High-Flying Vigilantes
Roleplaying Log: High-Flying Vigilantes
Participants
IC Details
Synopsis:

Batgirl runs into Arsenal bogarting her gargoyle, and they break up a mob poker game.

Other Characters Referenced: Batman, Batwoman, Nightwing, Red Robin, Robin
IC Date: January 07, 2019
IC Location: East End, Gotham
OOC Notes & Details
Posted On: 08 Jan 2019 06:24
Rating & Warnings: Light R for language
NPC & GM Credits:
Associated Plots

Not all crime in Gotham happens in the Narrows. Not anywhere near all crime, actually. The East End tends toward mob-related crime rather than just straight muggings or robbery, but it takes all sorts. Speaking of all sorts, there's Roy, sitting on a gargoyle overlooking this part of the city. He's a dozen stories up, so the view is pretty good, but he's not standing dramatically with his cape flowing around him, no he's just sitting on the gargoyle with his feet hanging on either side, swingingly lightly as if he was sitting on a surfboard or a dock. And he doesn't have a cape to flow dramatically around him anyhow. He does have his hood up and his domino mask on, which is probably a good thing, because he has a very loose smile plastered over his lips, and his eyes idly track a police zeppelin moving past a dozen blocks to the north. His bow is cradled in his lap, a line-arrow nocked, which is probably a good thing too, considering how high up he is.

"You know, that's my gargoyle," a casual, but low-pitched feminine voice notes behind Roy. How exactly he missed her arriving on the roof is anyone's guess, but to the trained eye, the casual movement at her hip holsters the grappler gun to her belt. She takes a casual lean against the exterior wall of the building, arms crossed at her chest, and head slightly tilted in a bit of curiosity. This is one of those rare moments where Barbara has heard about this particular vigilante, but this is her first time crossing paths with him. She doesn't look all that perturbed that he's sitting on Brad the Gargoyle — look, you got bored sometimes on patrols as a teenager, and naming the gargoyles was a sacred past time.

Roy tilts his head back slowly until he can look behind him, his legs stopping their swinging so that they can lock around Brad the Gargoyle's neck to keep him from falling off. His placid expression suggests that he knew she was there the whole time, even as his mind is still recovering from the surprise of the voice appearing behind him. "I didn't hear you call dibs," he studies the caped form in the dark for a moment, then goes with, "Princess Bat." He relaxes the arch of his back, sitting more upright atop the gargoyle, and responding in a lazy sort of voice, "Or did I miss a plaque somewhere on him?" Clearly, no matter who you are, this particular gargoyle is male.

Batgirl's chin dips with a slight chuckle. "I've always got dibs on Brad." Then she presses off the wall, stepping those short steps to the ledge that supports Brad the Gargoyle. "Princess Bat? That's a new one." Is it though? Probably not. She settles into a low squat, her cape — shorter in her recent redesign of her suit — gives a more modest flutter at the relaxed posture. She crosses one arm lazily across her bent knee, looking down into the East End curiously. "I'll have to get him properly marked… Brad the Gargoyle: Batgirl Called Dibs." Then she flickers her gaze briefly back up to Roy. Her head tilts slightly, eared cowl giving her an almost curious look. "Quiet tonight?" Which is vigilante code to: am I interrupting something?

"Well, there's the King Bat," Roy pushes himself up to stand on Brad's head with languid grace, "The Queen Bat, the Crown Prince, and I'm pretty sure that makes you Princess Bat and the others the Spare Bat and Baby Bat." At least Babs isn't Baby Bat, right. He hops lightly down to the ledge on the other side of the gargoyle and gestures expansively to invite her up onto the stone beastie. "I mean, it's a little late for the season, but you could be," he sings, "Bat Baby…" Of course, it's to the tune of 'Santa Baby.' "Yeah, it's been quiet." 'Nope, not interrupting. "Just keeping an eye on the neighborhood. Looking out for troublemakers and ne'er-do-wells."

Roy's explanation of the Bat Family has her rolling her eyes slightly, and she casts the red-armored archer a dubious look. "You know, I wouldn't really recommend trying to spread that too far. The Bat King gets a bit irritable when other vigilantes take cracks at his expense." Then she steps up closer to Brad, but doesn't actually mount the stone monster. Instead, she just leans into it, arm and shoulder pressed lightly against the carved creature. Then Roy is mangling a perfectly good Christmas song, and she darts a narrowed look at him. "I like how you added an extra syllable in 'Bat,' but you do that again, and I'm not going to apologize for the retaliation, Red Arrow." Then she resumes her own look at the neighborhood below, head tilted slightly. "I'd say quiet is good, but sometimes that's the worst kind of warning sign."

"Batsy Baby?" Roy considers to himself, then shakes the thought off. It's just a musing though, and then he's back to the earlier point, "What do you mean? You don't think he's like to be the King? I always heard it's good to be the king. And it's Arsenal." He shifts back along the narrow ledge to let her get a look at the throwing knives along his bandoleer, the escrima sticks along his calves, and the pistol and knife at his waist. "I'm way more than just arrows." There's a laugh behind the word, even some light flirtation. "But seriously," something about that causes a little laugh to bubble up in his throat, "seriously, yeah, there's probably some big mob-man meeting going on right now."

"Oh, I remember," Batgirl says with a wry touch at his correction of his codename. She casts a look his way as he goes through his inventory, and a low hint of amusement twitches at the corners of her lips. "I'm sure it's great to be king, but that's not what Batman is to this city." Then she arches a simple brow at his light fliration, but that smile has not faded. "Hey," she says with a half tilt of her head, raising a stalling hand. "I know that the weapons make the man." Then she resumes her casual look down at the east end. Arsenal's observation of what is probably going on down there has Batgirl rolling a shoulder in a half-shrug. "Yeah, and what do you want to do about it? Storm the castle?"

Roy leans slowly against the other side of Brad's stony head, resting his elbow on the gargoyle and his hand on the side of his head, "If you know where they are, I'd be glad to be your brute squad, Batgirl." Did he just make a Princess Bride reference in response to hers? Yup. "So what makes the woman then? The brains? The brawn? Or is it weapons too? Because I'll show you mine if you show me yours."

Batgirl leans forward just a bit more so she can spot Arsenal on the other side of Brad with an arched look. "Alright. But that makes you Fezzik." Then she leans back out of sight with the bulk of stone between them. She continues her thoughtful lean against Brad, arms and ankles both crossed, the latter emphasized by the bright yellow of her boots. His question causes a light chuckle from her spot beside the gargoyle. "Didn't you just show me yours, Arsenal?" The light flirtations are met easily because, well, so is her nature. "And besides, you never ask a woman to reveal her secrets." Then she knocks casually out of her lean to step to the edge of the roof. "There's a bar at the end of the block. They like to take a poker game in the backroom. You owe me a dollar for every gambling joke you make."

Then there's the sudden quiet, and yet easy-to-recognize pop of the grappler gun being fired, and the purple-glad Bat goes swinging out down the length of the building and its neighbor, calling out over shoulder, "And a dollar for every time you rhyme!" The woman comes at the end of her swing, curving into the building to skip her feet along its exterior before she drops quietly down in front of the mouth to the alleyway on its opposite end. She glances slightly over her shoulder to see if Roy is keeping up.

"I'm way more of the Man in Black. Inigo in a pinch." Roy pats the arm of his bow against his leg, "And I showed you some of mine. A gentleman never shows it all unless he knows the lady is interested." That assumes, of course, that he's a gentleman. "And I didn't ask for any secrets, unless there's something very surprising under that cute little cape." The suggestion causes him to straighten slowly up, and he opens his mouth to respond, and then she's swinging away, and he's left to throw up his hands. He raises up the bow, firing the line-arrow after her grapple. It strikes home with easy competence, and he launches himself after her. The swing goes perfect, his grin spreading wide across his face — and then comes the dismount, and his reactions are just a little slow, leaving him swinging a touch past the mouth of the alley and arcing back down like a teen swinging out over a river. It doesn't look quite as smooth as he'd like, but he still sticks the landing. Perhaps he was distracted waiting to say, "Do you really mean it?"

"Guess it's a good thing that you're not a gentle… man." Batgirl finishes her sentence by half-leaning out of the alleyway to stare with a are you done? look at Roy. Then she shakes her head with a hint of amusement before she retracts her line, and reholsters the grappler again. She nods him down the alley, turning to step casually toward the door that will lead to the back entrance to the bar. She casts him a casual smile over her shoulder at his attempt to bait her into answering back with the rhyme. Oh no. She pulls out her multitool from her belt, flipping over to what looks like a set of lock picks. She drops into a half-kneeling squat to begin to work the lock of the door. "So, are we here to surveil, or just break-up a poker game?"

Roy follows her down the alleyway, hushing his voice as he does, "Well, it'd be a shame to break up a perfectly honest poker game. Nothing kills the mood like vigilantes bursting in and pinning them to walls." Beat pause, "That is your preference, right? Pinning to walls?" He can't resist, just can't, chuckling a low, liquid chuckle alongside the last questions. As she looks to the lock, he gathers up a pair of arrows, nocking them both to the string of his bow at once, and moves to cover her, so that he will have a good line-of-sight into the interior when the door opens.

Batgirl actually stops mid-pick to look at Arsenal with a steady, arched look. Then she shakes her head, half-chuckling to herself. "No comment." Then she resumes her work; the lock clicks. Then she steps back a bit, giving him a silent nod. She slips three razor-edged batarangs from her belt, slotting them in her knuckles in a versatile position: a razor-accented punch or thrown edged projectiles. At his readied nod, she opens the door, keeping low. The door opens into what looks like where they keep all the janitorial supplies and the staff bathroom. She ticks a glance toward him before she advances inside, moving to the side the moment she's in to give him space to enter.

There's low talking further into the space toward the kitchens and other backroom areas.

Roy tsks softly as she demurs from answering, and either he can take a hint, or he can actually be professional without flirting when he needs to be, because he zips his lips. A military professional would scoff at taking a bow into a building, but Roy does it readily and confidently. He twists to check the corners of the room, takes his right hand from the rear of the arrows and waves a hand in front of his face. It's not actually that stinky, but apparently it's a silent comment that he needs to make, a grin flashing across his lips as he does. And then he's back to it, moving up to the door to the kitchens, looking to see if he can just nudge the door open with his hip. Sadly, he can't, so he rolls his eyes dramatically and steps around to leave a way to the doorhandle to Babs. Something comes to him a little late, and he quirks his head in silent question, freeing his hand again to point to his ear and then toward the door. He may not have auditory enhancements himself, but he seems to have great faith in BatTech — or at least in them being over-prepared.

There's a time and a place, Mr. Harper. Batgirl takes the little gesture at the sight of the toilets with a lopsided expression. She nods in mute agreement before she steps forward, keeping her stance readied with the handful of razors in her right and gloved fist for her left. She moves with silent, controlled steps. In fact, Batgirl is amazingly silent despite the soles of her boots. She has this down to an art form. When they get to the door that leads into the next series of rooms, she watches Roy take an attempt to nudge it. It doesn't nudge, so his polite gesture for her to take point has her chuckling silently. She steps up close, fingers just barely testing the door for give; then she stops, meeting the look from the masked vigilante with a questioning, and then understanding look. She straightens up a bit, and from her belt she draws what looks like a bluetooth earbud. She passes it to him silently, points at her own bare ear, and then tucks a second into her ear. It sits almost invisible in the ear canal, and the Bat tilts her eared head toward the door just as the tiny, but incredibly powerful microphones in her cowl activate.

" — ving merchandise in and out of New York is insane," a rough male voice says.

"Look, you gonna tell him that? Ain't no one going to tell him that," a reply comes from a slightly more nasally voice, the accent so painfully Jersey that Babs almost rolls her eyes. She mouths to Roy: Falcone. It isn't Falcone, but it's one of his associates, and Babs is at least telling Roy she knows what they are talking about; who they are talking about.

"Ain't it your job to tell him that, Jake?" A third voice questions seriously.

"No. You know whose job it is? The Bodyguard, but no way he's gonna tell the Don that either. He's moving into New York now, just get ready to start commuting, alright?"

Roy takes the earbud, stares at it a moment, and then the light comes on and he tucks it into his ear. The voices that stream through it draw an impressed nod from Arsenal, and he lowers the bow a touch to listen. Babs almost rolls her eyes at the accent, Roy chuckles silently. He's totally picturing the guy as an extra from Jersey Shore right now. The mouthed name gets a little confused look, and then a nod of understanding. His forehead wrinkles into a frown over the domino mask, and he tilts his head thoughtfully to one side, putting some pieces from here and there together. It explains the shift in smuggling runs, the unsettled nature of the Gotham underworld recently. Tapping his fingers against the shafts of the arrows they hold to his bowstring, Roy looks back over to Batgirl, leaning in close to her non-earpieced ear to whisper, "Definitely crooks. You figure we should get more info or bust 'em up? I'm thinking info's more important…" Of course, if one of them has to use the bathroom, it won't matter what the vigilantes want.

By her expression — lips pressed together and brows furrowed seriously — she agrees with the crooks observation. She continues the listen while the group grouses about New York City, their more righteous police force — which has Barbara's eyes narrowing slightly — and something about Falcone being an idiot setting up in Fisk's old territory. That catches her frown a bit more, and she glances up to Roy. She starts to say something, but —

"Hey, what are you two jokers doing here!" The voice snaps behind them, and Batgirl's head whips back toward the sight of what looks like a young man — twenty, twenty-one? — carrying a plastic-lined paper grocery sack. He's wearing a t-shirt beneath his opened winter coat that sports the name of the Bar — Tucci's. When Batgirl — and then Arsenal — look at him, he staggers back a step, dropping his bag with an audible thud and then clang of spilled cans of refried beans. "Oh shit, the Bats." And Arsenal, but it is easier to clump them together.

The comparison between police forces may cause righteous indignation in Barbara, but it causes an amused smirk in Roy. Still, it's valuable information, suggesting that the Gotham mob hasn't infiltrated the NYPD as fully as it has the GCPD. And then there's that voice behind them. Roy's eyes go wide at first, and only then does he whirl around, loosing both arrows almost as he's turning. Luckily, his skill has not deserted him, and the arrows fly to pierce the winter coat under each armpit, aiming to pin him to the door behind him. "And Arsenal," Roy sighs, "Seriously, how hard is it to say, 'And Arsenal.' Or even 'Arsenal and a Bat!'" Now that's just overrating himself wildly in the Gotham cape hierarchy. "How about 'Arsenal and Batgirl?' It's not like that new suit, nice by the way, looks anything like Daddy Bat's anymore." Even as his mouth motors along, he's reaching for another arrow from his quiver.

"Arsenal, wait — !" But the arrows are loosened, and to Barbara's surprise, they pin the guy to the wall instead of actually piercing skin and causing far greater damage. She really has been hanging around Frank way too much, where firing a weapon could have deadly or at least damaging consequences. She breathes out a slow exhale as she realizes the kid is okay, and this gives her a belated smirk at the red-armored archer. "Time to get your name out there more," she teases him. But then the compliment of her new suit has her quirking a smile with a faint gesture of thanks. She actually looks pretty damn proud about it, to be honest. This suit update was a needed change. She is about to say more, but the buds still tucked in their ears pick up the first syllable of shouting before the volume adjusts so they don't blow their eardrums. "Incoming," she says sharply to Roy before she turns back to the door, stepping back so they don't bottleneck.

The door bursts open, and there's a giant man — the kind who would be on a defensive line of any professional football team — is the first through the door. He bellows a sharp, "What the fuck is going on in here?" And then he spots the two vigilantes, and his face turns into a more feral snarl. "BATS!" Sorry, Arsenal.

"Advertising is expensive," Roy quips back to Batgirl as he backs away from the door, the taser arrow fitted neatly to his bowstring, "Especially when you're not a franchise." He winces at the burst of noise from the earbud, although he relaxes when the volume cuts off. The initial reaction from the giant causes Roy to roll his eyes, "Is that all you people ever think about? Bats this, Bats that." The taser arrow is already whipping across the short distance before the first question is even out of his mouth, "Do I look like a Bat? I'm carrying a freaking arsenal here, people. Arsenal." He can work the banter, because his body, even with its current languid ease, knows exactly what to do: draw a knock-out-gas arrow just in case the taser arrow doesn't do the trick. After all, the gas will work just as easily on anyone behind the giant, "Didn't you used to play for the Jets?" Which is probably an insult to a Gothamite.

"Did you just call me a franchise?" The question is asked just as Batgirl is lunging forward, keeping low as she powers into a charge. But she goes for a surprising move as she drops into a baseball skid, thick hands missing her as she slides right between the guy's legs to meet the three other hitters inside the backroom. The thick-necked man is hit with the taser arrow, and for a moment, it is like hitting a rhino with a tranq. The first reaction is to charge forward toward Roy in stumbling, uneven steps with his hands out stretched to grab the smaller archer. Also probably doesn't help he's deeply motivated by the whole Jets comment. Of course, there was zero communication between the two vigilantes on their strategy, which leaves Roy with a notched gas arrow and Batgirl right in the radius.

"What? There are like four of you, right?" The utter lack of reaction from Biggun the Defensive Lineman to the taser arrow gets a slow, "Crap," from Roy, and then he's twisting away from the outstretched hands. He takes a backhanded blow to the side, and uses the bruising impact to spin him even farther around behind Biggun, "Four is totally a local franchise." Instead of firing the arrow, he grasps it in his right hand, his left driving the arc of his bow in around Biggun's ankle and trying to pull it out from under him as he lifts up a foot to kick the man in the butt to drive him even more off-balance. "Plus you get all the benefits from everything the rest of you do." Whether the giant stumbles or not, Roy's next move is to thrust the head of the gas arrow right up into the big man's face, looking to set it off right in front of Biggun's mouth and nose, "There's a butt-fumble for you, Jet-lover."

"Five," Batgirl corrects on instinct, shouting it from behind the Biggun. "You missed one." Then there's the sound of cardboard boxes collapsing on each other as a wiry, almost ratty fellow goes flying into what looks to be the recycling pile. His legs are caught-up in a thick rope, weighted by the heavy ends of her bolas. She ducks a punch meant to take her out at the temples, throwing her weight into the second assailant's gut and pitching him over her body while Roy deals with the heavy.

Biggun collapses onto the ground, his slow brain finally catching up with the shutdown of his nervous system from the taser arrow. He groans something ineffectual into the ground, drool pooling under his thick, gaping mouth. The fourth gambler is on the move for Roy now that Batgirl is focused on her half of the crooks. He's moving fast and sure and definitely makes up for the lack of prowess from Biggun as he aims to throw a chair at Roy — the folding kind that matches the fold-up table they had been playing on. Said table is tipped over, cash and cards and chips spilled out across the dingy floors of the bar's backroom.

"Five? You could go regional." And there's Roy, counting Bats in his head when he should be counting mooks. The folding chair hits with a clang and a clatter while Roy is distracted, sending him staggering back. At least it mostly hit shoulder and arm, and it's relatively light-weight. "That hurt. Who throws a chair, anyway?" At least one person in every classic Western, Roy. The bow is collapsed and tucked away alongside his quiver in a single motion, and then he's rushing forward, drawing the escrima sticks from their holsters alongside his lower legs. One sweeps up toward the man's head, looking to gain his attention, and then the other drops down to try to hook behind his knee and trip him. "Oh right! I forgot the other redhead." Evidently he was still counting Bats. "Hard to think about another redhead right now." The money scattered about might also be distracting him more than a little.

"Look out — !" The warning call comes too late as the chair-wielder slams his weapon into the shoulder of the vigilante. It is meant to hurt, and that's exactly what the expression from the gangster reports. "Suck it up, cupcake," the man hoarsely reports before his eyes widen, and there's a charger archer. He takes one step, and then a second, and then he's starting to turn only to be struck across the head, and then dropped to the ground with a bodily thunk.

A bit of quiet befalls the room save from the low groans of those on the floor. Batgirl's second target starts to get up, but she lashes out with a hard kick to his temple, and he drops back to the floor in a weighted mass. The redhead turns slightly toward Arsenal. "I'm so telling Batwoman next I see her."

"Mmmm, Batwoman." Roy gives a disingenuously dreamy-eyed blink, then asks faux innocently, "Wait, who are you again? Oh right, the other redhead." His smiles is broad, easy, and languid as he looks from one downed mobster to another. His own second drop gets a second look, and he steps over and provides a similar boot-to-the-head to what Batgirl offered her own victim, "Say goodnight, cupcake." Only then does he look back to the poor delivery guy pinned to the door, "Hey… is the pizza any good here?" There is no pizza, it's a bar, so Roy is likely just indulging in a bit of stereotyping.

Batgirl tips a threatening look at Arsenal. "That's not how you make friends, Red Arrow." Then she looks over the fallen chips, money, and cards in a brief glance before she turns slightly to the kid still pinned to the wall. She looks obliquely at Roy. "Get him down," she says in a slightly exasperated note. The kid is just staring at them in silent horror at the two vigilantes.

"… what… the fuck?" He finally manages.

"What?" Roy seems unrepentant. He's very good at that. Still, he walks over to the poor guy and pops out one arrow after another, feeding them back into his quiver. The other two arrows are policed up too, "You didn't know you were working for Falcone's boys, Tucci, Jr?" That's tossed over his shoulder as he makes his way back into the game room, starting to kick spilled money and chips and cards and snacks into a pile in the middle of the room. He stirs through the pile a moment, "Think they've got paper and a sharpie here, Batgirl? We should write a note for the cops, even if they'll just be back on the street in a couple hours." There's a pause, and he looks back to Babs, "Unless you want to haul them back to Headquarters? The Comish might be able to hold them for a bit, yeah?" Yes, some of those bills did disappear in dexterous sleight of hand, but only a few of them — a few of the larger ones.

Batgirl carefully picks up one of the cards, flipping it over a couple times in her fingers. Then she looks up at Roy once he's freed so-called Tucci, Jr. She taps it lightly against her palm before she stands fully once more. She rolls her eyes slightly at the question about sharpie and paper, and then she hands him the ace and — of course she has a sharpie. The marker is pulled from somewhere on her belt, and she hands it to Roy. "Have at it, Red Arrow." Then she looks at the four, shaking her head. "No… with the anti-vigilante law… we best just rely on GCPD to show." Because there's no way Jim is going to give them support… much to her father's deepest disappointment.

Roy glances up as the sharpie is offered out to him, and he chuckles, "Do you have a burrito in there too? And a microwave to heat it up with?" That's about when he remembers that he has a sharpie in his belt too. Oh well. Too late now. Taking the ace, he considers a moment, and then asks, "Can you find me a two, three, and a four, Batbeauty?" And he starts scribbling on the ace, moving over and sticking it to the silent giant's forehead. "We might as well leave them a note so they know who these people are. You know, Batgirl is really pretty sexist, isn't it? And Batwoman is already taken. How about Batlady? Stunner?" The ace now reads, 'Dear GCPD, here are Falcone's finest …'

"No."

Then at his request, she sighs and shrugs. "Yeah, sure… why not." She steps away to find him the asked for cards, and only once she's given them over to Arsenal, she starts to make sure the four are properly ziptied. The comment about her chosen moniker has her snorting slightly. "It's only sexist if white males named me Batgirl, but I named myself that." Then she pauses, arching her brow slightly toward him. "… why Stunner?"

The two gets, '… or at least most talkative. …' The three gets, '… Falcone is moving on …' And the four gets '… New York City. Share well. -A & BG'

"You know, you're right," Roy acknowledges on her name commentary, "And you're clearly still happy with it, so you shouldn't listen to me." The question, however, causes him to straighten up from placing the four on Batgirl's second victim, and he spreads his hands helplessly, a broad smile flashing across his masked features, "I may not have seen your full face, but I've seen your smile, Batgirl." See? He can use her actual, proper vigilante name.

Batgirl casually reads each note, and then she's chuckling slightly with a shake of her head. She's turning to go, but the compliment from the red-armored archer has her stalled. And blushing. She shakes her head dismissively, clearing her throat before she casually notes, "Now that's sexist." She then grabs up the three fallen batarangs she lost during the fight, and tucked them into her belt. She steps toward the exit, glancing over her shoulder.

"No…. it's sexist if I say you should smile more." At least according to Roy. He might be wrong. He's often wrong. "It might be unwanted, and I'll totally knock it off if it is, but I don't think it's sexist." There's a pause as he follows her out toward the door, "Is it?" He stops at the door, however, reaching over for the kitchen phone and dialing 9-1-1, "Hello?" Whether or not his flirting is sexist, his Italian accent is absolutely offensive, "I'm-a here at Tucci's on 34th-a Street. I think-a there are some-a criminals here in the back-a room. Hurry, they're-a unconscious." And then he hangs up, beaming over at Batgirl.

Batgirl just stares at him for a long heartbeat, and then she dryly points out that, "Yes. It is sexist." Then she starts to step out in the alley. "And that was offensive." Then she's out in the alley, drawing out her grappler from her belt. She glances back toward Arsenal as she lifts the gun. "See you around." Then she fires off the grappler, and the moment the hook as settled into the building above, the retraction of the batline sends her upward so she can climb onto the ledge. From above, she tips a wave down to the archer and then disappears out of sight.

"Sorry then," Roy apologizes to the first point. But not the second. He's had some practice apologizing, and it definitely sounds sincere. "See you, Batgirl." As she swings off, he rallies — hey, she didn't tell him to knock it off. He gives a little salute with one hand, and then starts wandering down the road rather casually — flying up into the rooftops sounds like altogether too much work with as much Oxy as in is his system right now. Maybe he'll go find Brad again and watch the fun when the police arrive.

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