View source for 2012-03-02 - Becoming the Mask

{{Logsummary|
Title=Becoming the Mask
|Summary=Analysis of the Red Hood's patterns and tactics leads the Batman to finally intersect the mysterious vigilante again.  The biggest question now is whether more questions were raised, than answered... but it's a sure bet that the believed-to-be-dead Robin is back on his former mentor's radar.
|Who=[[Batman]], [[Red Hood]]
|Date=2012-02-27
|Where=[[Gotham City]]
|}}

It's night time in Gotham, it always seems to be night time in Gotham.

Even in the day time.

It's a clear, not a single cloud in the sky, the city lights rendering the stars invisible, the deep, abyssal black of the sky marred only by the crescent moon, looking like the thumb-nail of god, about to peel it open and take a peek in.

Of course, tonight doesn't have anything to do with that vast void that surrounds their tiny planet, or even a god that seems so often to be absent. No, tonight is about a van.

The van, stereotypically white, idles in the alley way of a 'burlesque theater' beams it's headlight against the waists of two men. One seemingly reluctant to hand over a set of keys to another.

"You sure you ain't no cop?" inquires the first retracting the keys just out of the man's grip. "Yous gotta tell me if you a cop."

The second man's features etch into a look of agitation, "This the fifth time I told you fool, I ain't no Cop! Now gimme those damn keys before I bust yo' face in." he snapped, snatching the keys from his cohort aggressively. "Dumbass. Why all you idiots think that? Cops ain't gotta tell you shit, you think that badge like some kinda magic truth thing?" he continues to deride the other.

Mook number one begins to voice his protest. The pair of them are two busy to notice a shadowed figure drop down from the roof a adjacent building. He is silent.. quiet.

Right up to the point where his boots hammer down on the roof of the van. The metal thud snaps the pair from their arguement. The first man's eyes go wide with shock and fright. "Oh shit, it's Th'Bat!" he near shrieks, staggering away from his vehicle as the figure atop it looms upwards... It takes both of them a moment to notice the lack of cape, the missing ears... and the pair of guns pointed towards the both of them.

"Nope." intones the man behind the red helmet with a wry mirth, "Guess again, dirtbags."


Some have told him that the alignment of those heavenly bodies, the very nature of the cosmos, does indeed have a direct relationship to the events of this evening. To the nature of the Earth herself; to the universe, and everything. That Earth is a nexus, a center of alarming spiritual and magical energy, of great Order and alarming Chaos, of limitless 'good', and unfathomable 'evil'. To say nothing of everything in between. The Batman's never operated on a lot of high-myth-mysticism, despite his own philosophical warrior poet soul... what's important is what's here, what's now. What impact his actions have, what impact those of others around him have; what they change, what they create for the future.

The Dark Knight doesn't spend a great deal of time on this level of hood. He doesn't run down the middle-man dealers, the distributors, unless they're spinning out dangerous weapons and heavy amounts of hardcore drugs. It begs the question why he's here, surveilling the street level... or more appropriately, running surveillance on whoever might be running surveillance on the street hoods, the greedy and desperate, trying to make a quick buck in a world with no security, and no trust. The Batman frowns, from his own perch, a small unit affixed to his cowl affording a bird's eye view of the city in autofocusing, wavelength-scanning magnification.

It's unclear when the Detective notices the Hood, searching actively not for the vigilante's targets... but for the operative using tactics the Batman knows all too well. The stalking and stealth the Caped Crusader himself was taught, the techniques of the League of Shadows; augmented in the Bat Family's case by some of the world's foremost stage magicians, trackers, detectives, and assassins, but. It's not the minutia of the style that the Dark Knight uses to stalk his -own- prey. It's the personal finesse that brings him down scant seconds after Jason, however, his batnoculars already stowed in his utility belt, a line affixed to a batarang replacing it in his hand. Where the Red Hood lands with all the impressive impact that a muscular fellow's drop should yield, the even larger figure behind him seems to drop in his wake, all but soundlessly. A shadow, Jason's own shadow, desynched for just a moment. He'd probably realize he's got a stalker of his own well before the thugs he's after do.

They do indeed mistake Hood for the Dark Knight, who in fact flits like a momentary breeze down -behind- the van, crouched in the shadows, removed from all three men. He taps three black buttons on the batarang, peering not under the vehicle, but threw it in thermal optics, before releasing the thrown weapon around the van in a wide arc. The deceptively hefty, well-balanced batarang whips around something like an actual boomerang, in this case. Out around the front of the van and back around the side, its momentum wedging it in the wheel well as the tire suddenly goes flat. It might jar the Hood's stance the same moment the Batman gives a tug on the affixed line, meaning to take the feet right out from other the lower-case hoods, as he leaps up to the back. "/Why them/?" The Dark Knight demands, like there has to be some insightful answer there.

"Or are you just a killer, and I'm looking for meaning where there's only /avarice/?" The snarl would be familiar to the Hood, though he's not often been on this end of it. "/Why are you here/?" Who is he? The Dark Knight's own conclusions to date do not seem to land in Jason's favour; Batman is already advancing down the scarce width of the lame, leaning van.


The two realize the depth of their situation. The first blanches in Jason's sights, the second scowls. Both are heavily weighing the options of fight or flight. The sound of a popping, air bursting free around the tip of the batarang startles the first. With a shrill cry, he topples backwards, scrambling in the grit of the alleyway.

The van lurches, dropping to the wheel-rim on the side of the blown tire, Jason's footing is sure however, his weight shifting with the van, pistols lifting up from their level. He should have figured that he'd be having company tonight... Or did he figure he would be? Is this some kind of double-trap?! Did Batman expect him to be expecting him and expected the expectation in return?! Triple traps?!

The second man goes down, a cable suddenly lashed around his ankles, binding them together and sending him into a cursing drop to the concrete.

Jason spins, a tight 180 degree turn on the ball of one foot that has him facing his accuser. White eyes in black pits of a crimson field narrow. Agitation, amusement? Batman couldn't see that quirk to the young man's lips through the hard-shell mask that encased his head. "Why not them?" he answered, a pistol hefted between them... perhaps more for appearance's sake than any actual threat. "If you want to take out a king, you're going to have to drop a few of his pawns off the board first. Make them notice, shake them up and see what runs." he claims, prattling. "You think this is killing, that guys like these are worth getting a second chance? How many times have you put the same faces behind bars again and again? My way, they don't come back. The devil's not one to let too many people out of hell for good behavior. So what if I make some money while I'm at it? It's controlled, kept in line and away from decent people. Takes money to manage the life style of a dress-up crusader and not everyone's born into it." he continues at gun point, seemingly quite willing to trade words. He seems happy to stand there and wait for Batman's rebuttal, something about morality and decency, lines that shouldn't be crossed. In the space between the lines of the prodigal son and the welcoming father though, someone else's gotten a idea.

A bolt rocks back and snaps forward, chambering a bullet into a MAC 10.

Number two's pulled the weapon free and has it leveled towards the pair atop the van, "I got both you mother fuckers!" he sneers before pulling the trigger. Shots ring out at the rate of thirty a second, peppering the grill, hood, and windshield as the muzzle jerks upwards to turn the hose-like spray of lead towards the two men. Red hood dives off to the right side of the van and out of the way.


Jason is facing him before he even reaches the rooftop. Batman's not surprised, but perhaps a little impressed. Alright, maybe a little surprised; it doesn't slow him down, though. "/You/ know they're not?" It's downright disgusted at the implications, actually. Really, Bruce does know these things... the rehabilitated, the desperate, they abound in Gotham City. Sometimes, they're inexorable, uncompromising criminals and madmen... others, they just don't want their kids to starve, and no one will hire an ex-con. It's all about the individual, the microcosmic level. The street where the Batman operates now. As mentioned, the van rooftop is not large. The gun comes around, and it's like synchronized motion when the Dark Knight takes it. His left hand whips out of the shadows of the cape with acceleration that a human eye can't consciously follow, his body shifting the opposite direction. The Red Hood has plenty of half-instant to pull that trigger. Plenty of reflexes himself; but it will be about the time the Caped Crusader's hand clasps on the side of the barrel, grip already ironclad. The ninja-turned-vigilante will also be out of the line of fire in that same split second, by just a hair's breadth, the gun aligned on shoulders reinforced by cape and batsuit.

Then, the weapon is twisted away in the next split second, thrown with alarming precision at the face of the firing mook, even as the street sweeper sprays small-caliber fire almost literally /everywhere/. It's worth noting that this move, too, seems to flow perfectly from the disarm, as Batman crouches low and twists, the slow motion kicking in somewhere in Hollywood as the Red Hood tumbles clear of the van, and the 9mm parabellum rounds reave through the air around Batman, a sweep of his cape following the heave, so precise he couldn't have planned it better. Like the sound of the round chambering in fluidly adjusted the whole plan on a subconscious level.

If anything, the Dark Knight has improved in the years they've been apart; it's something they have in common, but still likely worrisome. He crouches low on that roof for only another instant, hidden behind the shielding layer of cape as he rolls off the van on the other side, landing far softer than the dealer with the pistol-whipped face. "You think gunning down somebody's brother, somebody's son, somebody's father, that's going to make the world a more peaceful and well-adjusted place?" Batman does retort, as he lands, coming about in a stance ready to sprint after Jason. He darts around the van, coming around the rear and seeking to intercept the Red Hood with a series of jabs and quick knees. Notably, perhaps, it's nowhere near as brutal or efficient as the Dark Knight could be. Testing blows, a professional would note. Sparring, herding Jason back into the narrow alleyway between van and stonework.

Forcing him to fight. Perhaps something beyond that. "You call blowing up a museum and putting a bullet in a homeless girl /control/?" Yea, that pisses him off too. Still, it's a decent chance to undersell Cassandra. The Hood didn't see what happened. "Not to mention stumbling over Catwoman. Can you smell your own rampant bullshit over your arrogance? You don't have control, you're not solving a problem. /Blood/ begets /blood/." 

War never changes.


That's the price you risk paying when you wave one of your toys in Batman's face, he just might take it.

There was a instant where Jason could have pulled the trigger, tested how whatever mesh-ceramic, space-age unstable molecule material Bats' new suit was made of stood up to a .45 caliber bullet at point blank range. What if it didn't though? He'd have gone through all of this, all of his training, all of that heartache and sorrow... For nothing. His finger slides from around the trigger, clearing the guard so as not to be twisted when Bruce snaked it away.

He almost seemed to give it up.

He has a spare after all.

He gets that boyish flicker in his chest for just a moment, nostalgia and familiarity seeping in as he watches that pistol caroom off of the forehead of the banger before they both crumble to the floor.

"Well-adjusted?! Do you think there is a single solitary soul in Gotham that is Well-Adjusted, Big Man? Hell, even this city's savior could use some time in Arkham!" the moment was gone, time to get back to talking shop again. He did so love watching him work though.

Bruce comes in and Jason's ready. He's quick, spry. Maybe it's not the wild energy of his boyhood days but it's keener, more focused, honed. A jab or two clip off his crimson-covered jaw, sometimes a knee snakes in past his guard. They don't carry the weight that Jason knows they can though. He's testing him, pushing him back into the alley. Thinking this will go exactly as he plans, like always.

Not tonight, Bruce.

At some point, Jason decides he won't just trade blows, a jab is shifted away with a wrist block, a knee clips off his hip and he surges forward. Punches, quick, harrying, snapping in and out like the strikes of a serpent. A elbow comes in after a hook swings to shallow to be a sincere attempt. Something to put Bruce back on his heels, give Jason just that ounce of room it takes him to explode.

"In case you're forgetting, this is a war!" remarks his AWOL Soldier, bouncing toward the van before ricocheting off of it and sweeping a kick at the side of the Big Man's head. "Besides, from what I saw, she ain't exactly your everyday girl. You saw that too though, didn't you? How long did it take you to snap her up as your very own? It wasn't even a month before she was running around with a belt and a pair of bat-pajamas. She's good though, I'll give her that. Not as talky as the ones you usually pick up though... Guess you don't need two Robins at once." makes sense to keep a spare though, considering...


An army never wants to have its back to the ocean. It's a simple tenet of war. Of combat. One must be able to maneuver, to adapt, it can be the meaning between victory and defeat even when one has a clear picture of the adversary's capacity. It's an early lesson, a stalwart and versatile rule. It's also a way that the Batman can force Jason to fight back, to cut loose. To prove how far he's come, in this case. He doesn't need to see the man beneath the hood to know the tone, the attitude.. but fighting him, seeing that instinctual, honed edge. It's better than fingerprints, to some.

Years and years separate this style from one he's fought before, so the Dark Knight takes care to absorb and analyze every single motion. It's exactly what the Red Hood sought to avoid; exactly what his fallen father figure planned, wanted. The good news for Jason: This makes the Dark Knight unusually easy to wail on. After a fashion. He's in contact with each and every testing flurry, glancing off jaw, off armored guard, off elbow or knee. Batman barely gives any ground, but neither does he counter and adapt to the style with his own formidable skill, immediately. A forearm guard still meets that blow to his head. His bones are rattled, but the Caped Crusader steps into the assault, feels the strength. All the while, slits in the cowl are focused on every minute detail of motion.

The words are grunted out in tandem with the defense. "'This is war.' As if that justifies it." It's not an excuse the Caped Crusader buys, really. Dropping Cassandra into the debate carries its own layers of irony, given her very nature. "People love to.. say I indoctrinate them. Enslave, manipulate, abuse, use. It just shows how little you really know any of us." Or perhaps himself, in this case. There's that additional layer of irony, to be sure. Gauntletted palm snaps in at chest level, looking to claim his position, make the Hood work to dislodge him. "These are people who've had all choices stripped away, except for one." He just makes sure they survive making it.


Jason doesn't exactly like tipping his hand to the detective but even if the blows are taken in stride, they're cathartic. It lets him vent some of that anger, that hurt. It's far from enough to call this whole song and dance off, but maybe he'll sleep a little easier when he slinks back to whatever hole he's claimed for himself come morning. Batman won't find purchase against the armor, he'll be able to get a good idea of what it is though, hex-plates beneath a kevlar coating. Not exactly something you could order online, definitly not hockey pads. His jacket, that's easy enough to grab hold of, leather, maybe custom. Holds the toys that the pouches that won't fit in the pouches and compartments at his waist.

"Oh trust me, Bats. I know plenty about you and yours." replied the man behind the helmet, the white slits in the dark sockets of his eyes glaring right into the detective's critical gaze. He didn't mind Bruce getting handsey, just meant that his mentor was anchored there for a moment. He made his own grab after firming his footing, lead-foot shifting forward in the grit of the street before he sought to latch onto the cowling of Bruce's cape at his left shoulder. His head would snap forward as soon as he found his grip, the brow of that red helm used as a bludgeon against the head and brow of his ex-mentor. Once, twice, thrice. The mask didn't look any bulkier, Jason was betting his helmet could take the abuse better than pointy-ears could.

It's a lead in, something to try and rattle the bats in his belfry while Jason tried to put himself a few steps ahead, try and make him not notice that stray hand as it dipped down to the young man's hip and wrapped around the handle of a knife. The blade was serpentine and long, wickedly sharp. He could try and plunge it into Bruce's side... but that would be far less fun. Instead he sought to slide the flat of the blade between Bruce and his belt before giving it a twist and a pull, trying to rob him of the majority of his toys for just a few, stray moments.


The Red Hood... it's a crafty new identity. He's changed; perhaps even been distorted. It's not a fog that Batman can immediately penetrate, like the identities of... more superheroes and villains than would care to admit it. Worse, all the pieces are there, in stark paradox to the mystery. The utility belt. The tactical stealth armor. The espionage and reconnaissance tactics. The Yellow Brick Road....

~~
"No, Jason; it's not that. Theft isn't always evil. Sometimes, theft serves a purpose, promotes the greater good. It's not a popular opinion, but it's truth in mine. Say, for example, you're cut off, blacklisted overseas." It's still foreshadowing if presented in retcon, right? "Or can't use your civilian identity or alias for some reason, you'll be forced to rebuild infrastructure from nothing. The mission remains our priority, and at that point.. you have to take the means. Target the corrupt, drain their assets, expose their secrets... build a -new- reputation, subtly and swiftly - come back at your problems, your enemies, from an entirely new angle. You can find a powerbase anywhere with will and vision. Just remember the mission - we're building something /better/."

~~

Of course, the Batman is genre savvy; but he's not /that/ genre savvy. His first thoughts aren't 'sidekick risen from the grave' they're more along the lines of 'League of Assassins stalker who's obsessively honed to my own methods'. It's really equally likely, if not more likely, let's be fair. Even so, none of it /really/ makes sense, not yet. The Dark Knight doesn't really retreat in the face of the Hood's assault. He weaves to the side, towards the volatile vigilante's hauling hand. It doesn't bring him clear, but it keeps his nose from breaking. The blows ring his skull, but his own cowl is modernized, if not precisely /reinforced/. It would be immediately clear to the Red Hood that tonight's stylish batmask is heavier on miniaturized electronics and bulletproofing, with a degree of ballistic resilience. None of that means a lot when someone's heavy helmet hammers home, but on the plus side: the human skull is a wondrous thing.

That, and it's Batman. The knife comes around, along with the Hood's wrist, into his descending hand. The intercepting grip is ironclad. Now, at least for that moment, he holds nothing back. "So, what, you're here to remake Gotham by carving a bloody hole through anything that you lay eyes on?" Jason would know that voice. He's gone and made the Bat mad. "And you think this is a new idea, and you're just the most progressive obsessive idiot ever to try to stab me?"

Really, it's something of an honor that he growls at the Red Hood /that/ long. Before trying to put a knee through his right lung, in the proverbial sense. In the next instant, the Batman would seek to wrench the Red Hood's dagger-wielding wrist around. Thumb and forefingers seek the fine bones and tendons in that gloriously complex and fine instrument as he does so... seeking to crush, twist, and disable them with alarming amounts of perfectly precise pressure.


No cigar this time, he'll have to try for the prize again sometime.

In consolation though, he did manage to ring his bell a little. Hope Alfred's got some tylenol on hand...

Who am I kidding, of course he does, he's Alfred 'Motherfucking' Pennyworth.

Bruce's voice dips into a lower register even for his Batman growl. Those whited-eyes narrow further. Wayne can't see it, but the damn Ginger's grinning. "Oh, not just anything. Only the people that deserve it. I'm a killer, big guy, not a murderer. Besides, these people? They're hardly even human any more." He has more to say... but taking a knee to the ribs has a way of rattling the oratory. His breath comes in a 'Hoof!' and he can feel a twisting screw of pain that stays hot and sharp after the impact. Maybe a cracked rib. He'll have a shattered wrist to go along with it if he doesn't do something however. He won't be able to break the grip or snake away, it's like a bear-trap with fingers instead of teeth. He can't move the mountain, he'll have to move with it. Loosing the cape, Jason seems to twist bonelessly. One booted foot thumps against the side of the van, his weight opresses forward and he seems to steal a page out of some kind of arachnid-themed superhero's book, walking up the side of the van for all of two steps before he flips, saving himself the need of a cast for a few days. His fingers loose the knife, simply letting it drop into his free hand, his fingers playing the handle into a quick, forward grip that he works around in a quick slash at Bruce's chest while he trys to work himself awat, the profile of his hand now leaner without the weapon as fingers uncurl and try to escape the grasp.

"Oh I know I'm not the first to come in here trying to be the big, brand new damn hero for Gotham. How many do you get a year now, five, six? They either wind up dead or you run them off. Any good they did by sweeping the streets clean of the filth that keeps getting pumped back out of Black Gate and Arkham is forgotten when the headlines report another murder. How much of a difference have you really made in the last five years, Bats? The same thugs, murderers, pimps, rapists and peddlers. The same bunch of psychopaths in spandex running around. All because you're too good to get your hands dirty, your damned, unshakable moral code that lets the same people go out and hurt, maim, and murder time and time again. I might not be the firt, but god damnit, I'm going to be the one that gets it right. I'll be the one that makes Gotham safe again, even if I have to rip out its black, twisted heart and shove it right back down it's throat!" he monologues, providing a bit of motivational exposition.

"But hey, maybe we're getting off on the wrong foot here. You're worked up, I'm worked up? You know what always helps me unwind?"

Not getting nearly beaten to death with a crowbar and then blown up.

"A nice run." and with that, he's off, in a shot, he's scaled a dumpster and used it as a springboard to grasp the bottom edge of a fire-escape platform. Eschewing the handy ladder that they all come with, Jason just climbs up along the side of the wrought iron scaffolding. It's not as elegant as a bat-grapnel, but it gets the job done in about the same time... It'll also put them out of earshot of most folks.


"/Deserve/ it?" The Batman's not just angry. He's approaching a quantum singularity of some kind. Whatever this Hood's real motives... they're very clearly personal. The Dark Knight tends to take threats like that rather seriously, by now. "The world's full of heroes." The Batman is waiting for Jason, now. Every nerve on alert. Every muscle on a twitch-ready alert that would make a relay champion jealous. That knife comes down, and he heaves himself backwards, leaning away as his own right boot drops back, away... and then he steps in.

Sure, the Red Hood gets his chance to run. "More /every/ day." That part, they agree on. "Every time someone says the end is here, every one of us gives it all to step in and /fix/ it." This edition of 'The Reason You Suck' is sponsored by another forceful kick, snapping around from the Bat's left boot as he steps in on the passing knifestroke, bracing it away from his body with a guarding right gauntlet.

The Dark Knight is ready to fight on - but his quarry flies. His pursuit is likely predicted, the bat grapnel fired to the top of that building that the Red Hood scales. The Bat -might- even beat him to the top. The way this vigilante moves... it's uncanny. It doesn't do anything to ease the Caped Crusader's mind. Over the edge he goes, with uncanny grace and silence, balance reflexive as he paces the Red Hood. "/You're/ no hero." the Batman insists, picking up right where he left off, mid-fisticuff. "Just another arrogant hood, here to make it all worse. We all have our demons - what makes you so special that -you- can make it better with a few bullets and bombs?"

He flanks the Red Hood along the tenement's ledge, not immediately assailing him again.. but not letting him gain ground, either.


And there it is, finally a little private time. Just Jason, Bruce and the Gotham skyline against it's bleak, starless backdrop. He's cornered at the ledge, he'd done all that work to get up here to, only to be cut off at the pass.

Annoying.

At least there's empty air at his back and not a wall.

"That's the million dollar question, isn't it, Big Guy?" replies Jason, a hand making a grand sweep between them, knife tossed from one hand to the other, blade slid away into it's sheath. He's giving up? Maybe he just doesn't want it waving around for their little bit of dramatics. "I'll admit it, maybe putting bullets in the skulls of gangsters and bringing the roof of a crack house down on top of all the gun-toting addicts inside isn't the most heroic thing in the world... But it gets the job done. Not too many get parole in hell after all. You want to wrap stories around them? Fine, but when someone starts shattering the lives of others just to make theirs a little better, they cross a line. And unless there's something hard and deffinite across that line that's a little more daunting than a few years in jail, maybe they'll think twice. You've done all you could to try and make this city a better place but it's just not good enough. It's not good enough because you refuse to take that last step. I can do that, I will do that. Already I'm getting results. The difference between me and every other gun-toting whack-job that's come before is that I know what to do. I've got the training. At the end of the night, Bruce, it's all just going to come down to the fact that I'm the better Batman than you" he finishes, his gesticulations rounding up with one final brandishing of his finger towards the man in the bat-suit.
GAME: Save complete. 

"Gets the job done? You think there aren't a thousand more people desperate enough to be pushed to the edge? You think that if you kill the right people, the violence stops? So do the worst of them. The worst of us. Broken down and too deluded to see what they've become." Yes, the Dark Knight thinks highly of killers - and murderers. "Because I can't save everyone, because the war isn't won, it's time to resort to the same brutality and rhetoric that /got us here/? Never." Never never. "You're not saying anything new, you're not doing anything new. Whatever you think you're going to accomplish - you're going to drown it all in blood, send the inferno in all directions, consume everything you want to preserve. If you succeed, you'll only bring Gotham to her knees." 

The Caped Crusader clearly does not like this option. "You come in here spouting the same old crap like it's your new epiphany, and you think it makes you /Batman/? Your big violent, murder-spree-justifying complaint is that I haven't /done enough/ for this city? Even /I/ have to note .. you're /insane/." This is coming from a guy who's fully aware how short of a full deck he may be. Even speaking relatively the Bat seems sure of his observation. At some point during the conversation the Dark Knight slipped a microgrenade from his utility belt into his hand. At some point during the last sentence he released it. It's such a snap motion, almost sleight of hand, but too forceful to fully miss.

Halfway to Jason, the pellet explodes, showering the area the Hood occupies in a fine, colorless, odorless spray. Whether the Red Hood is caught in the cloud, or not, the apparent effect is the same: absolutely nothing.


The mini-nade goes off, its eruption used as concealment, the right instant.

Seems as good a time to call it a night as any.

Jason simply rocks back on his heels, gravity does the rest as he vanishes over the edge.

He's not so graceful as to vanish that easily. A grapnel's left biting into the lip of the ledge where he had been, it leads down a legth of mountaineer's rope to a broken window. Maybe he just called a cab home?"