----------------------------
STANDARD DISCLAIMER: These are not my characters. These are just my words. DC owns 'em, I just lie to their parents and tell them they're sleeping over at a friend's house so they can go out and have fun more than once a month.
Reviews, kudos, rotten tomatoes welcome. This is my first time and its almost 4am, so be gentle.
----------------------------
One of Those Days, Part I
You ever have one of those days? You know, where you just seem to get up on the wrong side of the bed and step on the sharp thing you left there the night before and things just go downhill from there? Well, today is that day for me. In spades.
It all started with the phone call. Did you know that a telephone's ring is at the same frequency as a baby's cry? That's what makes you want to pick it up. That and social conditioning, I guess. I dunno; I dropped out of college before I got a chance to major in sociology. Or anything else. College and vigilantism don't mix, at least not when you've got a secret identity to protect.
And what professor would take 'Sorry about the midterm; I was off-planet fighting an alien menace' as an excuse anyway?
But back to the phone. Its still ringing. I squint blearily at the clock. Seven a.m. Its been about 52 minutes since my head hit the pillow. The phone rings again. I answer it in my best 'I was sleeping' voice.
"Yeah?"
"Rise and shine, rookie! You don't want to be late for briefing! You've got a half hour."
"Good morning to you, too, Amy," I mutter to the dial tone, and hang up. I guess she's not a morning person, either.
I literally drag myself out of bed, yawning. A whole hour's sleep. That brings this week's grand total up to what, four? Thank God its Thursday. I look around for my uniform (the other uniform; you know, the one with the badge?) and swear. Dry cleaners has my only clean one and I haven't had a chance to pick it up. A rash of muggings will do that to your schedule.
I throw on some sweats and head out, running into Clancy on the way. She beams me a smile and offers me a cranberry muffin. I have to take it, seeing as how I told her I loved the nasty little things once upon a time. If the Scarecrow knew how his nerve gas had affected me he'd be laughing his skinny little rear end off.
"An' how is me favorite tenant this fine morning?" she coos, looking at me with those big green eyes. As much as I love Irish accents, I have to resist the urge to say something nasty back to her and smile instead.
"Great." Ah, yes, the infamous playboy charm. I must get my conversation skills from Bruce.
"An' you're not forgettin' our little date this evening? It is, after all, the anniversary of your movin' into this fine establishment, and I wouldn't want to be makin' you feel all neglected now would I?" She grins that impish little grin, eyes dancing, and I start to cheer up a little. Maybe this day won't be so bad after all.
"Of course I haven't forgotten," I lie through my teeth to her. "I'll be here with bells on."
Her eyes narrow, dangerously. "Just see that y'are, boyo. I'll not be takin' kindly to another cold shoulder."
She gives me one more warning look for good measure then turns and heads back into her apartment, calling over her shoulder, "Six o'clock sharp! I've made reservations!"
I yell back something affirmative through a yawn and more fall than walk down the stairs, headed for the dry cleaner's. Let's see... 7:45, that gives me fifteen minutes to make the briefing. Good thing I'm used to changing clothes in weird places.
"Pink!?"
I know I'm yelling, and the small Slovakian man behind the counter shrinks visibly as my tone of voice slips dangerously close to Nightwing levels.
"What the hell is this?"
The little man apologizes profusely. "Sir I am so so sorry, please, it was a sock, red one mixed in and we didn't get to it in time and the whole order like this, I give you for free, please..."
He looks like he's about to have an heart attack, and I suddenly feel guilty, knowing the poor guy is probably hardly staying afloat as it is. I mean, in this neighborhood who gets dry cleaning? I think I'm one of five customers. I should've known something was up when there was a line of irate people in front of me all holding various articles of clothing that, upon reflection, should probably not have been pink. But hey, who am I to judge a man's underwear? People who wear Superman boxers shouldn't throw stones.
I pay my bill, still grumbling. Now not only am I late, but I'm pink. I am never gonna hear the end of this one.
"Glad you could make it, Rainbow Brite."
I find a seat in the back amid snickers from my fellow officers, my face burning. "Sorry we had to disturb your fashion makeover for our silly little briefing. We'll try to get you out of here in time for your manicure."
The sergeant smirks as the room erupts into laughter. I smile thinly and brace myself for the worst, but thankfully the docket's full of important news so the condition of my shirt just gets passing mention. As he goes into the rash of muggings, I feel my eyes starting to close. I already know this stuff and he seems into some goofy diagram he's drawing on the chalkboard about how there might be a pattern to the attacks, something I've already considered and dismissed by reading through the evidence. I figure its okay if I shut them for a minute...
I awaken with a start to the sound of an electric razor near my face, opening my eyes just in time to see four of my fellow rookies grinning from ear to ear as McGuffin, the practical joker, starts laughing like crazy. He's the one holding the razor. The other guys follow suit as I put a hand to my head, fearing the worst and mentally cursing myself for falling asleep so easily. Bruce would be so disappointed. Thank God all my hair's there; I must've woken up in time. It looks like the briefing is long over; we're the only ones left in the room.
"Thanks, McGuffin," I grumble, standing. He grins.
"Hey, don't blame me. I had to do something to draw people's attention away from that godawful shirt, Pinky."
The other guys laugh and Pinky becomes my new nickname, carrying on a time-honored tradition of hazing the new guy by giving him a nickname that reminds him of his most embarrassing moment. I guess its better than Boy Blunder.
"I'm just glad I woke up in time," I respond as I move towards the door, where Amy is waiting with a sour look on her face. The amusement in her eyes betrays her true feelings. The guys are still snickering behind me.
"You ready, Pinky?"
I give her a look and she glances from my shirt to my face, finally allowing a smile to creep across her lips.
"Let's go."
I ignore the odd looks and laughter as we make our way to the squad car, but I can't suppress a sigh of relief as I slide into the passenger's side and buckle my seat belt. Thankfully, the morning is uneventful and the coffee does wonders for my state of wakefulness. I decide I need to put some chocolate-covered coffee beans into the utility belt; beats the heck out of caffine pills. I tilt the cup up for the last gritty swallow when Amy jams on the brakes, causing the coffee to run out the sides of my mouth and onto my pink shirt. There's a call on the radio for backup over at Sixty-Third and Vine. Officer needs assistance.
Amy hits the lights and takes off as I study my twice-ruined shirt. I think the coffee's an improvement.
We arrive on-scene to find a domestic dispute of sorts going on. Seems a hooker and her pimp were having a falling out in the middle of the street and when the officer responded to a donut shop owner's request to remove them they both turned on him. The owner panicked and called us and we arrived to a good ol' down-home tail chewing. Officer Marx was on the receiving end.
Amy and I get out of the car, her hand on her gun, mine by my side. That's a bridge I don't even want to think about crossing. We approach the happy couple as the woman insults Marx's parentage in a way I haven't heard since Juvie. Fortunately my shirt defuses the situation as all three just stop and stare at me for a long moment before breaking into peals of laughter. Maybe I should make my other uniform pink, too.
We get the situation cleared up rather easily after that; Mr. and Mrs. Pimp decide its too early for this discussion and that they'll resume Round Two after a nice long nap. I envy them briefly as Marx looks me up and down.
"Yeah, I know. Save the the smart-ass comments. They've all been made already," I snap at him, and he raises his hands defensively, grinning.
"Hey, alright. Don't get touchy, Officer Unibrow."
Unibrow? I bend over and look into the rearview mirror, frowning, and a second later my newfound nickname reveals its source: my right eyebrow's been shaved off. Looks like I wasn't as quick as I thought. My suprise must show in my face because now Marx and Amy are both laughing so hard they're leaning on the hood of the squad car. I eye Amy balefully.
"You knew the whole damn time!"
She nods, still laughing, and there's a hint of meanness in her eyes, as if she's glad that I've gotten my comeuppance. Just what I've done to deserve my uppance come'd is up to debate. She thinks I got the call dishonestly. I didn't, but I don't know who did pull my number yet, or why. Just another failure to add to an already busy day. I check my watch; its not even noon yet. I get comfort in the fact that this is great cover for my rookie cop story as I pluck at my coffee-moistened shirt. Its cold comfort. Cold, wet, sticky comfort. With one eyebrow.
Thankfully, the rest of the day passes relatively uneventfully. I manage to get mustard on my shirt at lunch and consider it a lucky break, because it means there's a heated argument over what my nickname should be. 'Pinky' is still the strong favorite, but that's just because the rest of the guys haven't heard about what happened after I left the station. Yet. Journalists have nothing on the gossips on the force, let me tell you. Amy argues against Unibrow, since the evidence will disappear after a few days and a rather hirsute second year veteran named Burzetti has already laid claim to it. Hirsute? I must be waking up.
Its almost five. Pigpen, Calamity and Rainbow Brite are distant runners-up.
I sneak into the locker room after shift change and find a sippy cup in my locker. You know, the kid's drinking glasses that won't tip over because they're rounded on the bottom and have the little built-in straw? Its filled with pink Kool-Aide. Har har. I leave it in McGuffin's locker since he's off tomorrow and hope that by Monday the smell is enough to half pay him back for my eyebrow. I find myself looking forward to tonight. Maybe I'll swing by Babs'. God knows I could use a little cheering up.
I swing around the last building and the clock tower comes into view.
Ah, the wind in my face. Ah, the feel of a jumpline in my hands. Ah! There's some guy in Babs apartment and he's not wearing pants!
I had landed silently on the balcony and peeked into the window to see if I could catch a glimpse of Babs at work. She's just adorable when she's typing away at the computer, that serious look on her face, lost to the real world. Sometimes she'll smile at something someone says or types and I have to smile too, even though I'm on the outside of the in-joke.
Looks like I'm more on the outside than I thought. The lights are all on, the guy doesn't look like a prowler. Hell, he looks downright comfortable. In Babs apartment. With his pants off. And then I hear Babs voice come from the bedroom. I can't make out the words but its got that teasing tone, the one I've only heard her use with me, when we banter. Usually it begins with me asking her for some favor or another. Tonight I don't want to ask. I don't want to know. Maybe its innocent.
I take a quick mental snapshot of the room. There are flowers on the table and it looks like dinner was set for two. At least they blew the candles out. Safety first.
Maybe its innocent. And maybe I'm Batman. I leave the way I came, silently, and wish I'd never gotten out of bed.
Muggings. Think about the muggings. I crouch on the edge of the roof of some pizza joint, rocking on the balls of my feet, watching the alley below. A stray newspaper blows through, tossed like a ghost on the fickle winds of some redhead woman's whims. I shake my head at the metaphor, scolding myself. Its not like I've been a monk; hell, its not like we've even been dating. Offically. I just thought--
I shake my head again. Think about the muggings, Grayson. You can do it. There's been, what, twelve in the past two weeks? Whoever he is, he's being careful not to set a pattern. Too careful. Different areas, different victims, different times of night -- even one or two during the day. Nobody sees anything, not even the victims. They just know its a guy because he's big and fast. And brutal. Or maybe everyone assumes muggers are men. Women aren't known for physical crimes. They're more of the steal your heart then stomp on it types. And who was that mook anyway? Who stands around in someone's living room without their pants on? Who--
Who the HELL WAS THAT?
My reverie is broken by a flash of movement below me. A fast flash of movement. Not a Flash-fast flash (try saying that five times fast), but whoever it was, was truckin'.
I decide to keep my presence to myself and follow him silently, jumping from rooftop to rooftop as he slows. He goes into stalk mode like flipping a switch, and I see the object of his sudden attention: lone woman, northbound on Harbor, heading away from the shipyards. Working girl from the looks of her, tired after a long shift. I can empathize. Later. Right now let's just make sure she gets home.
She turns down an alley, a rather dark alley, but its between a closed-down factory and an equally abandoned warehouse. Maybe she figures noone would be here. Normally she'd be right. Looks like this shortcut may be a habit of hers. I'll try to keep it from becoming a fatal one.
Speedy makes his approach like a cat stalking its prey. He even kicks a can so it scuttles noisily into the darkness, letting her know she's not alone and obviously enjoying the terrified reaction it gets. Like a cat with a mouse. I narrow my eyes and jump soundlessly from the ledge, not bothering with a jumpline. I think I'll use him to break my fall. I'm looking forward to this little altercation. I've got a pink shirt and a pantsless man's worth of bad day to beat out of this guy.
He must have eyes in the back of his head, because he's moving almost before my feet hit his back, twisting so that what should've been a knockout turns into a glancing blow. I roll with the impact, managing to avoid getting the wind knocked out of me, and get to my feet just as he's on me, a knife flashing in the light of the one remaining streetlight. I duck once, twice -- have I mentioned this guy's faster than hell? -- and backflip a few times for good measure. Its not a big knife, but it doesn't have to be a big knife to kill you. And Kevlar won't stop a blade. I can hear the woman running off, the echo of her feet fading suddenly as she clears the other end of the alley. At least she's safe, or as safe as she can be in this city.
Now let's see about me.
This is rapidly moving from routine stop to fight for my life. He's ducking and dodging and weaving and slashing and I can barely stay one step ahead of him, yet I get the downright eerie feeling that he's holding back for some reason. Maybe its just because of the lack of sleep. I'm obviously not at my prime. I know it. Heck I think even he knows it. He slashes again, and I manage to somersault over it and land my first punch of the evening. It hits his nose with a satisfying crunch and I suddenly feel that much more in stride. Now I'm on the offensive. I pull a Wonder Woman as I deflect his blade with my gauntlets, even getting in another blow, this time to his chin. He reels and I take a tiny moment to gloat. Just a second, not even a second.
Its enough. The knife flashes out and I hiss as the sharp sting lights a line of fire across my stomach. Its not bad, a scratch really, but it hurts, and from the look in his eyes -- all I can see are his eyes, under the hat and the trenchcoat -- is one of smug satisfaction. He takes one, two more swings at me, I duck and whirl like a dervish on speed and end up right-side up, fist cocked and ready to fire...at nothing. He's gone. Poof. I thought only Batman could pull that brand of vanishing act. I start a methodical search of the area, going to the rooftops for a better view. Nothing. He must've had some bolt hole or something. Fast as he was, he wasn't _that_ fast. I curse under my breath and look at the time on my gauntlet. 2:30. Might as well call it a night.
I can barely climb through the window when I finally get home. I almost slip as I slide up the sash. Apparently there's a city bus driver's strike so no convienent #76 to hop on the roof of and bum a ride home on. I end up roofing it the whole way, and my arms are not happy with me at all.
I peel off my clothes, wincing at the cut, and take care of it and the rest of my stinky self in the shower. Its only when I come out that I notice there are five messages on my answering machine. I hit play as I towel my hair, then drop the towel, then myself, onto the floor and hold my head in my hands.
All the messages are from Clancy. Or should I say the one long, angry message that's spread over five messages is Clancy. They/it end with, "And I'll never forgive you so long as there's breath in my body, MISTER Grayson! I am never speaking to you again!"
I rest my head on my knees and just sit for a minute, too depressed to cry. I feel like a country song. How's that joke go? What do you get when you play a country song backwards? You get your wife back, your dog back, your house back, your job back...
My personal country song must be on fast-forward.
I decide I've had enough damage to my person tonight and vow to face Clancy in the morning as I crawl up from the floor into bed, too tired to even brush my teeth. With the way my luck's going they'll probably fall out of my head as I sleep anyway. I close my eyes just as the sky begins to pink in the east. Pink. A final salvo from the last 24 hours. But as Scarlett says, tomorrow is another day.
STANDARD DISCLAIMER: These are not my characters. These are just my words. DC owns 'em, I just lie to their parents and tell them they're sleeping over at a friend's house so they can go out and have fun more than once a month.
Reviews, kudos, rotten tomatoes welcome. This is my first time and its almost 4am, so be gentle.
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One of Those Days, Part I
You ever have one of those days? You know, where you just seem to get up on the wrong side of the bed and step on the sharp thing you left there the night before and things just go downhill from there? Well, today is that day for me. In spades.
It all started with the phone call. Did you know that a telephone's ring is at the same frequency as a baby's cry? That's what makes you want to pick it up. That and social conditioning, I guess. I dunno; I dropped out of college before I got a chance to major in sociology. Or anything else. College and vigilantism don't mix, at least not when you've got a secret identity to protect.
And what professor would take 'Sorry about the midterm; I was off-planet fighting an alien menace' as an excuse anyway?
But back to the phone. Its still ringing. I squint blearily at the clock. Seven a.m. Its been about 52 minutes since my head hit the pillow. The phone rings again. I answer it in my best 'I was sleeping' voice.
"Yeah?"
"Rise and shine, rookie! You don't want to be late for briefing! You've got a half hour."
"Good morning to you, too, Amy," I mutter to the dial tone, and hang up. I guess she's not a morning person, either.
I literally drag myself out of bed, yawning. A whole hour's sleep. That brings this week's grand total up to what, four? Thank God its Thursday. I look around for my uniform (the other uniform; you know, the one with the badge?) and swear. Dry cleaners has my only clean one and I haven't had a chance to pick it up. A rash of muggings will do that to your schedule.
I throw on some sweats and head out, running into Clancy on the way. She beams me a smile and offers me a cranberry muffin. I have to take it, seeing as how I told her I loved the nasty little things once upon a time. If the Scarecrow knew how his nerve gas had affected me he'd be laughing his skinny little rear end off.
"An' how is me favorite tenant this fine morning?" she coos, looking at me with those big green eyes. As much as I love Irish accents, I have to resist the urge to say something nasty back to her and smile instead.
"Great." Ah, yes, the infamous playboy charm. I must get my conversation skills from Bruce.
"An' you're not forgettin' our little date this evening? It is, after all, the anniversary of your movin' into this fine establishment, and I wouldn't want to be makin' you feel all neglected now would I?" She grins that impish little grin, eyes dancing, and I start to cheer up a little. Maybe this day won't be so bad after all.
"Of course I haven't forgotten," I lie through my teeth to her. "I'll be here with bells on."
Her eyes narrow, dangerously. "Just see that y'are, boyo. I'll not be takin' kindly to another cold shoulder."
She gives me one more warning look for good measure then turns and heads back into her apartment, calling over her shoulder, "Six o'clock sharp! I've made reservations!"
I yell back something affirmative through a yawn and more fall than walk down the stairs, headed for the dry cleaner's. Let's see... 7:45, that gives me fifteen minutes to make the briefing. Good thing I'm used to changing clothes in weird places.
"Pink!?"
I know I'm yelling, and the small Slovakian man behind the counter shrinks visibly as my tone of voice slips dangerously close to Nightwing levels.
"What the hell is this?"
The little man apologizes profusely. "Sir I am so so sorry, please, it was a sock, red one mixed in and we didn't get to it in time and the whole order like this, I give you for free, please..."
He looks like he's about to have an heart attack, and I suddenly feel guilty, knowing the poor guy is probably hardly staying afloat as it is. I mean, in this neighborhood who gets dry cleaning? I think I'm one of five customers. I should've known something was up when there was a line of irate people in front of me all holding various articles of clothing that, upon reflection, should probably not have been pink. But hey, who am I to judge a man's underwear? People who wear Superman boxers shouldn't throw stones.
I pay my bill, still grumbling. Now not only am I late, but I'm pink. I am never gonna hear the end of this one.
"Glad you could make it, Rainbow Brite."
I find a seat in the back amid snickers from my fellow officers, my face burning. "Sorry we had to disturb your fashion makeover for our silly little briefing. We'll try to get you out of here in time for your manicure."
The sergeant smirks as the room erupts into laughter. I smile thinly and brace myself for the worst, but thankfully the docket's full of important news so the condition of my shirt just gets passing mention. As he goes into the rash of muggings, I feel my eyes starting to close. I already know this stuff and he seems into some goofy diagram he's drawing on the chalkboard about how there might be a pattern to the attacks, something I've already considered and dismissed by reading through the evidence. I figure its okay if I shut them for a minute...
I awaken with a start to the sound of an electric razor near my face, opening my eyes just in time to see four of my fellow rookies grinning from ear to ear as McGuffin, the practical joker, starts laughing like crazy. He's the one holding the razor. The other guys follow suit as I put a hand to my head, fearing the worst and mentally cursing myself for falling asleep so easily. Bruce would be so disappointed. Thank God all my hair's there; I must've woken up in time. It looks like the briefing is long over; we're the only ones left in the room.
"Thanks, McGuffin," I grumble, standing. He grins.
"Hey, don't blame me. I had to do something to draw people's attention away from that godawful shirt, Pinky."
The other guys laugh and Pinky becomes my new nickname, carrying on a time-honored tradition of hazing the new guy by giving him a nickname that reminds him of his most embarrassing moment. I guess its better than Boy Blunder.
"I'm just glad I woke up in time," I respond as I move towards the door, where Amy is waiting with a sour look on her face. The amusement in her eyes betrays her true feelings. The guys are still snickering behind me.
"You ready, Pinky?"
I give her a look and she glances from my shirt to my face, finally allowing a smile to creep across her lips.
"Let's go."
I ignore the odd looks and laughter as we make our way to the squad car, but I can't suppress a sigh of relief as I slide into the passenger's side and buckle my seat belt. Thankfully, the morning is uneventful and the coffee does wonders for my state of wakefulness. I decide I need to put some chocolate-covered coffee beans into the utility belt; beats the heck out of caffine pills. I tilt the cup up for the last gritty swallow when Amy jams on the brakes, causing the coffee to run out the sides of my mouth and onto my pink shirt. There's a call on the radio for backup over at Sixty-Third and Vine. Officer needs assistance.
Amy hits the lights and takes off as I study my twice-ruined shirt. I think the coffee's an improvement.
We arrive on-scene to find a domestic dispute of sorts going on. Seems a hooker and her pimp were having a falling out in the middle of the street and when the officer responded to a donut shop owner's request to remove them they both turned on him. The owner panicked and called us and we arrived to a good ol' down-home tail chewing. Officer Marx was on the receiving end.
Amy and I get out of the car, her hand on her gun, mine by my side. That's a bridge I don't even want to think about crossing. We approach the happy couple as the woman insults Marx's parentage in a way I haven't heard since Juvie. Fortunately my shirt defuses the situation as all three just stop and stare at me for a long moment before breaking into peals of laughter. Maybe I should make my other uniform pink, too.
We get the situation cleared up rather easily after that; Mr. and Mrs. Pimp decide its too early for this discussion and that they'll resume Round Two after a nice long nap. I envy them briefly as Marx looks me up and down.
"Yeah, I know. Save the the smart-ass comments. They've all been made already," I snap at him, and he raises his hands defensively, grinning.
"Hey, alright. Don't get touchy, Officer Unibrow."
Unibrow? I bend over and look into the rearview mirror, frowning, and a second later my newfound nickname reveals its source: my right eyebrow's been shaved off. Looks like I wasn't as quick as I thought. My suprise must show in my face because now Marx and Amy are both laughing so hard they're leaning on the hood of the squad car. I eye Amy balefully.
"You knew the whole damn time!"
She nods, still laughing, and there's a hint of meanness in her eyes, as if she's glad that I've gotten my comeuppance. Just what I've done to deserve my uppance come'd is up to debate. She thinks I got the call dishonestly. I didn't, but I don't know who did pull my number yet, or why. Just another failure to add to an already busy day. I check my watch; its not even noon yet. I get comfort in the fact that this is great cover for my rookie cop story as I pluck at my coffee-moistened shirt. Its cold comfort. Cold, wet, sticky comfort. With one eyebrow.
Thankfully, the rest of the day passes relatively uneventfully. I manage to get mustard on my shirt at lunch and consider it a lucky break, because it means there's a heated argument over what my nickname should be. 'Pinky' is still the strong favorite, but that's just because the rest of the guys haven't heard about what happened after I left the station. Yet. Journalists have nothing on the gossips on the force, let me tell you. Amy argues against Unibrow, since the evidence will disappear after a few days and a rather hirsute second year veteran named Burzetti has already laid claim to it. Hirsute? I must be waking up.
Its almost five. Pigpen, Calamity and Rainbow Brite are distant runners-up.
I sneak into the locker room after shift change and find a sippy cup in my locker. You know, the kid's drinking glasses that won't tip over because they're rounded on the bottom and have the little built-in straw? Its filled with pink Kool-Aide. Har har. I leave it in McGuffin's locker since he's off tomorrow and hope that by Monday the smell is enough to half pay him back for my eyebrow. I find myself looking forward to tonight. Maybe I'll swing by Babs'. God knows I could use a little cheering up.
I swing around the last building and the clock tower comes into view.
Ah, the wind in my face. Ah, the feel of a jumpline in my hands. Ah! There's some guy in Babs apartment and he's not wearing pants!
I had landed silently on the balcony and peeked into the window to see if I could catch a glimpse of Babs at work. She's just adorable when she's typing away at the computer, that serious look on her face, lost to the real world. Sometimes she'll smile at something someone says or types and I have to smile too, even though I'm on the outside of the in-joke.
Looks like I'm more on the outside than I thought. The lights are all on, the guy doesn't look like a prowler. Hell, he looks downright comfortable. In Babs apartment. With his pants off. And then I hear Babs voice come from the bedroom. I can't make out the words but its got that teasing tone, the one I've only heard her use with me, when we banter. Usually it begins with me asking her for some favor or another. Tonight I don't want to ask. I don't want to know. Maybe its innocent.
I take a quick mental snapshot of the room. There are flowers on the table and it looks like dinner was set for two. At least they blew the candles out. Safety first.
Maybe its innocent. And maybe I'm Batman. I leave the way I came, silently, and wish I'd never gotten out of bed.
Muggings. Think about the muggings. I crouch on the edge of the roof of some pizza joint, rocking on the balls of my feet, watching the alley below. A stray newspaper blows through, tossed like a ghost on the fickle winds of some redhead woman's whims. I shake my head at the metaphor, scolding myself. Its not like I've been a monk; hell, its not like we've even been dating. Offically. I just thought--
I shake my head again. Think about the muggings, Grayson. You can do it. There's been, what, twelve in the past two weeks? Whoever he is, he's being careful not to set a pattern. Too careful. Different areas, different victims, different times of night -- even one or two during the day. Nobody sees anything, not even the victims. They just know its a guy because he's big and fast. And brutal. Or maybe everyone assumes muggers are men. Women aren't known for physical crimes. They're more of the steal your heart then stomp on it types. And who was that mook anyway? Who stands around in someone's living room without their pants on? Who--
Who the HELL WAS THAT?
My reverie is broken by a flash of movement below me. A fast flash of movement. Not a Flash-fast flash (try saying that five times fast), but whoever it was, was truckin'.
I decide to keep my presence to myself and follow him silently, jumping from rooftop to rooftop as he slows. He goes into stalk mode like flipping a switch, and I see the object of his sudden attention: lone woman, northbound on Harbor, heading away from the shipyards. Working girl from the looks of her, tired after a long shift. I can empathize. Later. Right now let's just make sure she gets home.
She turns down an alley, a rather dark alley, but its between a closed-down factory and an equally abandoned warehouse. Maybe she figures noone would be here. Normally she'd be right. Looks like this shortcut may be a habit of hers. I'll try to keep it from becoming a fatal one.
Speedy makes his approach like a cat stalking its prey. He even kicks a can so it scuttles noisily into the darkness, letting her know she's not alone and obviously enjoying the terrified reaction it gets. Like a cat with a mouse. I narrow my eyes and jump soundlessly from the ledge, not bothering with a jumpline. I think I'll use him to break my fall. I'm looking forward to this little altercation. I've got a pink shirt and a pantsless man's worth of bad day to beat out of this guy.
He must have eyes in the back of his head, because he's moving almost before my feet hit his back, twisting so that what should've been a knockout turns into a glancing blow. I roll with the impact, managing to avoid getting the wind knocked out of me, and get to my feet just as he's on me, a knife flashing in the light of the one remaining streetlight. I duck once, twice -- have I mentioned this guy's faster than hell? -- and backflip a few times for good measure. Its not a big knife, but it doesn't have to be a big knife to kill you. And Kevlar won't stop a blade. I can hear the woman running off, the echo of her feet fading suddenly as she clears the other end of the alley. At least she's safe, or as safe as she can be in this city.
Now let's see about me.
This is rapidly moving from routine stop to fight for my life. He's ducking and dodging and weaving and slashing and I can barely stay one step ahead of him, yet I get the downright eerie feeling that he's holding back for some reason. Maybe its just because of the lack of sleep. I'm obviously not at my prime. I know it. Heck I think even he knows it. He slashes again, and I manage to somersault over it and land my first punch of the evening. It hits his nose with a satisfying crunch and I suddenly feel that much more in stride. Now I'm on the offensive. I pull a Wonder Woman as I deflect his blade with my gauntlets, even getting in another blow, this time to his chin. He reels and I take a tiny moment to gloat. Just a second, not even a second.
Its enough. The knife flashes out and I hiss as the sharp sting lights a line of fire across my stomach. Its not bad, a scratch really, but it hurts, and from the look in his eyes -- all I can see are his eyes, under the hat and the trenchcoat -- is one of smug satisfaction. He takes one, two more swings at me, I duck and whirl like a dervish on speed and end up right-side up, fist cocked and ready to fire...at nothing. He's gone. Poof. I thought only Batman could pull that brand of vanishing act. I start a methodical search of the area, going to the rooftops for a better view. Nothing. He must've had some bolt hole or something. Fast as he was, he wasn't _that_ fast. I curse under my breath and look at the time on my gauntlet. 2:30. Might as well call it a night.
I can barely climb through the window when I finally get home. I almost slip as I slide up the sash. Apparently there's a city bus driver's strike so no convienent #76 to hop on the roof of and bum a ride home on. I end up roofing it the whole way, and my arms are not happy with me at all.
I peel off my clothes, wincing at the cut, and take care of it and the rest of my stinky self in the shower. Its only when I come out that I notice there are five messages on my answering machine. I hit play as I towel my hair, then drop the towel, then myself, onto the floor and hold my head in my hands.
All the messages are from Clancy. Or should I say the one long, angry message that's spread over five messages is Clancy. They/it end with, "And I'll never forgive you so long as there's breath in my body, MISTER Grayson! I am never speaking to you again!"
I rest my head on my knees and just sit for a minute, too depressed to cry. I feel like a country song. How's that joke go? What do you get when you play a country song backwards? You get your wife back, your dog back, your house back, your job back...
My personal country song must be on fast-forward.
I decide I've had enough damage to my person tonight and vow to face Clancy in the morning as I crawl up from the floor into bed, too tired to even brush my teeth. With the way my luck's going they'll probably fall out of my head as I sleep anyway. I close my eyes just as the sky begins to pink in the east. Pink. A final salvo from the last 24 hours. But as Scarlett says, tomorrow is another day.