with her head. Pulling her crossbow, she aims a bit unsteadily at Dodds, then at the winged man as he's a clearer target, if a little farther away. Taking a deep breath makes her ribs ache, and without realizing she leans back against the air handler that is her shadow, causing the metal to make a deep pop as the sheeting flexes under her weight.

"I don't have a scale for your Ba and Ka," Hawkman responds to the Egyptian mythology quip. His eyes narrow feeling something or someone looking at him, but he ignores the sensation for now. "What is he babbling about?" Hawkman points at the perp talking about odd dreams. "Does everyone in Gotham babble like this?"

Turning he takes in the sights of Gotham, "And is he the first?" the question comes out hard. IF he's not the first then something else is clearly at work. That thought worries the man deep down.

The Sandman turns his visage back to the whimpering criminal at his feet, slowly bending to kneel atop his chest, "A sIdE eFfEcT oF My DrEaM GaS...fOr SoMe, tHe ReSulT iS plEaSanT, sOpoForiC...fOr otHerS, tHe NigHTmaReS BleEd aNd bLoSsOm." At the creaking sound, Sandman responds by drawing his sleep gun, his face still turned to the criminal as he aims with his left hand - accuracy isn't so very important, after all, with his weapon of choice. His other hand clamps down on the whimpering criminal's throat, applying pressure to a point until he finishes passing out. "PlEaSe JoIn Us, ObSeRvEr."

"No." Huntress's voice is a bit faint and definitely on the unsteady side, but the distaste in her tone is clear. "Not while you're looking like you're about to start asking for your 'mummy'. And not while that overgrown pigeon's still there." Still hopefully hidden, her crossbow stays trained on Hawkman though the weapon is probably held at an angle that a tiny bit of light might reflect off the wooden bolt's metal tip.

Centuries of battling makes the glint of the cross bow stick out. Calmly a hand goes into his belt. Familiar weight greets him then he suddenly turns slashing at the air. "Thunk!" "Thunk!" two throwing stars bite into a wall nearby Huntress, "Third won't miss and I don't take kind to someone pointing a weapon at me," his voice is calm but completely serious. The references go over his head completely, "Gonna show yourself?"

Looking at the guy in the gas mask, "Got a weapon pointed at us, the metal reflects just right. Not sure what, projectile or slug thrower," yes the guy has clearly seen a few battles in his day. He waits to see what the other two would do.

The Sandman cocks his head, the familiar sound of the voice ringing in his ears. He straightens up from the now-dozing criminal, his erstwhile companion amiably snoring into the night, adding an almost comical soundtrack to the scene. He lowers his sleep gun, slipping it back into the holster in his coat. "pErHaPs wE cAn hAve A mEeTinG oF tHe MinDs wiThOuT tHe tHrEaTs?" he says wearily. "ThE HuNtrEsS iS nO fOe anD I hAvE sEeN eNouGh vIoLeNCe tHis EveNinG." Huntress flinches at the sounds of the throwing stars hitting so close by and throws herself to one side reflexively, thus abandoning her cover and simultaneously proving that she did in fact get at least a bit affected by that gas. She tries to roll away from the throwing stars for the next bit of shadowed cover, but isn't even close to one hundred percent and ends up hitting the gravel roofing harder than intended. Damnit. I'm never gonna hear the end of this. "Ow, god... would you please quit it with the damned ghost movie voice?" She's still got her crossbow in hand, but it's simply held loosely in her hand as she leans back against the side of the building's water tank in full view of both men. "It's starting to really fuck with my head."

Smirking at the woman who's extremely ungraceful. Looking at the woman's weapon, "Not bad. How much compound pressure do you got going behind that," he asks before pocketing the last throwing star. "You're kinda clumsy," he adds then looks between the two before focusing on Dodds, "This is your show. Where to?" Letting his body ease up Hawkman waits to see whether this meeting will take them to the rooftops or some neutral ground where costumes can be lost. "Hawkman," he introduces himself to the duo that obviously know each other and maybe have some form of chemistry. Granted he could be looking too far into it. With his thoughts focused on someone no longer around makes it hard for Hawkman to differentiate.

The Sandman shakes his head, "yOu rEaLly Ar-" and then he lets out an audible, eerie, hissing sigh and presses a button at his throat, where the mask is cinched into place. The voice that speaks now is clipped, precise and obviously upper-class, not to mention at least an octave higher, "You really are infuriating sometimes, do you know that?" he says to the armed woman, apparently paying no mind to the Hawkman at the moment, "How am I to maintain a sense of gravitas, of bloody presence, next to a giant winged man with a mace, sounding like...well, like myself?" he sighs. He removes his hat, running his hand through the dirty-blonde hair it reveals. He turns back to the Hawkman now, "She's not clumsy, she just inhaled a bit of my gas. It isn't very kind to motor functions, I'm afraid. Perhaps your hawk-snoot thing there makes you somewhat immune. Well, I suppose...I do have a tea set in the Sleeping Car, although I don't have any hors douvres. What about you, Huntress? You didn't happen to bring any cucumber sandwiches to this bloody party we're having did you?" he says, mingling being pointed with teasing at the same time, his demeanor quite changed now that the criminal element is properly passedo ut.

God. Bitchy much? Huntress huffs faintly at Dodds' version of snark but instead of replying to him decides to snark at Hawkman instead. His question about her crossbow causes her to remember to holster the thing, and she quips back, "Ancient Chinese secret." In other words, none of your business. She starts toward the ladder at the side of her chosen rooftop that leads to the fire escape, not trusting her equilibrium right now and having to force herself to refrain from wrapping an arm around her ribcage. 'Cause yeah. She's made a damned fool of herself enough so far tonight. "Cucumber sandwiches, that's just gross," she mutters to herself.

"What is this tea-time?" Hawkman comments on the sandwiches. Last time he heard someone talk about those dreadful things the AARP and kids not staying off the grass came up too. "Why don't we go somewhere for something with a bit more substance?" Sandman talks about maintaining an image, being scary and gets a glare, "Not focused on scaring partners on the field. They can be spared the drama," the comment applies to the whole image he's trying to project but it's also a job at the little speech after that.

"Coffee or a brew sounds good," and that suggestion goes out there. And not forgetting about the "Ancient Chinese Secret," Hawkman adds, "Not a Chinese weapon. Greeks were the first to develop one. Chinese did a big multi shot monstrosity. Whoever sold you the secret line led you astray." It's not really a quip but it does blow a hole through her comment. If she just didn't want to say anything about it she should have just said so.

The Sandman realizes, from her response, that he may have pushed Huntress too far. He sighs inwardly. Other people were so very difficult sometimes. And he seems to have upset the Hawk Man as well. How delightful. Seeing Huntress heading for the ladder, he nods, "Perhaps we will all be in better spirits on the ground. I might even able to provide spirits, if required for soothing. And I have an anti-toxin for the gas, if you're still feeling its effects...Miss H,' he says to to the Huntress. "That is, if the two of you can cease trading ancient weapons trivia long enough? Come along, then," he says, not waiting for an answer as he starts to descend, keeping an eye on Huntress. He knows she won't ask for his help, or anyone else's, but he wants to make sure she makes it down safely nonetheless.

The amount of deliberate care that Huntress is using likely says enough about whether or not she's still feeling the effects of the gas, or, well, she'll let Dodds believe that's what it is. He might even be fooled into not realizing anything else is off. Though, wearing her cold weather costume in late May to hide bruises might be a /bit/ of a clue...

She reaches ground level after the gas-masked man and crosses her arms while waiting for PigeonMan to join them. "You aren't really wanting cucumber sandwiches, are you? 'Cause, really, gross."

Dropping down to the ground Hawkman smirks, "What the lady said." Despite her clumsiness from the gas, which he is grateful to have fended off thanks to some dated breathing filters in the mask, she seems like good people. Notes are made to avoid the gas gun directly as a good dose would probably open up a personal pandora's box nearly a millennia old. "Whatever you want to do Gasman. I say lady's choice though. We're still gentleman right?" he shrugs just happy to meet some new family in arms that don't have ties to the Second World War.

The Sandman lands lightly, brushing a bit of dirt from his shoes. Ah, Gotham, for whenever you need somewhere to make Hell's Kitchen seem pristine and untouched. He takes a long look at Huntress, taking in her posture, her costume. He is a detective, after all, perhaps not on the same level as certain pointy eared compatriots, but no slouch by any means. To Hawkman, he nods, "Gentlemen, yes. We are so few and far between in this weary old world. Not that Huntress has ever needed anyone to open doors for her." To Huntress, he continues, "You know, cucumber sandwiches can actually be quite delightful. A bit of cream cheese, fresh ripe cucumber, a soupcon of salt and pepper. Quite refreshing, especially with tea. That said, no, I didn't expect that you would have them on hand. I'm certain that they would be quite smushed and unpalatable even if you had. Out of curiosity, just as a round about, by the by, for my own personal information sort of thing, just how many of your ribs would you say are broken and by what bloody mad impulse are you crouching around rooftops in that particular condition?"

Hawkman's being all 'gentlemanly' only gets an eyeroll from Huntress, as she's less than won over by old fashioned sensibilities, or whatever that's called. However, when Dodds calls her out on her injuries, her shoulders tighten and her eyes sharpen into a glare that could possibly cut steel. "None of your damned business," is her all but snarled reply. She refused to tell Oracle about whatever's wrong with her ribs, she'll be damned if she just blabs in front of the Winged Wonder over here. Maybe if she weren't in so exposed a place with a complete stranger nearby she'd be more honest with Dodds, but yeah. No. Not here and not now. And she proves her defensiveness by pulling her crossbow again and swapping out a pack of bolts for one of those little grappling hook kind of things. "Screw you both." The speciality bolt is fired up at the rooftop she just descended from, and she's gone, likely retracing her steps back to her motorcycle and cussing the entire way.

"Keep moving about with the injuries and you're good to no one," Hawkman says to the woman before she speeds off. He looks at his company, "You should get on her about that. Working through injuries is one thing. Not allowing them to heal is another thing," the words are laced with seriousness to the Gasman. One good hit to the injured areas and she would be dead in the water. Huntress has disconnected.

The Sandman sighs and runs a hand back through his hair again, shaking his head. He regrets never having taken up smoking, only because this seems like a particularly ideal time to light one, like something out of an old Bogart movie, a black and white slice of old-fashioned chauvenism about 'dames' seeming particularly apropos. Instead, he says, "She is a complicated creature and far too tough, I think, for her own good. But I have long since learned against telling her what to do. Not that I don't try, on occasion. I simply accept that it is her choice whether or not to listen. That, too, is a form of being a gentleman." he says. Turning his attention more fully to the Hawk, he sighs, "Well, then...that just leaves the two of us. Tradition would suggest throwing down a couple of, as they say, 'brewskis', but I prefer my hops in the form of mead, sweetened with honey. Without that particular refreshment available, as I said, I have tea, or we could relocate to a nearby establishment - there is, for example, a rather dingy but surprisingly servicable diner 'round the corner - although I suspect that you would have to go sans wings and mask, if you want to avoid making a scene. The waitress is rather an excitable sort."

Shrugging, "Mead takes a while to make. One of the few thing Kr--," he catches himself, "Germans know how to do is make a good beer. Liquid bread. You should try some if we can find some. Someone in the costume game like us can probably sniff out a good bar if we run into her at some point. She can say, 'Gimme a beer,' in thirty languages," Lady Blackhawk is someone Hawkman is fond of. She's rough around the edges but good people, kind of like Huntress.

Thinking on it Hawkman tries to remember if he's ever had mead. "Isn't that like pickled honey? Wouldn't mind a glass, got any in your personal stash you feel like breaking open after we hit the diner?" It's a little rude and intrusive to ask that, but the premise of mead does sound pretty good. "How'd you get into the hero game?" he asks, again a little rude, but who's keeping score? Then a thought occurs to him, "I need a change of gear. Kinda awkward to walk into a diner in full costume, just saying."

The Sandman listens to the breakdown about mead, his bemused expression hidden for the moment under his gasmask. This fellow's penchant for lecturing reminds him of more than a few academics he's met, prone to showing off their knowledge of particular subjects, which...er, well, sounds like him, a little bit. Ah, well, he can hardly criticize someone else for being a know-it-all. "I would be pleased to make her acquaintance, of course. Hmmmmmmmmmm, there's a place in downtown Gotham, by the name of Keaton's. A simple steakhouse, but with a wide alcoholic menu including, I do believe, mead. You can fly off and change somewhere more...private and I can take the leisurely time to drive and change my own attire and we can meet there, in, say, forty five minutes or so?

Nodding to the man, "See ya in forty-five," Hawkman pushes off the ground taking to the skies. Gasman seems like a good guy. A little wound tight given the whole speech about wanting to be menacing to Huntress. The guy really needs to switch to decaf. Landing atop of an old hotel that doesn't look like much the hero slips into an entry point on the roof. Before long he's back in his small home-away-from-home. It's not much to look at with the tight walls, dated brown carpet and cream colored walls. Still, it is enough for Carter Hall, the man underneath the mask. Setting aside the mask he peels off the harness and wings, the evening's chill hits him for the first time. Letting out a small shiver Carter slips into the bathroom putting on some brown cargo pants and a black button up work shirt.

Sometimes it's hard to say which identity is really the mask. With Hawkman his diction become laid back but the rest of him alert, astute, deliberate with action. With Carter his speech becomes really purposeful while the rest of him loosens up and calms down. Putting the Hawkman effects in a bag Carter slips it under his bed then calls a cab. The yellow car takes about twenty minutes to get there. Waiting outside with his brown bomber jacket he slips inside then says in a cheery voice, "Keaton's." The cabby nods and begins the journey. When they arrive Carter slips the man what's owed plus a five dollar tip. It's not much in the grand scale but Carter always tries to tip the cabbies when he can, whatever he can.

Once free of the vehicle Carter leans against an outside wall waiting for company to arrive.To be honest he's not even sure what to look for. Meeting heroes outside of the costume is always a bit awkward. Sometimes the most well-mannered hero is an ass behind the mask. If they wear full masks they can be the complete opposite of what anyone would expect. In some ways a hero is more honest than the identity. Without the constraints of society and its expectations, the person behind the mask could be who they really are. The quiet and meek looking people could be some of the bravest and most ferocious heroes. The Gasman could have been anyone really. The problem with someone that wear a nearly all consuming mask is that it hides a little too much sometimes. But Carter can't be one to judge since his mask does similar. Wesley Dodds arrived at the restaurant a bit beofre Carter, having only to take advantage of the change of clothes in the Sleeping Car and drive the necessary blocks. Not that driving in Gotham is a delightful process, but he's become adjusted to it well enough. His name and a slight exchange of funds is sufficient to get him a table at relatively short notice, and, when Carter lingers outside, a maitre'd with a well-lined pocket steps outside, his mustache as thin and neat as his French accent is affected and fake, "Pardon moi, but are you Monsieur Talon? If you will follow me..."

Wesley is seated at a relatively isolated table, a bit away from the hoi polloi. A pitcher of mead is already set on the table, along with a bottle of red wine. He rises as Carter approaches, his dirty blonde hair now slicked back in a style more suited to the 1940's than today, "When you didn't arrive when I expected, I had to send Jean Paul out, just in case. I should've told you to just come ahead inside. Please, sit," he says, gesturing to the chair opposite him. He takes a sip of his own glass, preferring the wine for the moment, but gestures to the mead, "Please, go ahead. I admit, there's something about your face that's...familiar to me. But I will not make presumptions, which is why I gave you an alias, if you choose to take advantage."

Smiling to the man with the 40s dress code in full swing, "I get that a lot and I liked the alias. It's clever," holding out a hand Carter shakes the hand of the man waiting on him. "What do I get to call you?" He doesn't comment on whole looking familiar bit. In time he might answer but not right this second. "What would you recommend? I'm more of a metropolis man," a polite smile is given to his company. If the place impressed him he would have to remember it for any future outings, if any. Being a hero and part-time staff did kill a lot of personal time. Perhaps one day there would be enough time to enjoy some company like this. Maybe. Hopefully. Wesley Dodds smiles, "Morpheus will do well enough for now," he says, even as he feels the drumbeat of Dream in his head, not quite realizing the connection he's touched there. "Metropolis, eh? Lovely place, although it's so very...modern. Gotham and New York proper have more of history abounding, don't you think, with all the gargoyles and the like? Oh, and I recommend a steak fo any sort. I'd wager, if you're as predatory as advertised, bloody and rare would be your preference. Although the seared scallops are also quite good, if you've a taste for seafood." he says. "The cloak and dagger bit does seem to come with the job, doesn't it? I admit, it's as much an affectation as anything. I'm not sure I have much of a private life to protect anymore."

You say, "We all have something to protect even if it's small," Carter replies to the lack of a personal life to protect. There's always one thing someone will want to protect. What that one thing is will be different for everyone. "I had those very same thoughts about Metropolis but they have a wonderful historic district that preserves a lot of the history like Gotham does. Maybe even better than Gotham given the state of places like Amusement Mile," and the historic district to Metropolis is quite beautiful if you're into history and old architecture.

Tapping his fingers against the table Carter smiles, "More of a medium or medium rare guy myself. I do like a little pink but I like my steak somewhat cooked too. I may have to try these scallops though, they sound tasty." A moment passes by before Carter asks, "So Lawrence, what goes good with Mead?"" Wesley Dodds laughs, "You know, I haven't the faintest idea? I've had a glass or two, usually at conferences, but they were themed and usually involved turkey legs or stuffed, roasted hogs." Antiquaries scholars have some rollickin' parties, if you're into Renaissance Faires. "Well, history is everywhere, isn't it, no matter how much it may get covered up with chrome and glass and electronic doodadery? The past is the heartbeat beneath the skin of the present." he says. "If Metropolis is your usual haunt...what brought you to Gotham tonight?"

"I get good airfare," the talk of the past practically makes Carter's heart sing. He smiles, "The past will always influence the present. Whether it's to repeat previous successes or avoid failures from yesteryear, the past will always influence today. Typically I'm used to the past having to be unburied," being an archaeologist does require a lot of digging. "Now I wish I could join you for your ren faire conferences. I didn't think those events had conference calls though," what else could Dodds do that had that kind of menu happening at a conference of big wigs if he wasn't on some board for a location or particular band of travelers? "Those turkey legs are pretty succulent, I'll give you that."

Wesley Dodds smiles as he signals the waiter, ordering for himself: lamb chops with mint jelly, steamed broccoli, a tiramisu dessert. "That they are. They seem to come increasingly wrapped in bacon. Isn't everything, these days?" he says. He takes another sip of his wine, leaning back in his seat, "I suppose I was asking, instead, if there were a specific mystery or foe that you came in pursuit of...I have heard rumors of a kidnapping, on the streets, tied into a gang called the Kings...a gang wielding technology that is far beyond their means or intellect. I find myself guided by...in truth I'm not sure what to call it...Fate? The Universe? Something greater at any rate...and I am guided, through my dreams, to seek justice and to protect the innocent...but I do not always know when or where I am being prodded..."

"House steak, medium-rare. The Garlic mash as a side," comments about the bacon are going to be made until talk of "Kings," come about. Sitting back Carter takes in the information, "The problem with Kings and Queens is that they'll blind your eyes and steal your dreams. Kingdoms will fall and these kings will be no different. Do you know of a motive?" time travel is always possible. So many impossible things are possible. Maybe one of the rich industrialist is forming a team of unsavory folks. That idea holds about the same amount of merit, "What kind of hardware are they using? Any footage of them online?" The gears are rapidly turning as he is trying to figure out the newest enemy. "Whatever you need of me in order to help you against these self-appointed Kings, is yours."

Wesley Dodds purses his lips, swirling his wine in its glass, "I confess, I am not particularly adept with modern technologies, although I'm working with an ally who is more adept at those particular skills. She's something of an Oracle of wisdom," he says. "While she handled those aspects, I've been working in a more traditional investigative methodology: scaring the living hell out of potential suspects until one of them cracks." he smiles, "Of course, Gotham's criminals can be harder to scare than most. They have plenty of boogeymen already, after all. As for motive...well, there had been no ransom note of yet. And my only knowledge of advanced technology distribution involves a giant ape planting strange censors in Central Park...oh, I do hope that's not related, I'll feel like quite a fool."

Smirking Carter say with that ferocious smile returning, "People scare easily when you hold them several feet in the air. I'm more than willing to help you and your Oracle out," he nods to the man. The Oracle sounds like a big tech head that probably knew what he was doing. "Do you have Miss Crossbow helping you?"