2013.04.23 - Falling Down

A clear night in Gotham is far from being a regular occurance, particularly one with a full, bright moon that keeps the steets well lit, even those whose streetlamps haven't seen repair in years. It's a rare night of safety for a certain segment of the so-called criminals Mia meets with regularly to collect intel.

Mia herself is dressed in such a way that she can fit in amongst Gotham's street kids. The kind of stuff she wore in Star City, when she wasn't doing jobs for Richie. Layers of thrift store finds, worn in a very distinctly not-hipster-ironic sort of way. The girls she's talking to are... wearing significantly less, despite the chill in the air on an early spring night. "Yeah, yeah, they're all good," she's saying of the cheap cosmetics pouches she's handing out. Inside them, condoms, dental dams, clean needles, mouthwash, travel-sized toiletries, basic first aid supplies, and contact cards for various womens' shelters, drug rehab clinics, and needle exchange programs.

"No, no, it's cool. If I can't get you outta here, then I'm gonna keep you as safe as I can, alright? Any one of you can call me if you think you're in trouble- yeah, yeah, I know you've heard it before. And /definately/ call me if you hear about something really bad that might be about to go down, alright? Give me a chance to at least take you out of the line of fire when it does." Her cover with these girls is that she's a social worker involved in a program to assist girls and young women involved in the sex trade.

The girls are victims as much as they are criminals. They're also remarkable sources for intel. The men who... hire them for their services don't even see them as human. They think nothing of letting details about planned hits, big drug deals, and other sinister plots slip in front of someone who is not a person to them.

And so, Speedy has her thumb on the pulse of a particularly skeevy vein in Gotham's criminal underworld. And, even better, she actually /has/ gotten some girls off the streets and into safe homes outside the city. Win-win.

Crime Alley is not the sort of place that people go on purpose. No, it's the sort of place the desperate people go when there's nowhere else left. The prostitutes, the homeless and the addicts all congregate here. Some simply have no choice, others persist here out of a strange reverence for Park Row's glory days. Some come here to ply their trade. To others still, it holds a much deeper significance.

Nearby to where Mia hands out her good deeds is a small alley, a seven foot crevasse between two grimy tenements. It is unlit and strewn with trash, not the sort of place anyone opts to dwell even here in the Bowery. It would be below notice if it weren't for the sudden, savage crash of garbage cans as something heavy falls into it from above.

The Red Hood has been running, favoring one leg as he limped across the rooftops of Gotham. One arm pinned to his side, his head swimming, his breathing labored and like fire within his chest. The jump would across the gap between buildings would have been nothing to him normally but he's exhausted and in pain. He misses his footing, tumbling down several storeys into the black abyss between the rundown slums.

His training takes over, one arm stretches out to grasp a rusted fire escape just long enough to slow his descent. His body thuds off the brick wall on the side of the alley, landing heavily amidst a pile of discarded trash cans. He simply lays there, consciousness briefly lost.

"Sorry girls, gotta go," she gives one of the young women she's gotten to know better the duffel bag over her shoulder, filled with more of the cosmetic bag street-safety kits. "You know who needs them, I trust you," she says. With that, she runs in the direction of the sound of the crash, and quickly comes to the alley occupied only by the unconscious vigilante. "Fucknuggets." She kicks the cans and as much of their contents away before crouching down beside the Red Hood. Before she makes any attempts to move him, she tries to gauge how much of the fall's damage made it through the armour. She can't feel anything broken in his neck. Okay. That's good. But she can't exactly feel his ribs through the kevlar, or whatever it is he's protecting himself with. Best to try to wake him up than the alternative- she is /so/ not undressing him, even partially. "Hey. Hey." She's almost sure that there's some trap built in to the helmet if she tries to remove it, so she just raps her knuckles against the part of it covering his forehead with another "Hey!"

The Red Hood simply lays there as Mia feels to see what's broken, reeling though his chest rises and falls to show he is still breathing. As she knocks on his helmet, however, his hand raises up swiftly to grab her by the wrist. He's strong, even like this, but he's aiming to disable more than harm. Simply trying to keep her hand away from him.

“Get off,” he wheezes, voice thick with pain as he tries to stand only to collapse when his left knee refuses to take the weight and buckles, “Fine.”

"I'm sure I will later, but you're really not my type," she says, forcing her arm out of his grip as she stands. "God, what happened to /you?/- Wait, only tell me if knowing about it won't make me an accessory to something." She sighs- the guy knows who she is, so there's no point in trying to play the part of the civilian. "Hold on. I'll be back with a ride."

Her bike is hidden nearby, but she doubts that's going to be practical at all, even if making him ride bitch would be fun as hell.

She leaves the alley, and returns a few minutes later with a really, really nice ride. That she knows for a fact is owned by a pimp she finds particularly detestable. "Can you get into the back on your own, or should I carry you?"

"Just get in the fucking car, Hood. I'm not helping you because you need it, I'm helping because I'm a decent human being. And because the owner of this car finding it returned with missing parts, broken windows, and a giant bloodstain in the backseat will be /hilarious/. Come on, let the tiny little girl help you without turning into a whiny dick about it."

“Keep calling me Dick,” the Red Hood begins, gritting his teeth, “Break your jaw.”

Nevertheless, he does what she asks. He knows her, or at least believes he does, and she doesn't seem the sort who'll throw him out of the car at the nearest police station. If she does? Well, he's been in worse spots before.

He plants both hands on the ground, pushing himself up to his feet and holding his weight on his right leg. He manages to get enough momentum up to move towards the car, collapsing backwards into the back seat and silently relishing the chance to stop moving. He looks up at the interior of the car, hissing painful gasps of breath through his teeth.

“Watley Street,” he demands, between rasps, “Go there.”

As if she'd even trust the Gotham police if she /didn't/ have deap-seated issues with authority and a general distrust of police officers to begin with. "Okay then, bitch," she responds, oh-so-chipperly, and heads towards his designated destination. The interior of the car is almost classy- while this pimp is still a horrible human being, he at least has good enough taste to avoid shaggy fake fur and bling'd-out anything. The interior is all buttery soft white leather and chrome.

The car slows once she turns onto the street he requested.

“Here,” the Hood barks, ignoring the jibe, “Stop.”

The car pulls up alongside a rundown building that looks just like any of the others on the street. The windows are unlit. It's the sort of place that not even the homeless lodge in for fear of the floor giving out beneath them or the ceiling caving in.

He jostles the handle of the back seat, attempting to open the door and climb out even before the car has stopped. He doesn't ask for help nor expect it, practically crawling in the direction of the old building's front stoop.

"Oh, for fuck's sake," she says, coming around and opening the door, and reaching in to pull him out in as much of a painless way as she can manage. She resists the urge to just put him in a fireman's carry, instead, lowering her body in order to wrap whatever arm looks less injured in order to provide support to help him get out of the car. "Okay, this lone-wolf-I-need-no-help bullshit's gotta stop for at least the next few hours, okay? It's not telling the world you're tough and untouchable- it's telling me you're a fucking moron. Keep it up and you won't even get a lollipop after the stitches."

"Don't need stitches," the Hood mutters, though he moves purposefully to put her on his left side when she goes to help him, "Bandages. Pain meds. That's it."

Something about the way he says it seems to note that he's not being tough. He's been injured before by the sound of it, he knows what treatments cure what ills. His knee is swollen and he's made a point of keeping her on the side of him that doesn't have the ear which is trickling blood.

"Ruptured eardrum. Six weeks, may need antibiotics. Broken ... ngh ... ribs. Three or four. Pain meds is all I can ... do for those. Five weeks."

He continues to walk, accepting her help now albeit relcutantly.

"Knee," he pauses, as though testing it before hissing through his teeth, "Sprained, not broken. Bandages and compress. Four weeks."

As they get to the stoop he reaches out a hand to strike the door frame, hitting it just so as to make the door swing open. Inside is dark and dusty, much of the floor and ceiling has rotted away.

"Downstairs. Basement."

She lets him lean as much weight on her as she needs as she helps him downstairs. "Okay. I take it you've got plenty in stock, then. Let's get to the bandaging. And I kinda wanna see you on some painkillers. You could maybe even be almost personable with enough in your system."

“You'll be,” the Red Hood takes a deep breath, exhaling noisily as the closest he'll likely come to a joke is uttered, “Disappointed.”

They make their way downstairs, the Hood lapsing into silence as he focuses on keeping himself together despite the pain. He's no stranger to it, of course. He's had worse. Much worse. But it's been a long time since he was beaten mentally and physically and it punishes him. It's his penance for underestimating the Batman.

The stairs are rickety but they show signs of having been recently reinforced, the boards letting off a subtly different-sounding creak beneath each footfall. Down below is a heavy steel door that has rusted badly in parts, barring the way. He unlocks it with a combination, shielding it with his body so as to keep a secret. Creating a secret in payment for the one lost when he removed his hood.

The door swings open, revealing a dimly lit basement cell. Not big, a map of Gotham occupies one wall with a series of photographs of various organized criminals. Several have red crosses through them. In one corner is a cot, which he immediately makes for.

“First aid kits over there.” He points.

She fetches the kit, and brings it over to the cot, and begins to fish out the supplies she needs. Bandages, medical tape, alcohol wipes, and finally, pulls on a pair of latex gloves. She's well-practiced in the art of providing first aid while being positive. "Any of this armor going to bite me if I try to take it off you? Not that I'm particularly eager to see you out of it, but bandages do tend to do better when applied to skin."

“Spare me the disgusted talk. I get it.”

The Hood shrugs his jacket off, wincing with the pain of pulling his arms out of the sleeves. Beneath he wears a stylized flak jacket that he unbuckles, letting it fall away so that just the black undershirt remains. The last vestiges of his armor are discarded, though he keeps the small domino mask on for obvious reasons.

She sighs. "Why do the jerks always look like underwear models?" she mutters, eyes cast upwards to a god who apparently has a sick sense of humour. Despite her snarky bedside manner, she actually is quite gentle as she washes and bandages any open wounds, and tends to the worst of his injuries. "Man, some asshole really did a number on you," she says. "These bruises are going to look /nasty/ in the morning."

The man who calls himself the Red Hood simply sits there, staring at the wall as Mia does the first aid necessities to help him along the road to recovery. His mind is occupied. There's a lot to consider and more planning to do. He won't be walking properly for weeks yet, no doubt, but he can't let it slow his progress.

Mia's comments simply cause him to raise an eyebrow, eventually focusing his attention back on there, “I was there. I know.”

"What, you actually are an underwear model? That's one hell of a secret identity," she says, purpusefully misunderstanding what comment he's responding to. "The constant bruises and scars have /got/ to make that a difficult career path." She smirks. "You want me to grab you a clean shirt?"

“How does Queen put up with you?”

Nevertheless, it doesn't sound as though he is all that bothered or annoyed by her. The question about a fresh shirt garners a curt nod from him as he gestures to a duffel bag propped up against the opposite wall.

“I'll be fine now. You can go.”

"Please, charming, bubbly... maybe a little overy sarcastic at times, but I am, in fact a treat to be around." She grins as she pops open a bottle of painkillers, and puts a couple pills in his hand. "/And/ I'm giving you drugs."

“Hmph,” the Hood grunts, looking at the pills in his hands a moment and then popping them in his mouth without water, “Thanks.”

The pills taken, he leans back against the wall and gingerly puts his leg up. His hands fold over his stomach, eyes fixed on Mia just to make sure.

“You wanted to be a decent human being. You've done that now.”

"And I admit, I'm still a curious human being. To be fair, /you/ clearly have, or had some interest in me. Enough to do all that creepy stalker homework about me." She leans against a nearby wall. "And it seems pretty obvious you understand how much of a violation that is to someone in a mask. Especially to someone like /me/." "You know things about me that even GA doesn't. Things I don't /like/ people, even ones that I do trust, knowing. It's clear you have those kinds of secrets too, and that you may put on a giant jerk act, you do possess the capacity for human empathy. You wouldn't do what you do if you didn't."

Her bubbly snark act is obviously dropped, here. Also dropped is a cheap pre-paid cell- with no tracking devices. "There's a single number stored in that. One day, when you're not recovering from a severe beating and a fall off a roof, you're going to call it. And we're going to meet, and you're going to show me exactly how you found out what you did. And you will help me make it so no one can ever find that information again."

She starts walking towards the door, then stops, and turns back towards him.

"You're clearly not an evil person, violent acts and death toll aside. So those aren't demands. They're my predictions for actions taken by another decent human being, who has to at least feel some guilt about inflicting that kind of pain on another one. You can't erase the knowledge you have about me, but you can at least try to earn the right to have it."

And then she's gone.