View source for 2012-02-25 - A Game of Shadows

{{Logsummary|
Title=A Game of Shadows
|Summary=Micah Gibraldi is just one man; who hope does he have against a pair of infiltrating monsters? But all is not as it seems - and three creatures of the night all end up learning a little about each other.
|Who=[[Batman]], [[Cassandra Cain]], [[Witching Hour Lurker|Sherlock Dracula]]
|Date=2012-02-25
|Where=South Darby - Gotham County
|}}


Located on the western outskirts of Gotham City, the South Darby area is known predominantly for its airport and associated shipping businesses; a hub for commercial outreach that few choose to occupy on a residential level, only the lower middle-classes too poor to afford one of the nicer suburbs but somewhat above the crime-rife districts that dominate Gotham proper. The 'almosts' live here, safe and secure if not entirely free from hustle, bustle and the noise and smog generated by the sprawling airport.

All of these facts - smog aside - also happen to make it a perfect location for police safe-houses, which is precisely why Micah Gibraldi now finds himself relocated from the recent dangers of his ravaged building in the Financial District to a cream two-storey domicile a short ways north of Archie Goodwin International. The businessman's stress-marked face paints an ugly, dissatisfied picture as he sits in the master bedroom, nursing a glass of fine malt whiskey as he stares out through the iron bars cladding the room's windows.

Down below, a trio of cops deal cards over the kitchen table, smoke hanging thick in the air with the aroma of extinguished cigarette butts and cheap beer clogging their nostrils. It's been a long few days, and though crime rages in the city, nothing has hinted toward any further interest in the man upstairs; which at least dissuades the duty officers from taking too much care of the interior. Outside is a different matter, the property's lawn rung by out-facing searchlights and a patrol of a further five men. Two stand by the front door, one cradling an assault carbine, the other also smoking, but keeping one hand upon a holster at his hip.

Despite appearances within, they're not taking any chances. Which to the wary eye makes the obvious security hole all the more glaring; someone's clearly not done their work properly, as the front and sides of the house remain covered at all times - one officer patrolling each flank. The final officer however, an auburn-haired woman as well-armed as the others, seems to be tasked with covering the entire periphery. This leaves the back lawn open for perhaps thirty seconds at a time as the routes fail to properly overlap, leaving a route free to a set of French windows leading into the lounge. It's connected to the kitchen by an always-open door but... it's a hole, all the same. Sloppy work. Very sloppy.


It was no wonder that so many of his kind saw the world in such morbid metaphors and descriptions. Their sole diet consisted of the life force of other living creatures. (Well, you could technically juice a corpse, but oh god what it left in your mouth truly wasn't worth it except for dire situations.) And of those living creatures, the freshest, the sweetest, hands down the most rewarding taste, was that of other humans. Your own flesh and blood, those things that looked so much like you, that you used to be descended from, are now the most appetizing of targets to you...well, to others. Abel had heard of a few vampire philosophies regarding vampires as a seperate species, some 'higher evolution', but well...

"Bollocks."

He muttered aloud, quietly, as he swallowed dryly. He hadn't been feeding on humans this morning. No, he'd been all the way on the other side of the spectrum, opposite most aliens, and had been drinking pig's blood. Part of him would rather try to survive on vegetables and dead meat rather than pig's blood, but he downed it all the same, recalling the taste with a grimace. But, it was a sacrifice he knew he had to make. More than that, he -wanted- to make it, as the closest thing he could do to fighting an addiction he had to live with. And he'd already been in his head too long, having missed two previous windows to leap down and make his move, and so he shook his head, getting back into the game.

Gun powder, tobacco, booze, yes, these were police, alright. And Gotham's finest seemed no different from England's, except these were armed to the teeth. Honestly, he rather liked that, despite being possibly on the receiving end if he messed up. But, no time to dwell on that now. He watched the shapely auburn haired lovely walk away, and there was his chance, not seeing anyone watching the back yard! He leapt from nearby trees, not bothering running through the woods, but rather springing, right toward the middle of the yard, and if he landed safely, he'd blitz toward the French Windows, trying to try them as quickly and quietly as he could. He didn't want to break them, but would apply enough gentle force to pry it open...if it wasn't locked, while all the while, repeating in his head, 'This isn't their home, this isn't their home, this isn't their home...' So, it meant he could technically come inside, right? Right!


The question of species is a pivotal and deeply-affecting one for most of the human race; a genotype so jealously guarded that they've truly come to consider themselves superior to their animal cousins. That very phrase points to the crux of the issue - 'animal', as though they are not, as if by merely believing themselves different they cease to be mere flesh and blood. Flesh gains sanctity. Blood is sacred. For those who see it otherwise, who perhaps see the truth, there's a third term: monster. Man is not animal, and while monster may be man in shape, in spirit it's something else. A creature that comes in many forms.

Of them all, perhaps only a handful require invitation.

"Alright, everybody in!"

As monsters go, this makes Abel quite polite. At least he needs that verbal and emotional signal, the welcome mat that declares 'my life is yours, my blood is your blood'. Perhaps what makes him monster is that invitation can be gained by trickery-- if the moustachioed policeman now shoving his own stack of chips across the kitchen table knew that his seemingly innocent words would reach one more set of ears, perhaps he'd choose their structure more wisely. But it's done and said: everybody in. All are welcome. Come at me, bro.

"You're going down, Kazinsky," chuckles a stocky female sat beside her peer as he smugly glances at her over his fanned hand of cards. Her own chips join the central pile, as the other two cops disguise their own expressions; one allowing his gaze to linger away from the table as he plays utterly uncaring, lifting his beer to his lips and glancing distantly through the open set of doors leading to the lounge.

Moonlight spills into a patch on the floor as the French doors slide open effortlessly, smoothly. Quietly.

Getting through might still be tricky.


He slipped inside quickly, closing the window behind him, locking it, and shifting over to lean against the wall, hopefully out of sight in the darkness. He pondered briefly, able to listen to the police as well as if he'd just been sitting next to them at the table...He moved patiently, able to keep himself in an uncomfortable crouched position that would have wrecked the knees of anyone else, and while a more professional vigilante -might- have been able to detect his movements, these poor sods were just not up to the task, it seemed. Definitely not used to anything other than regular humans. He waited until the apathetic young man finally blinked, and in that moment, did his damndest to dart up the stairs, hopefully past his field of vision by the time they opened again. He was slinking up the steps, and if he wasn't detected, he'd stop a moment at the top of the stairs, listening to the hallway and trying to pick up where exactly his quarry was...


"What was that?"

The voice comes quick and sharp from the same stout woman who last spoke, her tone rankled with disgust. A chair scrapes as she abruptly stands in the moment that Abel chooses to move, the man previously watching now lowering his beer with a startled 'hm?' as he glances to his superior. "Oh god, Kazinsky!" Comes a third voice, this from the tall, lithe young cop seated with his back to the door. He's on his feet too, backing up close to the doorway; still with his back turned. Odd, that, until...

"Jesus Christ, I can put up with you being a /smug bastard/ but dropping bombs like that? Gordon should bust your ass down to the little leagues, stick you with the useless choads in Bludhaven where you belong! Ugh!"

Kazinsky is bellowing a laugh immediately, loud and dirty, the atmosphere giving way to ribald banter as Abel manages to get past after all - unseen and unheard. There's luck; and there's pure great timing, a combination of the two leading him to the dark stairwell. Thus does man so often let the monster in-- unwitting, too focused on his fellows to notice the beast in the gloom. It's not the first time, and it won't be the last. What's crucial to this moment, however, is that tonight? It's the second time.

The Lurker's quiet step brings him to the top of the stairs, and he'll find himself surrounded only by a dim, suffocating silence; for perhaps five, maybe six seconds, until it's broken by a frantic coughing from the master bedroom as Gibraldi sups too hard on his sixth glass of whiskey, doubling over and slamming a palm against his chest. It's not the kind of cough that proves fatal, or even more than troubling, but it's a disruption - the kind of thing that the likes of Abel can use to their advantage.

This is precisely what happens, as from the pitch-dark corner above the stairs, dense black becomes a blur of shifting grayscale, any associated noise slight enough to be covered by Gibraldi's indecent choking. With speed approaching the superhuman, a glove-clad hand closes on his shoulder, forming the fulcrum by which his previously-unseen assailant lands upon the landing directly before him. Head to toe in ebon cloth, the figure is at least identifiable as short and feminine; a fact easily attested by the shape of her face above the partly-concealing fold of a black scarf over the lower half. He'll get a quick look, perhaps...

Before the other arm finishes cycling into a brutal palmheel strike to the throat.

Even if it weren't so dark, seeing it coming would be a trial.

Probably just as well it's not lethal - someone like him should feel that it's been pulled, just enough, to entrap the breathing and silence a scream without immediately laying a man out. But the strength behind it tells what could have been; whoever his fellow lurker is, they're a potent force. Certainly no cop.


He patiently listened, a smile reaching his lips as he heard the coughing and smelled the liquor, it was like a trail, leading him right where he wanted to go. Upon taking a single step, however, a form had dropped down, a capeclad, almost Ninja-ish figure, and even in this moment of surprise, Abel had to say he rather approved. But that was before a palm came surging toward him, crashing against his adam's apple, and slightly collapsing his throat. His throat jerked back from the blow, head snapping downward...but downward more than it should, as he aimed his chin to trap her hand, trying to painfully crush the meat from her thumb and forefinger, and make no mistake. He wasn't using his strength to cripple her hand...but he'd let her -think- he might for a moment.

Now, if this worked, then a split second later he'd jerk his head back, releasing her limb, but past him. He wanted her to stumble, to be off balance for his curving right hand that tried to bury itself in her diaphram. His vocal cords already recovering, he'd snarl and speak in a low tone of voice.

"Now, there is no need for hostility, my dear, you could have just put on some tea. Or perhaps coffee, I'm not opposed to coffee!"

He shouted, as much as you could while trying to make no noise for fear of alerting the police downstairs, but he felt he could risk it. After all, as hard as he usually hit, and how he hit her, how could a small human girl come back from that? Truth be told, he started to feel a bit bad, but he pushed that aside.

This is, of course, assuming any of this went according to plan.


The thing about people - actual, honest-to-goodness human beings - is they're actually very predictable. Emotional responses aside, their bodies are all made to a certain uniform standard; pieces are in place that can be found intact and vulnerable in ninety nine point nine-nine-nine cercent of the population. There are rules in nature, rules in animals, and Cassandra Cain is amongst the quiet minority who see mankind as nothing more than precisely that; another living species. Another living species that can be made to die. She's been meticulously sculpted into a walking weapon with exactly this in mind. She's almost perfect.

But the thing about Abel Thatcher, is he's not exactly 'human'. Monsters are different.

Monsters don't play by our rules.

Hazel eyes widen in the pitch, those pleasant globes all too apparent to the vampire, flanked as they are by the darkness on every side - her raven bangs above, the scarf below, and the hallway to left and right. Before her is something blacker even than those, something she'd never have reckoned on. Because as her hand is trapped, she's instantly and painfully aware that what she's facing is unlike anything she has ever seen.

A rare grunt escapes her lips as she stumbles from the landing toward the downward stair, an air of calm settling about her posture in spite of the immediate imbalance. If she's worried about losing her hand, nothing in the nuance of her form shows it; in fact, she /relaxes/, just malleable enough to be guided with copious ease by her counter-assailant without ever relinquishing control. Losing is a choice like any other. To believe oneself beaten is how one loses - she knows that, so deeply that it's instinctive.

That split second passes, she's released, and it's like a switch has been hit. Her body twists in mid-air, a rotation of the hips carrying the centre away from the incoming strike-- it lands, but at an angle that prevents collapse of the diaphragm, the blow scoring a fierce line across the taut internal muscles to one side. It should still hurt, but the girl doesn't cry out. She simply plants her extended hand to the step before her falling face, and in the next split second has turned her impending collision into a tight flip, whipping herself up and over until she lands a few feet back on the landing, facing this strange intruder.

No mere human would see, but as his words soak in, she actually smiles beneath the covering scarf.

Then she rises to her feet, exhaling softly, falling into a solidly rooted combat stance.

By no coincidence, she's directly between Abel and the master bedroom.

His move.


As it turned out, he didn't have much to worry about, that body shot, while strong, was specifically aimed not to kill, or disable beyond a few minutes or so. But it didn't even do that, as the masked girl he didn't know as Cassandra Cain took it like she takes anything else. With silent acceptance while she plans past it. He'd most likely be greatly impressed if he knew all this, but he just saw a girl wearing a scarf for a mask, looking up at him with wickedly expressive eyes. Well, he found them expressive, in any case. But it didn't matter, he had a person to question, and she was in his way. And so, dropping down, he gave a grin as he launched his leg-

No, wait. She'd already popped a leg up, she was going to hop right over that and bean him in the head or try to break his leg. He certainly didn't need to hobble all the way back home before daybreak. And so, he went back to a standing position, and with a shrug, merely darted to his immediate right, planning to spring off the wal-

No, can't do that, she just moved toward the other wall. They were just going to leap in a stalemate. So, he just moved to the center, slowly and calmly, and decided he'd fake her out. Slowly moving his hand behind his back, to make like he was going for a weapon in his bel-

And she was calmly moving her arms, already in the motions of quite mercilessly disarming him.

At this point...he just laughed, shaking his head and chuckling, with his face in one palm..finally, he looked up, gesturing toward Gibraldi's room.

"Alright...may I PLEASE go see Mr. Gibraldi, and ask him why someone would want him dead? I'll buy you a new scarf, 'kiddo', what do you say?"

It seemed a good place to mention, that he almost sounded patronizing whenever he used American slang. Like he was playing along with some joke or something. It seemed the joke was on him at the moment, however...


To any outside observer, it might look like a game. A deadly one, perhaps, but a game nonetheless. This is precisely what it is to Cassandra; or was, in more ignorant days. With each motion by the tall dark stranger she sees in echo a ghost of her father, matching each movement like a perfect shadow, the counters flowing as simply as though she were seven years old once more. Her face shows an innocence to match, her eyes not bearing the typical hardness of a killer - though she's far from enjoying herself either.

Most people would be retreating already, or getting dumb and angry, pulling weapons.

Abel's laughter is the next surprise in store for the raven-haired girl, his body language screaming the facts behind his words and gestures. She knows it's not a trick, and her guard immediately relaxes, arms drifting to her sides and head drawing up as she takes a step back. A man like him should know she's not incautious in doing so - it would take precious steps to reach her, allowing preparation she would barely need. Even reading the intent of others, it's best to play the wary game. People can be surprising. Monsters even moreso.

The Lurker's attempt at slang causes a frown to crease Cassie's brow, and a disbelief crosses what little is visible of her expression that borders on being outright normal for a girl her age. Eyebrows raise, mouth tweaking into a tight little smirk beneath the scarf, and then it's gone as business resumes. Her face is once more flat and unreadable, and she communicates instead through motion; a shake of the head. No.

She pauses for a moment, then, before her mouth opens and closes. She should say more. He seems...

Well, besides 'strange' he's also not communicating any form of threat. Batman wouldn't approve but--

"Why?" She finally manages, voice muffled and oddly halted.

As though she had to think very carefully about the single word.


He visibly sighed when she said 'no', at this point he -was- a little frustrated. He glanced out at the far window, noting the time of night...didn't seem too bad so far, but he would definitely need to make haste if this dragged on too long. He paced to and fro while watching her, not anything rushed or too fast, nothing that said he was about to lose his cool...but something to keep his body working, while his mind ran and he thought. He glanced at her when she spoke her almighty word, and he shrugged a little while speaking.

"Because, I suppose I'm altruistic by nature. And far too damn curious. You see, I'm a detective, and the way a detective solves crimes, is by investigating clues, and questioning witnesses, or people important to the crime or mystery. Since it's Gibraldi who is marked for death, if I can question him, I can figure out why. If I can figure out why, maybe I can figure out who. And if I figure out who, then perhaps I can stop them from bringing their insidious plot to fruition, thus capping another curious case, and basking in the warm glow of doing what I was put on this planet to do. And that's why, dear girl, as much as I'm starting to like you, I need you to step aside, so that I can do my job. Believe you me, I do NOT want this to resort to fisticuffs. So. For the last time. Please, step aside, and let me do my job?"


Detective. There's that word again. Though she watches mutely, controlling her expression from any betraying nuance as the frustrated vampire speaks his piece, Cassandra is taking in every word as best she can - and more, seeing how he enunciates each with his body. Man, animal, or monster-- none communicate by noise alone. A pronouncement of faith carries a reassurance within the form, a declaration of pleasure - of enjoyment - prompts a chemical reaction that echoes to the outer shell. People give away so much, even those who believe they give nothing. In life or unlife, those reactions remain. Instinctive. Reflective. Real.

At the word 'fisticuffs', the girl finally betrays her own thoughts, puckering thoughtfully as she tries to wrap a non-verbal brain around a word she's never heard before; even from a distance. Gears shift and turn quickly in her mind, but turn up nothing, so she tries to reason the word by its placement, and his.

"Oh!" She suddenly exclaims, actually surprising herself in the process. There's not much she's capable of voicing, but a few things she understands with absolute crystal clarity. Her form responds immediately, snapping into a loose and playful stance, guard high with hands half-closed to fists, one foot drifting across the floor until she's adopted a rapid and fluid cat-like stance. Muay Thai.

"Fight," she enunciates, bobbing her head in pleasure at reaching the conclusion.

And then it's gone, as she breathes out and loses the stance, arms folding about her chest. A second nod is sent with gaze flickering downward for an instant - indicating both herself and the landing she's stood upon. The meaning should be fairly clear, given the solidity of her posture. She was here before the nightstalking detective - she's a sentry. A single word makes it a little bit clearer, "Work."

This is /her/ job. It seems they're still at an impasse, at least until there's a sudden *click*.

The door behind Cassandra cracks open, holding upon a chain as a face and a single eye presses against the gap of light filtering out into the landing. Gibraldi. It's hard to make a speech like Abel made and not draw some alert to the proceedings, after all, and one doesn't get to be incredibly wealthy by being entirely ignorant. Unseen but certainly heard by at least one person in the corridor, he's fumbling behind the panelled wood to flip the safety from a small personal sidearm. "H-Hello?" Comes a voice wracked by nerves only mitigated at all by the drifting fumes of fine malt whiskey. Scotch courage. "Sergeant?"


He watched her carefully, and he had to admit, her personality was just infectious. He even played along with her when she mimed her Thai Boxing stance(as he thought of it), he got into one of his one, though it might be alien to her. Then again, it might not, who knew? One fist was extended outward, while another curled close to the body, legs apart, knees bent a little, this wax 'boxing', but long before a lot of the changes and revisions. This was history, right there. And after a moment, he too dropped the stance, raising, and his eyes widened as he heard Gibraldi start to stir...he cursed to himself, and instantly realized he wouldn't be able to question the man, not like he wanted. There wasn't enough time, there wouldn't be enough time to rush past her, open the door, close the door, lock it, calm down the old man, talk to him, take time to hypnotize him, and then safely get out of there without alerting suspicion to himself. There was just no way. And so, Abel dropped to a half-crouched, feinting like he was going to feint left past her and toward the old man in some feeble attempt. Instead, when he started pointing right...he actually blitzed in that direction, tapping into that Vampiric Speed that made him dangerous at moments, and doing his best to simply rush past her. Again, the intention wasn't to harm..but he knew that was difficult to do with her to begin with. He wanted to merely 'shove' her aside, while running faster than a cheetah, aiming straight for the window at the end of the hall. He wanted to leap through it, and into the night where he would make his daring, and damn stylish, escape.

Of course, that really all depended on her, didn't it?


Normally, a jetfighter is not the subtle way to approach a protected safehouse. Since when does the Dark Knight do anything /normal/, though? The bat-shaped stealthcraft hovers high, high above the unassuming two-story, lost in the overpowering Gotham night and the drifting, shadowy clouds. The baffled sounds don't even really reach the ground; but Abel likely hears it. A whine, not attribuable to any known jet engine, almost melodic, where it eludes its own countermeasures. It's impossible to silence such a craft, even with the technology available to Batman; but it comes close.

None of that is likely to ease the Lurker's mind, even if he does get past the ultra-trained, stoic guarding machine assigned to Gibraldi's safety. After all, the ultramodern jetcraft hovering on high is a foreboding sign that even nastier folk are watching over the watchwoman. It doesn't even take them long to arrive, the guardian angels on black wings. Far above the clouds, the canopy of the Batwing opens. Whatever is released is lost in the night, on the wind, almost impossible to track.... for most visual spectrums, at least. Down a zipline similarly black against the night, something that sounds like a squirrel lands on the roof above.


Fast. Cassie knows fast; she is fast. But not like this...

Her immediate reaction to Gibraldi is to remain completely motionless and silent. The patch of light filtering from his bedroom door falls well past her, only enhancing her simple costume's camouflaging function - she is the shadows, she is the night. And the man within has absolutely no idea she's there. So long as he didn't open the door fully, she could stand for as long as it took. Her immediate assumption is that this interesting and rather talkative Englishman will start to introduce himself-- what she's not certain of, is whether he's noted the prescence of a firearm.

But her reasoning is for naught, as he makes that feint and then rushes forward. A tilt of her head expresses something - surprise, or intrigue perhaps - though her thoughtful stare does not leave his face, or at least the place she estimates it to be as he flows forward in immeasurably fast motion. There's no gasp, no grunt, nothing beside a gentle yielding as he reaches out to push her back; and then she's simply gone in that same instant that he is, drawing a long and silent breath as she melds to the darkness.

A moment later, Gibraldi opens the door, panting hard and drunkenly levelling his gun.

Cass watches the barrel wavering from above, feet and hands bracing her against the corner of the ceiling.

Beneath the scarf, she's smiling. A shame Abel can't see that.


With a nod, Abel was crashing through the window, landing next to a guard, and actually grabbing the man, covering him with that cape and protecting him from falling glass shards. Of course, this also gave the eternal lurker enough time to grab the guard's gun from his grasp, expertly and quickly disassembling it even as he leapt up on the nearby high wall, tossing the pieces down at the astonished cop's feet...Abel kept eye contact and spoke smoothly,

"Do me a favor, old chap, come up with a new security plan...oh, and maybe drop the Poker games? Gotta go!"

And with that, Abel was making his way through bushes and trees, cutting away as he glanced up at points, trying to make out the shape of the black jet in the sky..he saw parts of it, but in his haste, and it being constantly covered and obscured by overhead branches and leaves, he couldn't make out the Bat-like shape. So as far as he knew, this was some bizarre government thing he was unaware of, and he tried to avoid the official suit types, what with the "legally and technically dead way too long ago in another country" issue. It was minor, but still.


As Abel cuts through the yard, through the brush, his course is monitored in turn. While he concerns himself with the unknown jetcraft, he's stalked from rooftop to rooftop. To the Dark Knight, being just off the periphery of another's vision is like second nature, moving in tandem with the sounds he's not heard yet, perfected instinct. It helps that the undying detective doesn't take the quietest route himself, on that count. Even so, he doesn't know the senses he's dealing with, not entirely. Luckily, the Batman doesn't need a great deal of time.

His presence is likely betrayed by the grapnel that rapples outwards from a whoosh of compressed gas, hooking to an adjacent rooftop a bit afield of the Lurker's escape course. The rush of air is louder, ominous, as outspread cape silhouettes against the midnight sky, darker than the cloudy night, dark as pitch the figure that accelerates past the Witching Hour Lurker at an alarming rate; but not far past.

The Dark Knight drops, abruptly, precisely, angling a shoulder in for Abel. From the attempted overpower carrying the monumental flying momentum, it would be an attempt to wrench and twist an arm behind the other investigator's back, preferably from a grounded position. He doesn't know who this guy is, he doesn't have the details of the preternatural creature's movements or powers, but he knows he's fleeing from a GCPD safehouse after an altercation with his newest protege. The Batman knows that this quarry is masked from thermal imaging to a remarkable degree, as well... all the more interesting, and troubling. All the worse news for the introduction between Gotham's Knight and the Lurker; after all, no one ever accused him of being inefficient.

"/Who/ are you? /Why/ are you here?" Let's start simple.


With matters outside in hand, Cassandra is left alone in a house filled with idle cops and a terrified man who is anything but. Brow furrowed beneath unkempt bangs, she remains focused intently upon the wobbling, frenetic movements of Gibraldi's extended handgun. Any training he may or may not have is irrelevant now; he's rattled and acting through pure rash desperation, movements unpredictable as a result. It may not be the particular lack of predictability that can be turned against her-- but it's dangerous in its own way. She either needs him to leave, to seek solace below, or...

Or she could bring them /here/.

Timing herself perfectly, the raven-haired assassin eases the pressure from both feet, sending her scooting smoothly down the painted walls. Carefully oiled boots leave no marks to indicate her passing, and allow her to shift with almost complete quiet. By the time even a cautious and wary man would sense her, it's too late; her gloved hand uncoils, palm snapping back to reveal the underside of her wrist. A flash of sleek steel in moonlight heralds a gentle hiss as coiled wire unwinds, bearing at the tip a tiny but powerful magnet.

The gun's grip sits in her hand an instant later. It's not a feeling she enjoys, but the purpose is served; Gibraldi jumps about a foot in the air, stepping away from the door with a whimper that would rise to a shout - were Cain's deadly daughter any slower. His footfall heralds her own release from her perch, however, a dark silhouette against the landing forming the businessman's last conscious vision before Cassandra's free hand lances out, fingers pinching against a nerve deep in the throat. He can't cry out...

Because by the time he feels anything, he's already out cold.

He hits the carpeted floor with a dull thump, enough to resound at least to the kitchen below. Faster than Gibraldi's guardians can mobilize, Cass is out of the room and gone through the same window that carried Abel to his next trial at the hands of the Bat. By the time they arrive, they'll find the gun back in that nervous - and now nerveless - hand, arrayed so tellingly against the bottle of whiskey in the background. Outside, she's already a shadow flitting between the pleasantly spread gardens of South Darby.

By the time she catches sight of her quarry, he's there. Batman. But--

A hand flies to her ear, as she crouches amidst a peony bush.

"Not... bad," she says as clearly as she can, brows knitting with the effort, "/Work/."

He's just doing his job. Like them.


Abel's been doing this a long time, long enough that he should have known better. And true, he could have put more force in his shoulder that meets the Batman's, he could have twisted himself to try and escape the wrenching armlock, but no, he didn't come here to brawl with the people he wanted to meet and trade notes with. Instead, he goes a bit limp, in effect 'surrendering' that limb to the Dark Knight behind him. And curiously, despite the pain it must cause, he turns a bit to glance at the man, out the corner of his eye. He is grinning, and he is rather pale. Contrary to that old wives' tale about British teeth, his are perfectly white, and impeccable.

"Well, we know what I am: sloppy, after getting caught like some rank amateur...I feel we've all gotten off on the wrong foot, here."

He glanced over at Cass and relaxed his arm, nodding. He doesn't seem that worried about Batman potentially being able to rip it out of its socket if he wanted.

"Yes, I'd listen to the girl. Very good head on her shoulders, and so adorable, too!"

It was less that he was flattering Cass, or trying to butter her up...just that it came to his mind, and so he spoke it.


On the job, yes. That's /why/ the Dark Knight didn't start by popping the unusual operative's arm out of joint. He didn't hurt Cassandra, he didn't hurt Gibraldi, that much is clear enough. On the other hand, he wants answers. Like... what job, exactly, for starters. "Doesn't answer either question." Batman observes, rather uninterested in the whole 'witty banter' thing, at the moment. A hand comes free of his utility belt with a small cannister, one might suspect it to be bat-mace. He doesn't spray it for Abel's eyes though, just in his general direction, as he rises off his seemingly nonviolent quarry.

It's odorless, tasteless, and seemingly, utterly effectless, no matter how much or little of the cloud the Witching Hour Lurker comes into contact with. Fancy that. The Batman stands nearby, cape drawn around his shoulders to nearly completely hide his form as he surveys the undying detective with a slight frown.


If Cassandra heard that... well, the world would never know if she'd be simply confused or whether she'd blend in a little better with the red peonies clustered around her for the few moments before she slips from the bush, much slowed from her earlier pace. She's not rushing the final approach, breathing a tiny sigh of relief as Batman steps away - at least called off from exacting harm on the stranger-- she hesitates to even think 'strange man' as she normally might. No man would have reacted to her blow like that.

No mere human moves so quickly, either.

By the time she arrives, a much smaller but resonant shadow to the Bat's own - her over-long scarf trailing behind her in a manner akin indeed to his spreading cape - the conversation has probably proceeded, but regardless she keeps her gaze upon Abel rather than the Bat. That would be telling, if it weren't already concluded where her allegiance lies. Curiously though, she comes to a halt at the third point of an unseen triangle, swaying to neither detective's side, stopping with her hands held with deceptive looseness at her side. Her lips quirk beneath tight, concealing material; not quite a smile, but close, as she looks at Abel.

If she were inclined to speak more, she'd probably say 'hello'. Her eyes say it for her.

Batman might start to worry - almost looks like she's developing a sense of humour.


Alive or dead, he still gave a grunt of relief when his arm was released, rolling his neck and rubbing his shoulder as he casually turned around to be blasted in the face by...an odorless spray that couldn't be detected on any level. If not for his sense of touch sensing faint moisture in the air, and his eyes picking up the already fading, phantom movements of the air 'moving', he wouldn't be able to detect it at all.

"Well, I can't speak much for your taste in cologne, apparently. Still, it's a rather big honor to meet you. The Dashing Detective, The Dynamic Dark Knight, the Brave, Bold and might I say Brilliant Batman himself, I've heard a lot about you over in England..so much, that I just had to come here to try and meet you for myself...I'm none other than...The Witching Hour Lurker! You see, I'm a detective, much like yourself, and I suspect we might have similar goals in mind. Namely, preventing the assassination of a certain rich and famous elderly man currently in police custody. I pray that answers at least some of your questions, Dark Knight?"

Another flashy grin at Batman. And then a wink, aimed at Cassandra. He was certainly enjoying himself.


Let's face it. 'I'm an immortal detective from Britain here to meet and admire you' is just crazy enough to probably be true. Even if the Dark Knight is hardly swayed by flattery, particularly in this situation. It doesn't even seem to land, the apparent appreciation for his own career. "Cross reference and summarize." He's not speaking to the Lurker, or to Cassandra. The batline tends to keep a straight channel to operations of one sort or another, not to mention recording mission-critical information for future reference. Cutting edge military prototype development has its advantages.

Returning his attention to Thatcher more completely - apparently he trusts Cassandra to watch the man, in turn - the Batman narrows his cowled eyeslits in focused consideration once more. "What's your interest in Gibraldi?" Is this guy working for someone else, or just crazy enough to throw himself headlong into the League of Assassins' apparent operations in Gotham City? Then again, Abel may not even realize -that- part yet. It dawns on the Dark Knight with a bit of a sigh. At some point, enough of the preliminary information comes back to refresh the Bat's memory, in part.

"You're dealing with forces older than you are, here."


Winking. That's new. She's never been /winked/ at before. The dimunitive vigilante doesn't react a great deal more than her mentor does, hazel eyes batting just once as she continues to stare at Abel - if she hadn't shown so much rare expression already, it would be downright creepy. He might be able to see the gears ticking around again, though, as she processes everything she's heard alongside what's just been said. It doesn't take terribly long; she's obviously got her head screwed on in spite of any weirdness, but as a man whose stock in trade relies on the tracking and recognition of patterns...

"De--..." She's reached a conclusion, but can't say the word she needs, expression fading to a disappointed frown as she over-reaches her limited faculties. Batman's immediate attention lapses, and she abandons that route for now, allowing it to sit and simmer while she watches the Lurker carefully. In spite of her allegiance to the rightly untrusting Dark Knight, the strange little ninja seems to like him well enough. Her posture is alert without being threatening; what passes for 'neutral' to her, most of the time.

When Batman turns and draws his own course of enquiry, she takes in his last words with interest.

It's her turn to shift the focus of attention, an eyebrow quirking toward the Bat.

"Not... man," she offers, not quite question-- a testing statement.

She's sure of it, but she isn't certain that he is.


With a chuckle, WHL casually adjusted his gloves, fastened his cape and otherwise gave a shrug while he raised a brow.

"I cannot tell you how many times I've been told that, good sir, but it doesn't usually hold up. The lovely ray of sunshine over there is correct, I'm not quite a man, and I'm far older than I look. You know I fought the Nazis, right? And not, you know, reincarnations, or sons of the originals...the first ones. Just...not any famous ones."

Well, that last part wasn't so impressive. But his point stood. And he walked forward, the tallish man stepping forward and offering his hand, offering to shake Batman's as he grinned devilishly.

"I'm used to being up over my head. But even the tallest ziggurats are hard pressed to stand with their foundations eroded. And besides, what could another pair of eyes and another mind hurt, right?"


Both Cassandra and Abel protest his assessment. Batman doesn't seem to mind, he even seems pretty patient with the whole thing. Then again, his response is to echo, in the sense that a professional voice actor can echo, his own line note for note. It's downright eerie, in a sense. "You're dealing with forces older than you are, here." Yes, they certainly shocked that conclusion right out of him. He's alarmed to the core of his big black boots. One can't really fault the Dark Knight his chill, though; anything even remotely implied to be tied to Ra's al Ghul is serious, deep shit.

"But what I'm hearing is you're well aware this can kill you and you just want to help the lying clown shuddering his nights away surrounded by men who could be hauling him in instead." Batman notes, thankfully breaking the hanging silence /himself/. Would that be awkward or what? He does stand there not really acknowledging the undying detective's offered hand, though, for another long moment. "Be here." It's not quite a handshake, the blank grey card pressed into Abel's hand. It's got a sloppily scrawled time and precise coordinates on it, in pen apparently. God knows when he found time to do that, but it's passed from the concealing depths of his cape with ease akin to other men accepting the polite gesture.

"I know who you are." The Batman clarifies, still just eyeing the Lurker, "I don't have to tell you what I expect from you, here." Which amounts to, after a fashion, 'Welcome to Gotham'. The time, incidently, is only about four hours away. Batman seems intent on making the most of his countdown. "Come prepared to infiltrate and conduct a long and tedious search, Lurker." The grapnel that brought him here fires back towards the rooftops. If one listens closely enough, knows Bruce well enough? One might even think the Dark Knight seems downright amused at the last.


Were her unknown mother watching this meeting, or anyone else trained to the same specification as Cassandra herself, the body language between the three is unmistakable: certainly insofar as to note that the black-clad teenager is very readily adopting the role of bodyguard. Which makes her inaction all the more baffling when the Lurker moves forward, extending his hand. She reacts as she has to another surprise of the evening, simply tipping her head gently to the side, watching his extended digits and then his face.

There's no similar gesture when the Dark Knight extends that card.

It's almost as though she already knew that each would trust the other.

For her part, Cassie tarries for a moment after her shadow-caped mentor has departed, still watching Abel as she paces around the broken triangle, circling him until she's roughly in the position Batman stood. It almost resembles a standoff for the moment-- as though she were positioning herself to resume their subsided battle, her hands lifting and grazing past her centre as they shift toward one another. But then she finishes the gesture in a fluid, connected motion, bringing open palm to closed fist and dipping her chin, hazel eyes watching from above that black scarf as she offers the Lurker a shallow, respectful bow. Her hands drop to her sides once it's done, one slipping to her waist as the other drifts idle.

She'll remain long enough to match him, gaze-for-gaze, that tiny smile twisting her mask one last time.

And then there's a gentle *tink* followed by an abrupt hiss as smoke floods the roadside.

By the time it fades, she's gone.


For his part, Abel Thatcher took the card, holding it up, and reading the handwriting before nodding and smirking a bit. He watched Batman launch away gruffly, and when Cassie gave her strict, rigid bow, he recognized it instantly as an Asian custom, and returned it, though with more of an English flair, keeping his eyes on hers all the while. Finally, he was alone, and giving a chuckle, he spoke aloud, before leaping off that building, and toward the start of something glorious.

"So, the game...is afoot!"