Time To Go
Roleplaying Log: Time To Go
IC Details

Batgirl decides to leave

Other Characters Referenced:
IC Date: January 15, 2020
IC Location: Somewhere in Gotham
OOC Notes & Details
Posted On: 15 Jan 2020 08:39
Rating & Warnings:
Scene Soundtrack: [*\# None]
NPC & GM Credits:
Associated Plots

It's been a hell of a ride.

And throughout it all, he's been watching, taunting. The harassment has almost kept pace with the hilarity, if one was being entirely truthful with oneself, and also were using a completely delapidated definition of the term 'hilarity.' Of course, the crooning cicada-like buzz of the Joker's barrage of incisive commentary has been Cassandra's faithful companion for the days she's been in his tender care. Some days he is kind, and compliments her on her form, her ability to stay upright through the sledgehammers, the cattle prods, the clouds of hallucinogens.

Other days, he is less so, but no less sanguine.

Surely, the thugs he's employed have ranged the gamut, from the harder-to-defeat to the just-walked-in-off-the-street. Some holler as she breaks things in them they never thought could be broken. Others enjoy the sensation, intensely. But she is expressly never given a chance, never given a moment to breathe. Glimpses of the Joker have been few and far between — beyond the jangling horrorshow that is his everpresent voice, he is a wisp of tailored violet silk on the catwalks above. A grinning visage just barely out of arm's reach. It's his way, she will learn in time.

All throughout the thing, she is never given more than an hour or two to sleep before the next morning. She is beaten to within an inch of herself, and every day, she wakes up changed just a little bit. Where the body is not willing, the amphetamines are. Her outfit, her armor, her protection is defaced a little more with each day. Slowly but surely, she becomes a little more just like one of the clowns. She is given her chances, in due time. Some are plain and obvious. Others have to be worked for. An unlocked latch here, a man whose gun's safety is engaged without his knowledge.

But which is real, and which isn't?

  • * *

The old cliche that martial arts movies use to tell about a hero's past experiences in training being similar to the situation the hero faces in the present, that applies even to the girl wearing the Batsuit. Locked in with drug-fueled men three times her size, expected to lose eventually, but to fight until that was no longer an option. Fight she did, and up she stayed, through each of her teacher's gruelling gauntlets. She was seven years old then. Here, more than a decade later, and what she fights for isn't just to impress a teacher. Habit? No choice? No. Never no choice.

Before this night, she had been fighting to learn, but the teacher isn't looking to teach. Through her inability to understand him, she realizes that this is fruitless. He will keep this up until she's done. Until she stops. She had finally come to comprehend enough about him. Time to teach him more about his captive.

Not captive. Plaything.

The moment the doors open to allow the stream of the latest round of fighting to commence, she is active. She didn't sleep this time. She waited. Planned out the first and only part that will not be an improvised part of the game. She's memorized the stonework leading into the pit, found every fault, every tiny opportunity. She springs up in a seemingly impossible kick to send the nearest thug back, sprawling into the rest, which carries her back into a reverse somersault, then she charges forward, darting left to elbow the next nearest to sprawl him back, darts right to knee the next, creating a wave of thugs in the opposite of which way she runs. Everything goes in slow motion for her. Batgirl uses the first struck thug's knee as a stepping stone, his shoulder as the next, and the thug behind him's head as the final before she leaps to the wall, scaling in a hurry.

From a normal speed perspective, she moves all too quickly. Not so fast as to be untraceable, but fast enough to make reaction difficult. Every tiny fault in the wall becomes a foothold and handhold. She's up and out within seconds, and rather than charging at the clown, she's moving for the exit.

  • * *

Bodies hit the ground like cordwood.

The abrupt start to the evening's festivities leave the security a little bit in disarray. As no one really wants to head on up to even the prospect of a weakened Batgirl to check and see if she is really sleeping without an armed contingent of backup, there's precious little preparation in the face of the onslaught, where the young Batman protege skips over and through the clamoring horde of bat-wielding, bat-clubbing maniacs with no more visible effort than a stone thrown across the surface of a still pond.

Ah, but no matter how good you are, a skipped stone will eventually sink.

Though the clown himself doesn't actually seem to have been alerted to the security faux pas as yet, his actual location is also something left quite tantalizingly up in the air. He doesn't always make an appearance in person, nor does he always seem to be specifically paying attention to what miseries befall the young maid at any given time. He's a busy man, he would say. Or perhaps is it a vagary of a despairing narrative, carefully and cautiously tended? Just how important is this particular plaything to him?

Thugs ahead of the group felled notice the commotion, of course. Though many scatter over themselves, clubbing one another and after Batgirl in an effort to batter her into submission, it's the actual guards the Joker saww fit to assign to the surrounding arena that mount the most obvious offensives, drawing tiny tranquilizer pistols from back holsters and taser rods in attempts to re-catch her. They fire at her as she takes flight, another guard scrambling over to the fire alarm, and pulling it, only to have the handle pop off in his hand, and a tinny 'hahaha!!' recording pipe over a minature speaker in the device at him. Uh. Oops?

  • * *

The improvisation of Batgirl, or just living in the moment and using what she has learned in her time within the clown prince's pit of perilous conflict. She's picked up roughly how to exit, from watching dozens lucid enough to know they want to leave, and what the stronger warriors that have been hired to keep her inside are trying to prevent her from reaching. Dart pistols, she is fully aware of them, and how good the aim of the hands that hold them are. She lulls several into a false sense of definitely-gonna-taze-that, only to surprise them with flying darts from their comrades landing just as she moves out of the way.

Were she in top form, she would cut through these forces like an unstoppable assassin. She knows just how far below top form she is now. She actually alternates between quick tactical thinking and sudden burst of seemingly impossible speed. All that time spent fighting off the waves of thugs in different states of lucidity, they helped her learn more. This combination of applied tactics and the flow of the fight give rise to new options. Such as the double-clicker-stun-baton-surprise-toss.
As two of the tazer-batons become uncontrolled, she picks both up, and surges forward to her next obstacle, darting into cover on the way. The rods, they have a certain balance to them that in the right hands might be thrown to bonk someone in the head. In the hands of Batgirl, they become a more interesting thrown option. She turns them just right as she peers around her little corner, then leaps out to throw them in an inward arc so that they meet at about the same time as they reach her two targets, touching buttons and exposed spots on the neck beneath the chinstrap of their helmets and delivering a quick shock that flows through the brain before the rest of the body.

Back to the flow of motion. The doors take a few kicks to open with the sort of force that might break a bone if not for the combat boots. Doors open, everyone now alerted on both sides, she backtracks to cover, to hide, to skulk, to go where they don't expect her to be.

  • * *

"About human suffering; they were never wrong," he hums idly.

The task is not as easy as it sounds, escaping. The aggressors are as thick as thieves, for good such reason. For every person the young Batgirl might have been able to drub in her mountingly festive green, purple and red-festooned suit, another two were waiting, fresh from the madhouse factory floor.

"The old masters; how well they understood. Its human position, how it takes place.."
He slowly loads in the shell, screwing on the cap absently.

A pair of lightning-arced batons scissor on an otherwise well-armored thug's unprotected neck in a feat of timing achievable only by the world's finest, knocking him flat to the ground as she thunders past, a rambling charger in the race, coming vague and shy from tramplign the man in the process. The door opens to the main factory floor, drawing the attention of the workers as well as the guards, and the sound of a score of weapons chambering rattles inside Cassandra's head with the motion. Outside and beyond this, the final room, is just a small set of colorful security shacks and barbed wire fences between Cassandra nd freedom. But in the meantime, the conveyor belts whir quietly as machines pump idly away at their work, assembling and filling stuffed animals. Each are nightmarish in their own turn, whip-stitched grins seeming only to grow more lurid as workers jam them onto the end of filling pumps, their bodies filled with greying fluff. A toy factory, started and left aside from ages how long ago, brought back to life.

But a gun is a kind of toy too.
The sound of actual real live rounds begin to fill the air.

"They never forgot," he continues sotto voce, as he twists on a scope, adjusting the laser and the sight absentmindedly. "That even the dreadful martyrdom must run its course." He grins. "Anyhow, in some corner, some untidy spot… where the dogs go on, and the torturer's horse scratches its behind innocently on a tree. Heh heh heh.."

  • * *

The sight of many soon-to-be-shooting thugs cause the Batgirl most garish to pre-emptively act, on the run the moment the weapons are gripped, diving to cover when the weapons are readied, taking hold of stuffed toys as she passes. For throwing. Just not at people. She slides the head of one into the neck-bound bow of the other, a position that would be most uncomfortable if they were alive, scrapes a boot to signal the gunners to be ready to fire, then throws the unfortunate stuffed pair upward to give them a target as the Batgirl rushes to the next in her series of advancement checkpoints. She crosses a line of sight, takes hold of a leg and drags her first to the next spot of cover, delivering a knockout punch, and picking up his gun.

The gun is a versatile tool. Its use as a murder device is the most common, but it has others. Pistols are hammers. Rifles are butts. An empty gun can terrify, or be placed in the hands of someone to make them believe they have the upper hand. But all guns are noisemakers. After taking the gun, she takes the shirt too. Then she moves on, bundling the shirt in under an arm, finding next cover. There, she puts on the shirt over her armour. It's not a loose fit, but it's good enough to camouflage from the waist up.

Part of how humans recognize each other is the language of the body. Even in peripheral vision, subtle movements are registered in the brain by those they know. In peripheral vision, the Batgirl wearing the shirt of a comrade moves just like the comrade would, and opens fire as she steps closer to another guard at one of the many shadowed spots she knows no one is presently in. Others join in to shoot there, other than the one who calls out where she is. She pulls the adjacent guard down behind cover with her, knocking him unconscious too, tearing the shirt open to remove it from herself, and renews the game of not revealing her position by throwing the discarded shirt upward and then moving again.

(To be Concluded)

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