A Long Night (res)

[seventhsigil]

Patrick O'Malley had run this bar for about eleven years now, even before the back room had been rented for... other uses. He was a large, strongly build man with thinning hair and the first signs of a developing pot belly, and even though his bar saw less and less business with every month that passed, nothing seemed to shatter the man's perpetual cheer. He had a few loyal regulars, after all, in more ways than one, and by all appearances his side operation hadn't drawn any undue attention; business was very good, no matter what happened to the bar. So when, back turned, he heard the door pop open and the sound of heavy footfall approaching the bar, he chalked it up as just a bonus for the evening. It was well past midnight by now, and while there were nine people scattered throughout the fair-sized establishment, their purpose here was more professional than recreational.

Not that this stopped them from having a few drinks.

"Hey, man, rain let up at all?" Pat called over his shoulder, not looking back to see who the new arrival was.

"A little," came the answer, a voice Pat didn't recognize. "Here for a drink."

"All right," the bartender replied, turning around as he set the glass down. "Well, what's yer... poison..."

There was a long silence as Pat faced the newcomer squarely; it took him a surprisingly long moment to pinpoint just what was wrong with the man sitting so casually in front of him. When the discrepency sunk in, he was more confused than worries, a small smile crossing the older man's face as his hand drifted almost subconsciously upwards.

"Er... dunno how to say this nice, pal, but how're you supposed t' drink without..."

"You're a perceptive one," the newcomer noted dryly, his voice displaying the amusement that his face didn't... or, rather, couldn't. "You must be the ringleader."

"R-ringleader..." the other occupants of the bar had begun to climb to their feet, even as Pat's hands slowly strayed down again. "Sorry, pal, but got no clue what you're going on about."

"Sure you don't," the Question replied, shrugging ever so slightly as he pulled off his trenchcoat, dropping it casually on the adjoining stool and brushing the beads of water from his hat. "There's no chance at all this bar is in reality one of seven storerooms and distribution centers for a narcotics ring spanning about two fifths of Gotham. No chance that the stock rotates between storerooms every eight days, and right now is your turn. No chance that behind that blue door over there is enough hash and LSD to turn half the city into a Mardi Gras from Hell."

Most of the bar's occupants jumped slightly when Pat suddenly brought his hands back up, a shotgun clutched in his mitts. Not this newcomer, though.

"Smart, putting it together," the bartender growled, taking careful aim. "Not so smart coming in here alone."

"Hmm." Lifting a hand, the vigilante pressed two fingers to the very tip of the barrel, as if studying it. "You won't shoot me."

"Oh, yeah?" Snickering slightly, Pat shook his head, confidence slowly returning as he pumped a round into the chamber, moving the barrel ever closer to the man's featureless face. The men directly behind the vigilante were quick to move to either side, neither wanting to get caught with any spray pellets... nor any bits of this soon-to-be cadaver's far-flung gray matter. "Why? Think I've got a hidden soft side?"

The cadaver in question didn't react to the looming gun, however, simply tilting his head as he gave a small sigh.

"Because, this bar's less than two blocks down from the local police presinct," the Question explained idly, poking at one of the ashtrays as he glanced over his shoulder, taking in the gathering crowd. "Clever, working this right under their noses, where their attention wouldn't stay focused for too long; who'd have the nerve to operate so close to the authorities? But if you pull that trigger, and fifty cops come storming down here to find out what's what... no matter how many you've paid off, there's no way they could cover your asses when you stick them so far in the fire. Not with so much product in the back room. So. You won't shoot me."

The bartender's smirk had slowly faded throughout the Question's explanation, but for a moment it seemed as if he would pull the trigger for spite if nothing else. That moment passed, though, and with a muttering scowl the bartender pulled the shotgun away, glaring at this presumptuous freak who had so confidentially planted himself in their midst. Once more, the circle of thugs closed, and as weapons both blunt and sharp were produced throughout the dozen or so men, the bartender's expression became confident once more, though still soured by his inability to just blow this nut's brains across the floor.

"Think you're clever," the bartender muttered, unloading the rifle and tossing it aside as he gestured to the others. "But nobody out there's gonna hear you screaming when my boys break that one big bone on your face, no matter how loud you are."

"True." And the mask seemed to shift ever so slightly; anyone who knew the Question well enough would recognize that, behind it, he was grinning ear to ear. As his body tensed, primed and prepared, his finger drifted idly to his belt buckle, the motion hidden from the bar's occupants.

"Neither will anyone in here."

Suddenly there was motion and chaos as a massive puff of gas spewed from the vigilante's belt, shrouding him and the bartender within moments. The gas was simply the binding agent that altered his hair and clothes, and bound the mask to his face; harmless, in other words. But the spectacle was enough to drive the group of thugs back for a second or two, and that was all Sage needed. In a flash, the Question reached out, fingers curling around the collar of the bartender's shirt. Using his considerable strength and agility to full advantage, the faceless vigilante hopped and curled, rolling across the surface of the bar even as he used the momentum and leverage to pull the bartender the other way. By now, the crowd was closing in again, but with the thick smoke, they couldn't see a thing; when someone slammed into the group, they assumed it was the vigilante trying to attack and began to punch and kick as the squirming form with all their might.

The gas cleared enough to see within a moment or two, but even as the thugs realized they had just been beating the tar out of Pat, a pair of bottles whizzed through the air, each striking a crook across the head and spraying vodka in all directions. Half of the bar occupants were nearly blinded as the strong drink splashed in their eyes, and even as they tried to reorganize, the Question sprung back onto the bar, using it as a launchpoint. His next leap carried him, legs tucked in, over the heads of the entire mob, his landing accompanied with a quick forward roll to bring him back to his feet, hat still secure. When he turned to face the group next, the door was at his back; the only exit. No doubt they thought he wanted to keep an escape option open for himself.

In truth, he just wanted to make sure not too many of them got out.

They had more or less recovered from their shock now, and most of those who'd suffered from booze in the eyes were blinking their way back to vision. Alternately frightened and furious, the crowd began to close in on him, figuring that now the worst they had to worry about was that this freak would slip away from them.

The poor idiots.

Before they could even close half the distance, the Question made the first move, hurtling in with a vicious flurry of blows that all but drove the crowd back. Stiffened fingers into the solar plexus of one man, a brutal stomp on the instep of another, a whirling elbow that caught a third on the bridge of the nose, a headbutt towards a fourth that caused Sage to lose his hat, but his target to lose his teeth. So quick and so precise were the strikes, the first row of men all but scurried to put some distance between themselves and this maniac, compressing the ranks, and as Victor gained another foot or two or breathing room, he didn't close the distance anew. Instead, he made full use of the extra space to launch into a second wave of attacks, a series of spinning kicks. Half of them didn't connect; they were intended more to frighten, to keep those men backing away. Those few that did hit cracked bone more often than not, and before long four men were out cold on the bar floor, in varying states of woe.

Despite their clear panic, the opposition did manage to land the occasional counter-strike, but each was brushed off as inconsequential; a clipping roundhouse to the jaw elicited only a grunt from the Question and a retalitory palm strike that crumpled the assailant's nose. A hard shove by two men actually caused Sage to stumble back a half step, but before the mob could take advantage of it, the vigilante turned the backwards momentum into a leap and tuck, rolling across one of the bar's tables and kicking it into the crowd. By the time they had managed to shove the flying furniture aside, the Question was at them once more, all feet and fists and fury.

Three and a half minutes after the fight had began, there were still eight men conscious and trying to resist, in varying states of vision, injury and intoxication. But any seasoned fighter watching the scene would have realized that, even with the continuing advantage of numbers, even with the opportunity to regroup and work together, the outcome of this particular fight was only a matter of time.

And in that fight, Victor Sage got to forget just how miserable his life had become.

[k]

[seventhsigil]

So far, the fight was going swimmmingly. He was thrashing the opposition, the bait he had let escape was well on his way to tell the cops- the right cops, he hoped- that their 'second' source of income was under siege, and nobody had shot him yet. All in all, things seemed to be going exactly as he had planned, and Sage was even laughing breathlessly as he battered, beat and broke one defense after another, using his superior agility to cross, leap or roll to another part of the room when the confines grew too tight.

So he was more than a little surprised when a sudden rush of movement and shadow crossed the corner of his eye, very nearly distracting him from a high snap kick that flattened the profile of one thug and took him out of the fight. At first, he thought the Dark Knight himself had arrived in response to the commotion- a development that would have thrown his carefully crafted plan through complications he didn't want or need- but it didn't take long to identify the smaller, slimmer cowl-equipped woman who fought briefly at his side. He didn't have the breath or the time to call out to her, or try to draw her attention, and most particularly he couldn't tell her to stop when she followed O'Malley into the back room, his eyes widening with surprise and nameless fear.

It had little to do with any doubts as to her abilities; any belief that women were the weaker sex had been promptly beaten out of him years ago, back when Shiva had shown him just how much pain an attractive young woman could inflict. That she ran with the Bat at all was certainly testament enough to the fact that she could take care of herself, and she had been doing this long before she'd leapt in to help with his mess. By all logical thought, by all accounts, there shouldn't have been any problem with seeing her run after a middle-aged, portly bartender, armed or no.

But it didn't matter, not really. This was a fight that he had started, a bone he had to pick, and he wasn't going to let anyone else from Gotham's 'special' little community get hurt as a result; if she suffered so much a hangnail behind that door, he'd be to blame. He had little doubt her towering, gloomy patron would see it the same way, and it was as much to avoid drawing that particular man's ire as anything else that drove him into an even wilder fury, breaking bones and shattering teeth in his wake.

He needed to end this. Now.

He suffered more hits than he would have had he stayed on the defensive, shrugging them aside as best as he could as he focused all of his considerable skill and effort on dropping the remaining men as quickly and effectively as possible. He caught one's punch in an armlock and twisted, neatly dislocating the thug's shoulder and silencing his scream of pain with a reverse elbow strike under the chin. As a pair of thugs closed towards him, Sage pressed the catch on his belt again, releasing another billowing burst of gas. Accustomed to it, the two men didn't slow their charge, but by the time they passed through the cloud, Sage was no longer in it, having rolled out the opposite side. By the time they came back around, the first met a swift end as a viciously swung stool caught him across the side of the face, dropping him like a sack of bricks and shattering the makeshift weapon in the process. The second one, encouraged for some incomprehensible reason, continued to hurl towards the vigilante with hands outstretched, but a humiliatingly simple sidestep and trip caused the larger man to rapidly lose his balance. His fall was aided as the Question's hand closed on the back of the man's neck, shoving down hard to crack the thug's head against the surface of the bar, knocking him out cold by the time he hit the ground.

Feeling like half the muscles in his body had been bruised and battered in the fight, but driven by something akin to desperation, Victor licked the blood from his own lips as he half-rushed, half-limped to the backroom's door. It had shut behind O'Malley and his pursuer, and the Question didn''t even bother with the doorknob, slamming the portal hard with one foot and very nearly breaking it from its hinges. Driven by formless, shapeless anger, and fear as to what he might find waiting for him, the vigilante all but burst into the room, gloved hands tightly clenched and chest heaving as he prepared to leap in where- and if- he was needed.

[k]

[seventhsigil]

About a thousand different things crossed his mind when he saw Batgirl, thankfully unharmed, all but waiting for his arrival, his shoulders very nearly slouching with relief. Hands sliding into his pants pockets, he just stared at her for a long moment, even as he tried to pick out which of the multitude he should actually give voice.

He was going to ask her if she was all right, but he doubted she would appreciate the sentiment.

He was going to ask her what the hell she was doing here, but that was probably the kind of question that she should have been asking him, given the circumstances.

He was going to tell her she took too great a risk, but he had cheerfully stared down the barrel of a shotgun three minutes ago.

Finally, he was going to ask her where her mentor was, but that question never got him anywhere when it came to Batman.

"Good job," he finally muttered, stepping past her and towards the stock in question.

That cowl and symbol she wore made this far more her city than his, and it wasn't like he had phoned ahead to let Gotham know he was coming. In part, it was that anonymity that had made his task much easier tonight; had this been Hub City, and had the barman known who he was pointing the gun at, there was no doubt in Sage's mind that he would have pulled the trigger and let the chips fall where they may. As it was, the fact that he was faceless in this city in more ways than the obvious had caused them to let down their guard, to their final and utter downfall. It had also been that very anonymity, that uncertainty as to who he was or what he wanted, that was supposed to make the next part of his plan all the easier. Unfortunately, the fact that he had been joined by a very well known, very recognizable vigilante had just thrown the monkey wrench to end all monkey wrenches into his plot and now, standing in the middle of the storage room, his fingers twitched at his sides, mind racing as he tried to find some alteration, some maneuver, that would make this all work out.

An idea came to him quickly and, wasting no time, he reached inside his suit jacket pocket, taking out a tightly compressed wad of cloth. Untying and shaking it out, he revealed a fair-sized bag with a drawstring. A quick, well-placed kick shattered a box of the product, and as the small sacks tumbled out, he held open the sack, using his free hand to shovel the drugs in as quickly as he could.

"I know this looks bad," he was saying, scooping product into the bag with all due haste, sending bags and vials of it scattering in all directions, presenting the very result he was going for; a sizable amount of drugs missing, and clearly taken by someone in a rush. "But I can only promise that this is for a noble cause that will, with any luck, result in jailtime for a few very corrupt individuals. You didn't try dropkicking me when you got here, even though I started the fight, so I'm going to guess you know who I am." Pulling the drawstring on the bag close, he turned back towards her, the pilfered loot slung over one shoulder, with plenty left scattered around the ground. "I'm asking you to trust me, even if that means just following me around- quietly until this stuff is dealt with properly. All right?"

While he was trying, very hard, to be as patient and reasonable as he could, he did have to resist the urge to just plant a boot between her teeth and flee. He couldn't be here much longer, if he was going to have any success at all, he had to get out of here, now, and the impatience was already beginning to build.

This was crucial; he had to get this done, and get out of the building, before the cops arrived. Everything counted on that.

[k]

[/b] she responded, almost instantly. She was used to working as a team, with someone by her side, despite her ability to work just as well by herself. There seemed to have been hesistance before he'd spoken, and Babs wondered if he'd been scared for her. She knew how to take care of herself, even if her fighting experience wasn't quite to the standard of the Question or of Batman, and her agility wasn't quite the same as Nightwing's. She was an able fighter, well versed in several styles and a star athlete. These seemed to mean very little in some instances, but when fighting against general amateurs like the men in the bar or O'Malley, it gave her a brilliant advantage. Babs wasn't stupid, she knew better than to throw herself into something she couldn't handle. Well, she did now - she'd grown up a lot recently, and she didn't take the risks she was used to.

There was only a matter of time before the police arrived, both of them knew that. She watched in a moment of shock as she saw the Question scooping up the product from the box. Her mouth fell open, and she suddenly found herself in quite a strange position indeed. Batman trusted this guy, right? So by all means, she ought to as well, but Babs couldn't help but find something wrong with this all.

"You- that's removing evidence from a crime scene," Babs stuttered. She listened to his words, and she knew there was a part of her willing to trust him, but then, a part of her that didn't like where this was heading. "I didn't dropkick you because Batman trusts you, it doesn't mean I do," she added, narrowing her eyes at him. "You're right, it does look bad - vigilantes drop in on a crime scene and take the very valuable evidence," Babs paused. She knew there was an urgency in his voice, something that told her he was desperate to get out. But for what reason? So it appeared that these men had all been taken out unnecessarily? Would it look like Batgirl and the faceless vigilante had been starting fights in O'Malleys for the sake of it all? She noted he'd left some scattered on the floor, enough to given just cause for the attack.

She could tell he was growing impatient, and she had to make a decision. She was either with him or she wasn't. He'd shown concern for her, which in Babs' mind he wouldn't have done if he didn't care about her wellbeing, for whatever reason. He had affiliations with Batman, a man not to be crossed when it came to those he worked closely with. Babs eyes flickered toward the backdoor, which led into the pub. The men who hadn't been entirely snapped in two by the Question would be beginning to gain their strength back, and the police would be arriving any second. Giving a heavy sigh Babs relented.
"Let's go - but you can't keep me in the dark, if I'm going to trust you, you have to trust me," Babs said quickly, realizing they needed to leave.[/ul]

[seventhsigil]

"Time to go, then," he replied, hoising the bag over his shoulder as he hurried out of the backroom. Rather than head straight for the exit, however, he quickly crossed to one of the undamaged corners of the bar, setting down the product and pulling it open. "So," he was muttering, "she grabs the bag, it rips a little," a few packets were scattered across the floor, "I pull away, she kicks me in the chest," he threw himself, with surprising enthusiasm, against the nearest wall, crumbling plaster and buckling wood. "Grab her by the leg and toss her to the side," he drove his elbow through the nearest window, shattering it. "And... we're good. Come on."

Picking up the bag, this time he went straight for the exit; it was absolutely pouring rain by now, and the Question found himself wishing he had thought to wax the suit.

"All right," he began to explain, striding across the street with one hand in his pocket, the other holding the cloth bag, "if you know about me, you know where it is I come from. And where I come from, half the dirty deals in this country pass through the hands of the men and women in the highest of places. I spent a lot of time gathering what information I could before I... left... and so I'm here with a slightly different perspective on this city, and some of the more... creative... groups operating in here. One in particular has been quite effective in compensating for the tactics of your boss."

Picking a good alley spot that afforded a concealed view of the bar's entrance, the Question had little more to do than huddle his shoulders in silent denial of the freezing rain, every muscle in his body seeming to halt as his featureless face turned towards the objective. The sack of drugs fall to the ground, ignored now as he even used his foot to push it in Barbara's direction, apparently having no further need of it.

"You've gotten a few of their outer distribution centers," he continued, referring to the vigilante population in general and adjusting the collar of his jacket to turn away the rain, "but they're cautious, and adaptive. The distribution centers have virtually no connection to each other, or to the hub network organizing them. They just look like small scale operations, and the losses to the bigger picture are minimal. Hitting a storage depot, like this one, makes a slightly bigger dent in their pocketbooks, but they're too smart to let it stop them for long. We need to find those directly responcible, those pulling the strings, and we have to move carefully. If they think that they've been found out, that their operation is in danger of being exposed, they reshuffle their assets and any information gathered on them becomes obsolete. Which is why I want it to look like nothing more than a hit and rob by some crazed criminal... think I fit the bill?"

Unfortunately, her arrival complicated things, and gave him a far shorter time limit; he was barely known in this city, after all. Her involvement would probably set off every alarm the organization had; he could only hope the signs of added conflict would buy him a little time. If he made it look like she was too involved in trying to hunt down the faceless robber...

Finally, a police cruiser arrived, its sirens and lights curiously dark as . A pair of officers hurried out of the vehicle, followed closely by the slightly battered man who had succeeded in fleeing from the bar earlier. For a moment, the policemen circled the car, peering at the surrounding streets and alleyways as if expecting ambush, but when the escaped crook shot them an angry call, they turned, following him inside the bar itself.

"They have more than a few assets at their disposal," the Question added, a hint of satisfaction in his voice, "including, I believe, at least two cops on the payroll. Don't suppose you recognize them?"

A bit of a long shot, but she had been in the city a great deal longer than he had. Besides, if she didn't, Plan B was... well, assaulting two police officers.

[k]

[/b] Babs noted as he dumped the bag onto the floor. She looked at him, and then back toward the bar. She felt instantly aware of how she may have damaged the chances of tham gaining an upperhand on the gangs now, and that her appearance had been recognisable as she was a major fixture in Gotham's vigilante team. She had jumped in at the fight, only to almost blow his cover. She hadn't exchanged a word, no recognisation inside, and she hoped it could be passed off as her pursueing him and not working together.
"You? Crazed? I think you can just about pull it off," Babs replied dryly. "But I could still kick your ass if you want it to look authentic," she added, but smiled to show she was merely joking. Her attention was suddenly caught elsewhere.

Babs stopped as she saw the police car draw up, silent and without sirens. She knew very well what that would indicate and she watched intently. Two men stepped up and Babs shook her head.
"I do," she said, not taking her eyes off them as disappeared into the bar after the man she'd seen running down the street earlier. Lucky she hadn't stopped him, Babs thought, because then the wrong police would have shown up. "Pretty high ranking, they've been there for a while," Babs thought. Man, one of them came to my sweet sixteen, she thought, with a wry smile. "One's called Detective Chambers, the taller one is Officer Adams," she informed him. Of course she knew who they were, they worked with her father - so closely with her father, and all this time they were stabbing him in the back. Her eyes narrowed and she felt a rush of anger. She knew their were plenty of corrupt police officers, but it was always hard to find those who were, for they covered their tracks well. However, Officer Adams was never seen without his partner, Officer Johnson, and Babs wondered if that meant she too was in on the whole affair.

"At least two police officers?" she responded, quietly. "I think at least three," she propositioned. The two were fairly close, too close for Johnson not to know what Adams was up to. Babs knew them solely by what her father chose to impart upon her, but enough to know they were referred to as the conjoined twins. "O'Malley might squeal about me when he wakes up," Babs added worriedly, looking back at him. [/ul]