2014.04.06 - The Court of Owls: Riddled With Knives

What a conundrum this was.

Picture one: Edward Nygma, with a boatload of intelligence on five well placed Gotham Familes. They were each tacked to his home office wall; the joint down town was for meeting clients, people. This office in his brownstone? That's where he got real work done.

Currently he was going over the clippings he had from his four important families -- and the Waynes. The ballistics match had come back as identical to the one in the Wayne Murder. Why-- create another Bruce Wayne? Edward wondered. Johnathan McHeigh was five years older than Bruce was at the time of his parents death, but... still. Between "Dr. Riddle" and the boy's strange phrasing, he was certain they were trying to steer the young man to... becoming something. What something, he's not sure.

That's why he's going through the files on his desk by the lamp light. Powers and McHeigh's dirty schemes were of special interest, but he needed more there before he could move forward with potentially dropping a dime on the pair of them.

His scotch glass was empty. He should remedy that.

Cardinal wasn't as concerned about Nygma as some of the other operatives within the 'family', but there was nothing wrong with keeping dibs, especially while Batman was temporarily on the shelf. Not that they were going to advertise that particular fact. Nygma, of course, is actually quite adept at spotting tails, being bothersomely brilliant and so Tim had improvised. First a light dusting of 'gravel' thrown on the stairs included several microtech, high frequency transmitters capable of transmitting sound and a GPS signal, rounded nicely and coated with an adhesive perfectly suited to sticking to, say, the bottom of a middle-aged detective's shoes. The adhesive's power was temporary, however, meaning that, inevitably, some would be left in the office or other places where Nygma goes. The more bugs he drops in a place, the stronger the signal and the better the audio. Tim would apply a small dosing of these micromachines, his own design, to the front steps of Nygma's building both at times when Nygma tended to go out and before he would come back.

Tim had begun this process approximately two weeks ago.

By now, it was a relatively simple matter to sit atop the building across the street and listen in through an earbud. He has a motion tracking camera set up atop the edge of the roof, trained on the building and scanning back and forth at anything it activated, the image transmitted to a small screen in the left forearm of the Cardinal costume. In the meantime, Tim could try not to think about his recent heartaches and focus on crimefighting, despite the urge to write maudlin poetry and listen to the Smiths for four hours straight.

The gentle, delicate pitter-patter of rain is the only thing that deigns to interrupt the Cardinal's surveillance; that, and the unusual shadow that lurks just outside the motion tracking camera's range of vision. It's easy to miss, at first; a heap of darkness among the tangled black iron of the neighboring building's fire-escape -- nothing to distinguish it from the dark, washed out textures that seem so common throughout Gotham. Nothing to distinguish it, that is, until the eyes begin to glow.

Edward Nygma may never see those two pale, luminescent discs -- perfect circles -- that glow from outside his window, nearly 10 yards away. He was probably never intended to see them... not until they rise up -- and spring forward, closing the distance with a slow glide... until those glowing eyes are right up against his window. Briefly illuminated by a single stroke of lightning -- sharply outlining a face.

An owl.

The window explodes. Glass swells out and clatters across Nygma's floor, over his chair, his desk -- followed by rain, wind... and a cloaked figure. He is six feet; cloaked -- cut from shadow. Two small horns emerge from his head, with the brilliance of those eyes so bright they make it hard to see the rest of him -- a silhouette of shadow. Perhaps the only other detail that can be immediately made in the dimness of Nygma's room: The claw-like fingers.

They are very long, and very sharp.

"Edward Nygma," a voice rumbles -- emerging from the figure's throat as a husky, growling whisper. "The Court of Owls has selected you for death."

Edward only caught a glimpse of the shape before it came to his window because he got up to refill his scotch. It was a lucky moment, but Edward's not about to discount the weight of luck in his favor. It kept him out of the way of the spray of glass, and it enabled him to go for the gun in his desk drawer.

He doesn't ask questions. He doesn't engage in witty banter. He simply unloaded the clip of his M1911 at point blank range, and then does not in fact stick around to see if it's going to shake off the bullets or not. He's just slowing it down so he can get to the hall, get to a cane or two, and get the hell out of dodge.

Edward Nygma knows his limits. The Court of Owls? Totally past that limit.

Cardinal snaps out of his reverie quickly, vaulting up and over the side of the roof, reacting on pure adrenaline and training. He draws and fires a grappling talon, striking true at the top of Eddie's building and swinging towards the broken window in a sharp arc. He's irritated at himself for getting lost in his head, knowing Bruce would likely smack him around the head liberally with something large and heavy if he let Nygma get killed on his watch. With his free hand, he draws several blackout pellets from his belt, flinging them in advance into the broken window, "Predator," he says, the codeword activating the thermal imaging in the HUD of his customized crimson lenses, letting him track by heat signature while the pellets black out the lights.

It's funny; the intruder doesn't even bother to try and dodge the bullets.

For a moment, the dark figure does not move; those pale eyes simply watch as Nygma retreats to the hall. And then -- *FWP*. The claw-like hand flicks out; three small, gleaming knives slip through the darkness, slitting it like slashes of moonlight -- aiming to strike Nygma with slivers of metal no longer than one's pinky. They aim specifically for the legs; the lower and upper thigh -- the intent to dig deep into the muscle and force Nygma down with pain. Not a killing blow -- no, this creature is apparently intent on taking its time with Mr. Nygma.

Though that intent proceeds to go out the window -- no pun intended -- when a little birdy launches his way into the room, throwing those black-out pellets.

Loss of light doesn't seem to perturb the man; the sudden impact Cardinal makes on his back, however, does -- he buckles and rolls forward, thrown ahead -- to Nygma's right -- crashing through a table in a burst of splintering timber. At once, he's twisting around into a crouch, a clawed hand gouging deep valleys into the floor, dragging himself to a halt -- the glow of those eyes now set upon Cardinal, watching him closely even in the near darkness.

Two out of three knives agree: Edward's fast, but not fast enough. There's the sound of impact, but to his credit, Edward doesn't scream. He just grunts as he hits the runner that lines his second-floor hallway and growls as he tastes blood in his mouth. Bit the inside of his cheek, hitting the ground.

He can see the pellets, though, and realizes he's got compant. Thank God those throwing knives are slim and not serrated--it means that his 'friend' is buying him time to pull those blades out.

The figure outlined and standing up against the backdrop of the window probably doesn't seem very familiar. Cardinal's new costume and identity haven't had much of a chance to gain a reputation, even among someone as keyed into the scene as Eddie. Any questions of identity, however, are answered as, with a metallic springing sound, he extends his scarlet bo-staff to its full length, spinning it around his wrist. His voice is distorted, however, an electronic process disguising the natural tone and pitch of his voice into something deeper and more sinister, an underlaying of almost static underneath it making it harsh to the ear, "Hello there, Mr. Owl. How are you going to get to the center of that Tootsie Pop once I kick your teeth down your throat?" he says, his other hand outstretched and curling two fingers in a universal gesture.

"Come at me, bro."

The yellow eyes snuff out, briefly bathing the Talon in darkness -- though Cardinal's thermal imagining can still see a clear image of the figure. No cape; thicker than expected -- by the look of the paneling... some sort of high-density armor. Bulkier than Cardinal's own; trading off agility for sheer physical power and toughness -- probably how he managed to take several slugs from Nygma's pistol without even blanching.

But then the eyes flash back on -- with a vengeance. They explode with light -- internal LCDs firing with enough intensity to blind the unaware. But that's not all -- they also fire off a very brief, very intense electromagnetic burst of infrared -- enough to leave any thermal imaging viewer temporarily blinded beneath a false heat signature. It will last for half a second, at best; maybe not even that.

But that's all the Talon needs: In the next instant, he is swooping forward -- claws extended. He's well-trained; in the brief glimpse of motion Cardinal might catch as he pounces forward, he may recognize something familiar about the technique. One clawed hand reaches for a point just above the center of that bow, aiming to shove it forward against Cardinal's shoulder -- the other driving claws directly for his belly, in an attempt to dig their tips deep into his flesh.

Slim, slick blades blades pull free of Edward's thigh, but the pain remains. Those are going to leave a mark, and they're going to hamper his movement. But he's not about to leave the little birds to destroy his office (seriously, he's not made of money -- like SOME people, anyway).

The thing about ballistics armor is that it's usually plated kevlar. Kevlar bounces bullets, but it's basically woven plastic. That means what can't be punched through can be cut.

Edward staggered into his bedroom, and grabbed for his cane rack. He has several varieties of sword canes, and a couple with chain-blades in the handle. They were tricky as hell to use in an enclosed space, though, so he didn't pull them and instead went straight for the swords.

"Ro--Ca-- Whoever the hell you are!" He limped back toward the doorway, "heads up, three o'clock!" Time to help arm the kid.

The shock of the flare does stun Tim for a moment, making him recoil as it briefly washes out his thermal vision. That recoil is what saves him, to some degree, the sudden presence of the claw slashing at him barely detected to let him drop down. HIs hood is briefly hooked and shredded, flipping it back on his head as the blow to his staff seemingly makes him stumble.

Seemingly.

Pivoting at the waist and dropping into a crouch, his body bent backwards as he sweeps the staff around, the soft whoosh of air the only warning as he tries to crack it into the back of the assassin's skull, "Nygma. Get out of here," he calls, his voice distortion lost with the knockback of his hood.

The assassin rushes forward as Cardinal stumbles -- and as the bo swings round to deliver an attack to the back of his head, the hand that struck it lances forward -- up -- to deflect it with the side of his forearm. There is a loud k-THUNK of impact -- just as the clawed hand aims to grab the staff, the motion accompanied with a gentle whirrrrrrr...

It isn't just body-armor; it's power armor.

That grip is like steel -- and with it, the Talon aims to pull, twist, and throw Cardinal -- along with his staff -- over his shoulder, and directly at Nygma, at high speed. Just as the other clawed hand withdraws a small pellet from the side of his hip, stepping toward the shattered window...

"Impact armor, you redbreasted twit! Hitting him is going to do jack! *STAB HIM!*"

Seriously, he's the civilian, he shouldn't have to think of everything. Or, to, you know, dive wildly to the side to try and avoid being the pillow for the thrown body. He's only this lucky because he heard the armor powering up, and saw how the tide had turned. If poor 'Cardinal' gets tossesd about like a rag doll, he's going to have to get himself and the boy out of there. A tall order, considering he's bleeding profusely from the leg.

Thankfully, Cardinal was trained by a world class acrobat in Dick Grayson. Although he lacks Dick's natural athleticism, Tim made up for it the same way he does everything: hard work. He twists in the air, tucking his knees to his chest, his condensed center of gravity dropping his body faster and letting him control his landing. Still, it's a rough landing, his muscles screaming from the effort of stopping his momentum, "Shut up," Cardinal says simply. He reaches into his belt and draws one of his shuriken, the shape of a crimson bird with razor tipped edges, moving it across his body and spinning as he throws. It would take a practiced eye indeed to notice that he hooks something else on the shuriken as he throws it, a small pouch, the string hooked on a wing and dragged in its weight to strike with the weapon.

A small pouch of Cardinal's special 'gravel'.

The Talon's own little pellet is hurled directly to the ground -- in front of Nygma and Cardinal -- striking with a soft *fwpt*. And then:

KA-FWOOSH!

A brilliant flash of light swells up in front of them -- followed by smoke and sound, enough to deaden the eardrums. In the next instant, the Talon is plunging through the darkness of that rain-stricken window -- the blade of the crimson bird having struck him in the side, the needle-like tip piercing the kevlar weave. It will no doubt soon be pulled out -- although who's to say what will happen to the splattering of gravel that accompanies it?

Crawling over, Edward settled beside the now-fallen Cardinal. He reached out to help the young bird up, even if he was none too steady on his feet. "Are you alright? Not too battered?" he pulled him up. This is getting to be ridiculous. "My property value's going to plummet. HOA'll be up my ass."

Only Edward Nygma could narrowly escape death and bitch about it after.

Cardinal growls a bit in frustration, actually swatting Eddie's hand away as he pushes himself back up to his feet. Tim has having what is conventionally known as a really shitty day. "I'll live," he mutters, irritated at his hood being torn, his thighs aching, the tweak in his knee and the general pain in the ass of having yet another damn threat in the city. "Any idea what that was all about, Nygma?" he asks, shrinking his staff back to its compact form. He'd check the GPS soon enough to see if he could get a lead on the would-be assassin's whereabouts...

"Yes, absolutely." Edward was already limping away; if Cardinal didn't want help, he would not bother one iota more than he had to. Instead, he was already shucking his jacket and undoing his belt as he limped through the door of his bathroom. He continued to talk, even as he half-closed it.

"Aren't you going to pursue? Didn't put one of those fancy trackers on him?" He knows your bat-tricks! And your bird-tricks! "...you did, right? Cause if you didn't, I'm so telling 'Dad'." Edward doffed his pants and inspected his wounds; there was a very well stocked first aid kit in here, but wasn't about to show his Question Mark to the possibly-not-old-enough-to-drink former sidekick. He has standards, okay. Some riddles didn't need to be answered.

"He's the Talon. I got attacked by a mythical being today. Joker earlier in the week, Talon now... You're from Gotham, Redbreast. You know the old lines!" He tilted back, so his head was visible in the doorway and intoned:

"Beware the Court of Owls, that watches all the time,       ruling Gotham from a shadowed perch, behind granite and lime.        They watch you at your hearth, they watch you in your bed,        speak not a whispered word about them, or they'll send The Talon for your head!"

He laughed, and then leaned forward again, packing the punctures in his thigh and taping them tight. They were going to need sutures. But, later. "Now grab me a pair of pants from my bedroom! Dressed on the west wall, middle drawers, and we'll get on it!"

And Just like that, he's invited himself on the case to pursue. And why not? Joker and Talon in the last week is practically legitimizing everything he's ever said. He is that good, he is that important, he is totally arrived on the hero scene. This is practically his vigilante debutantte's ball.

Cardinal considers for a long moment. Normally, he's the gentle one, the compassionate one, the least vengeful of the Bat clan. If anything, he's the most likely to be sympathetic to Edward Nygma. Tim is a detective, a puzzle solver, intellectual by nature. He got his job by wit and skill, by solving a mystery that even Edward Nygma himself has never parsed out, when he was only 9 years old. So, wouldn't it make sense for Tim to nod, help Eddie out, get him dressed and sit down to consult with the ex-villain, get cracking on the case?

Well, there are two problems with that.

One, Tim is filling in for Batman. Bruce's recovery from Joker's attack will take however long it takes, and, until then, part of Tim's job was to keep the fear of God and Bat in the mouths and minds of Gotham. Two, Tim has, as previously mentioned, had a really bad day, starting with getting dumped by his girlfriend over breakfast all the way up to standing here and looking down at the Riddler taping his thigh.

Which is how Cardinal ends up kicking Eddie's leg out from under him and stomping his foot on those punctures, grinding his heel in. "Even assuming you're not a half-addled lunatic...a possibility I'm not entirely dismissing...just why would you have attracted the attention of the Owls?"

He's getting really goddamn tired of this.

Suddenly no longer on the lip of his tub, Edward is on his back in an instant--but he doesn't scream for the Cardinal, either. Instead, he lashes out with his other foot; pain's never been the best motivator for Edward Nygma. If anything, it just reminds him of all the reasons he wanted to see the Bats ground into dust:

At their hearts, they're all bullies.

"Well, you just screwed yourself out of me telling you anything. Not that your timely arrival doesn't tell me you don't have me under surveillance already-- I can shake you, little man. Next time? Tell Batman if he wants what I have to say he can come himself." Edward's teeth bared in a snarl, his excitement effervescing into a frothy, heady rage.

Cardinal leans down and forward, his head cocking, the red lenses of his mask gleaming slightly, "Nygma, you only have yourself to blame. You're the one who created all the distrust, all the havoc. You think you can just snap your fingers, rent out an office and just declare yourself a good guy? Of course, you're being watched. You act as if it's unjustified, as if you're offended. You have toyed with the lives of human beings for your own amusement, Edward Nygma. That isn't something that can be undone with a lititle gumshoe action," he says, stepping away. Still, there is a moment. "I lost my temper. I"m sorry about the stomping. But don't play the martyr, Eddie, and don't whine just because you want some facetime with Batman to prove you're still worth noticing." he says. He walks to the window, "By the way, you're welcome for saving your life," he says, firing off his grapple and swinging away.