bildungsromans | for distort

for distort

[ Crouched behind a wall on rooftop of the Gotham General Hospital, Nightwing knows his options are limited. He draws a spare batarang and holds it beyond the protection of his cover. Hopefully, its reflective surface offers a view of the sniper that’s been keeping him in one place... and time is of the essence. His pal Wally West, a.k.a. The Flash, is en route to the hospital to retrieve a heart that’s fit for transplant. Right away, it’s got to be transported to Fawcett City in order to save the life of a very important legislator - someone who advocates for world peace and whose political achievements make Lex Luthor look like a joke. The stakes, then, are simply too damn high. So Nightwing was right about his hunch - Talon could do without this legislator getting in the way of their machinations, so they’re here to sabotage any attempt at a heart transplant.

At this point, Nightwing’s effectively the last line of defense until the Flash arrives. And with a sniper so good that they can corner him... he’s in for a rough time. The moment he takes out his batarang, after all, in his attempt to catch a glimpse of his opponent, the batarang is merely fired off his hand. ]

Okay. They’ve got the aim and the higher ground... this really isn’t in my favor.

Unless...

[ Dick’s resorted to muttering to himself, but he’s not out of resources yet. He’s spent a lot of his gadgets on wasting multiple Talon moons on the lower floors, but he has one or two smoke pellets at his disposal. He really didn’t want to use them now, but life’s just full of little concessions.

He’s just going to have to take this one. He readies his grapnel gun, knowing full well what he’s got to do next.

From Widowmaker’s end, a thick cloud of smokes forms in the vicinity of her target. It might be predictable, but it’s admittedly functional as a way to even the odds.

Her target slips through the darkness between these buildings so seamlessly, it’s a wonder he didn’t do this sooner.

It’s not long, though, before she senses a presence behind her. ]

Hey there!

[ A presence, by the way, that delivers a somersaulting drop kick to her back, courtesy of Bludhaven’s best. ]

Mind if I drop in?

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[ Today's prey hides like a mouse in a field. It ducks under this root or that rock, but it's never entirely outside of her awareness no matter how it tries. But Widowmaker is patient, and the chance or two she gets to take shots only whet her appetite. Soon she'll get the shot, the climax of her evening... and then she can call it a day.

First, though, this little mouse has to get a little bit braver.

Her eyes narrow when a cloud expands rapidly outward from the hiding spot, and she's quick to pull back from the scope of her rifle. It will be moving now, she has to expand her alertness, she can't miss its flight --

-- But she does, apparently. This little mouse seems not nearly so little anymore when she feels a kick to her back and a flash of painful impact, which gets only a quietly pained retort. She doesn't go sprawling, she has too much training for that -- she takes advantage of it as best she can, in fact. Widowmaker leans into the fall, letting herself tip forward and off of the ledge she'd been crouched on. She goes over silently, and the faint twipp of a line firing and finding purchase is the only sign that she's found a perch, and not a long freefall.

She's just two levels down, crouched under the eve of the empty office building, and her rifle is already up and poised. If he makes the mistake of descending straight down after her, it will be his last mistake. ]

[ She’ll find that he never jumps off that ledge in pursuit. Rather, moments pass, and Nightwing bursts from the glass of the window right beneath Widowmaker, tackling her as he tosses a wingding at her line. Nightwing having effectively severed it, they’re now both in freefall. ]

Not the best place to interrogate you, but—

[ Quickly, he reaches with his free hand to draw his grapnel gun, firing another line on the top ledge. The line swings them both into a window on one of the lower floors. They both roll on the ground, but get on their feet as quickly as they had burst in. ]

Your motives are pretty damn obvious.

[ Widowmaker’s good. Damn good. Nightwing knows little about her, but he knows this. She probably let him pull this stunt, then, but that doesn’t mean she controls the whole fight.

Not when he just flipped a switch behind his back - the one for the magnetic gun disruptor he clandestinely slapped on Widowmaker’s rifle in their freefal tussle. ]

[ He's fast, she thinks, somewhere between the falling and the crashing into glass. He's good. It's no wonder this dark city has kept him so long. On her feet again, quickly cataloging her supply of tricks (line: cut; damn, she hadn't even seen that happen—), Widowmaker circles him slowly. The both of them could burst into motion at any second, and so both must be ever ready.

She loves this part of the dance. ]

Ah, mon loulou... [ She says it softly, almost wistfully, and a pitying smile creeps across her face. ] You are good, but you are not so good as to stop the gears of Talon from turning.

[ The rifle, held ever close to her chest, shifts as if she would raise it — and only then does she realize it belongs on the checklist with her grappling gun. Damn. Her smile drops into an irritated che, but her eyes have left him for only an instant before they return, sharper and hungrier for his little trick. ]

Is this your way of telling me you would like to to have things a little more up close and personal? I have never turned down a dance.

Edited 2017-12-05 06:57 (UTC)

[ He cracks his own smile at the failure of her rifle, even chuckling to himself. If he didn't know any better, he might have liked this situation. ]

Try to keep up. I'm not waiting to be disappointed.

[ With an eskrima stick in each hand, Nightwing closes the distance. Whatever Widowmaker brings to the table, he deftly parries her strikes. It's still not easy to find an opening, though, and waiting for it isn't an option. Without comprehensive knowledge of Widowmaker's arsenal, Dick has to play it safe. ]

The rest of Talon can wait, by the way.

[ Playing safe paid off. After intercepting another of Widowmaker's attempted blows, Nightwing's managed to pin Widowmaker down on the floor in an intense headlock, forcing his eskrima stick against her neck. ]

I just need to stop you.

Edited 2017-12-05 07:48 (UTC)

[ For every move she has, he has a counter. It seems she can't get any true upper hand nor gain any traction... it's somewhere between irritating and electrifying. But then the tide shifts, he blocks a blow she was certain she would finally land, and Widowmaker finds herself acquainted with the floor and one of those silly sticks of his.
Nonlethal, she supposes, but the better words are sentimental and ridiculous. ]

Only that? Then what a pity it is you cannot.

[ A twitch of her wrist releases mechanisms, and a venom mine detonates as it drops a short way to the floor. This time the cloud that spreads isn't harmless smoke, but a heavy darkness to fill the throat and lungs with incapacitating poison. It has a much milder affect on Widowmaker herself, assuming she even breathes any in. Needing less breath is just one of the many perks provided by Talon.

She takes advantage and goes into a sharp roll to escape his hold, twists to her feet, and turns her attention immediately to landing whatever strikes she can manage through his distraction. A few sharp kicks to the head or ribs would serve this hero very well, she thinks. ]

[ Kicks certainly would serve Nightwing very well. Though Widowmaker successfully landed a kick or two, her latest attempt at Nightwing's ribs gets intercepted - he grabs her leg and emerges from the cloud of smoke with a rebreather covering his mouth and nose. Upon rising, Nightwing takes advantage of the momentum of Widowmaker's kick to throw her against the adjacent wall.

He had to drop one of his eskrima sticks to pull this off, but these things were never essential to success. With some distance now, Nightwing draws three wingdings and throws them in Widowmaker's general direction. They're not so much meant to hit her as they're designed to distract her, as Nightwing darts toward Widowmaker and follows up with a volley of artful strikes. He aims to inflict some hurt on her neck or her stomach with a variety of kicks and stick strikes, but he has to struggle for another opening.

Luckily, Dick intercepts an attempted jab at his own neck - he'd certainly hate to feel the Widow's sting now. ]

Caution.

[ In this same split second, with his free hand having swatted Widowmaker's forearm away from anything vital, Nightwing throws his eskrima stick at an adjacent wall. It bounces from corner-to-corner in an unpredictable fashion... until it finally strikes Widowmaker's head. ]

Watch your head.

[ The damage ought to be superficial, though, as the stick only shatters Widowmaker's visor. ]

[ He's almost too well prepared, this one. Just where had that rebreather come from, in such a lovingly form fitted suit? But that's a curiosity for later, as she has a fall to break to distract herself. The wall helps. Nearly as soon as she's on her feet again she's thrusting forward her rifle to deflect the wingding aimed most directly for her — the rifle still a frustratingly dead hunk of metal, with only one good use to it at the moment.

Mid duel, the escrima stick is another matter. Though she'd taken attacks to her person with minimal reaction, almost in silence, when her visor shatters she snarls and jolts backward. That's just a few views lost to her, not the entire thing — but a few views is crippling enough. And with her main weapon defunct, it may just be time for a change of plans.

Blood wells and trickles where the sharp edges of her visor dig cruelly, but it does so sluggishly, and she lifts a hand to the communicator built into the visor. ]

Operation shift 21-gamma. [ It's a hissed command, not meant for Nightwing's ears — although they speak in code for a reason, and eavesdroppers aren't truly a concern.

Her pale eyes find Nightwing again, just for a moment, and then she's moving. Widowmaker throws her body into the motion, dashing across the chaos of the thrown apart room and to the far wall of windows. She bursts through the glass in a fragmented, glittering shower, free falls for a bare instant, and then the bay door of a swiftly rising craft envelopes her. She lands with a roll, and a shadowy figure further into the craft tosses her a rifle. A fresh rifle, untampered with. It's no Widow's Kiss, but it will do.

Her smile is sharp and crooked as she goes to one knee to aim back at Nightwing, and though the craft is determined to speed away, she won't resist the temptation to take a few retreating shots at him. She won't kill him, she knows it, not from an angle like this ... but if she can leave him with a few ugly scars to remember her by, it will be enough. For now. ]

[ Having watched Widowmaker get on one knee, Nightwing backflips towards cover behind a fallen desk. Though historically, he's anticipated gunfire - jumping for cover before it all could present a threat to his person - there's no sufficient window of time right now. He should've guessed that the moment Widowmaker hopped on that craft, she'd be ready to shoot at him again, but Nightwing just had to make chase. He got cocky.

He wishes he could dodge every bullet that comes his way, since they're such stray, haphazard shots. Instead, Dick notices one of his shoulders and both of his thighs get grazed - and grazed badly, lacerating some flesh. A bullet even whizzes past his hair, soberly reminding him of his own mortality. Though he successfully lands on his own two feet behind the desk, he immediately collapses on the floor upon contact. ]

Shit--

[ There was no way to avoid this, considering the impact of his weight on his legs alongside the deep grazes.

He'll try to stop the bleeding, yes, but it's not long before the adrenaline of these past moments wears off.

...Before he finally notices that he's also been shot through his left knee.

His first instinct is to call Alfred, but the line is busy. Must be attending to Damian, Dick thinks - at least, as much as he can think through the thickening fog of pain clouding all his senses. Having been shot before, Dick realizes these weren't regular bullets: they've been laced with curare, an exotic poison. That explains why he can't seem to lift himself up, or at least support his upper body long enough in order to sit up.

In light of this revelation, a regular person would likely panic, black out, and then die.

But before he might succumb to the curare, Dick dials the number of another contact. Sprawled on the floor, he drops the phone, nearly all his energy spent on willing himself into prolonged consciousness as the poison takes its toll. There's no helping the heaviness of his eyelids, the thickening blurriness of his vision before he finally shuts his eyes and fully collapses on the floor. This is going to kill him.

Unattended, the phone falls from Dick's limping hand. As the only light in the room, the screen displays an outgoing call to Dr. Angela Ziegler. ]

[ It's rarely a good thing to get a call from this number, and even worse not to hear anything when she answers. But no, that isn't entirely correct. If she listens very closely, she thinks she can hear labored breathing. It's somehow even worse news than hearing nothing.

Angela Ziegler had been working late, lucky for Nightwing. Also lucky for Nightwing, it doesn't take her very long to have the lab systems tracking the call, and luckiest of all, maybe most surprising — he's right outside. She wastes not a single moment more as soon as the system pulls up this information for her.

She pauses just long enough to grab a coat, a portable aid kit, the Valkyrie's medicinal staff, and, after a moment of thought, the little white pistol locked deep, deep in a drawer. She'd never much cared for having that around, but she's not naive. It's not likely Nightwing had just tripped, and she's not sure she can expect to find him alone.

After hurried preparations, Angela is there in just under five minutes. It doesn't take her long to maneuver the darkened office building, and her heart sinks the instant she spots that masked, crumpled figure. But... he is alone, a hasty observation determines. If this is some kind of baited trap, it will be worth the risk to try and get to him. So she darts to his side with a muffled click of sensible heels on the linoleum, and immediately the faint golden glow of the staff fills the otherwise dark room. It doesn't work miracles, and from what she can see a lot of this is going to take a patient hand and a lot of cleaning and sterilizing to truly heal, but the staff makes for an excellent stopgap. ]

Nightwing... [ It's a whisper as she leans in close for just a moment to brush hair back from his forehead. ] Just what have you gotten yourself into today...?

[ But this isn't the time for that. She digs into her kit as the staff does its work with the helpful nanobots, repairing cells and encouraging natural regeneration. She needs to get him to an actual facility, but before that she'd really like to make sure he doesn't bleed out on the way. ]

Edited (oops, lost track of format ) 2017-12-10 00:39 (UTC)

[ Before Dick knows it, opens his eyes to his own hospital room. His arm's attached to an IV, and he sees that his costume has been neatly folded on top of a chair by the wall. Though a harrowing pulse of nervousness shocks him awake - the possibility of his secret identity getting found out being all too real - Dick realizes this can't be the work of anyone other than Mercy. As far as he can recall, no ambulance was coming for him back where he fought Widowmaker - and even if it did, Dick would have been long dead before their arrival.

As he situates himself mentally, realizing he can't necessarily move or leave (any attempt to move would result in some pain), he appraises his injuries. Though he's clad in many bandages, it seems he's been patched up just enough that he can recover from this - his body just needs to do the rest of the work at this point and, well, rest.

He sighs, a bit disappointed that he let a curare bullet get into his system. Had he been Robin when this happened, Bruce would have had his head for this!

Now, it seems the only way he can amuse himself until company arrives is with his thoughts. Otherwise, what else is there to do? Sleep?

Then again, for a guy like him, he might need more of that.

It's too bad he doesn't take the opportunity, staring at the ceiling wistfully instead. And unfortunately, he'll continue to do so - like a sad puppy - until Angela arrives. ]

[ Angela has always had some kind of sixth sense for this. Not five minutes after Dick is awake, she appears. She has a white coat and clipboard in one hand, the perfect picture of any good doctor or scientist, and pushes the door open with a distracted hip. She glances up from the readings on it and starts to realize her patient is awake, but she's quick with a wide, relieved smile. ]

Why, good morning. [ It's a little after noon, actually. That's never stopped her before, though. ] It's good of you to rejoin the living.

[ She should probably apologize for removing his mask, she thinks. These things are so important to this lot, aren't they? But there are so many other things to worry over, the thought is shoved to the back of her mind after barely a second in the forefront. She takes a seat at the edge of the bed, eyes on him nearly as much as they're on the instruments and equipment around him, making sure everything is just as it should be. ]

How are you feeling? A little further from death than when I found you, I hope.

Oh, hey. What's up, doc?

[ Niceties aside, Dick could look far worse for a potential curare victim. The moment Angela entered the room, he was practically radiant. ]

Everything hurts, but only if I try to move. It's really some potent stuff.

[ He wishes he could do more than simply look at her, like give her a hug or something, but his options are quite limited at the moment. ]

We've gotta stop meeting like this, though. Sooner or later, death might get impatient.

[ Ever the little ray of sunshine, he's really rather a good patient. Despite how distressingly often she sees him. ]

Not if I have anything to say about it.

[ She's not, as she's said before, a miracle worker ... but she can get impressive results when she puts her mind to it. Still, though, she makes a face with his recent condition in mind. ]

Curare, though, Nightwing? Really? There's no end to the trouble you'll get into.

[ God, he'd love to move, but he just can't. Or if he did, it would hurt like hell, still. Mercy is indeed no miracle worker, so... Dick won't really complain. It doesn't even cross his mind to. ]

I'm sure you know it was to save a very important legislator.

[ Yes, she's a very important woman in politics, especially as an obstacle to Lex Luthor's machinations, but-- ]

Oh, wait.

[ This is how Dick knows he's finally fully cognizant. ]

How long have I been out? Did the Flash make it here on time? Has the heart transplant already happened?

[ She does know, it was from the building just down from hers that the heart was being sent. All the doctors knew, which had made Angela somewhat nervous... and with good cause, it seems. She's glad to be able to nod, though. ]

Three days. The transplant arrived, the operation was a success. [ And with the quirk of a brow: ] I believe the Flash was picking up the package just as you were being doused with curare. It may be due to your distractions that whoever was too busy to intercept him.

[ She'd love a little more information on that whoever, but... she has a feeling it will just be ghosts in the night, even if he can tell her. It always is. Untraceable, lethally skillful people that the law can do very little about. ]

Edited 2017-12-16 15:04 (UTC)

Phew! So it was a success overall. Good to know I didn't screw up too badly.

[ Dick would love to express his relief through some body language, but saltily, he resigns himself to his vegetable-itude. ]

The assassin was Talon, I think. Her organization, that is.

[ When there are assassins called Talons from an entirely different criminal organization, it's best to clear up the terminology. ]

You might know her, Ms. Overwatch. I certainly don't.

[ He quirks his own brow, now. ]

Does a blue-skinned sniper in purple spandex sound familiar to you?

[ Her face quite clearly says she's not sure if didn't screw up too badly really applies here... until the description of the assailant. She'd thought ghost in the night, and she may have been more right than she knew. Her face clouds, but she offers a nod. ]

I know enough to say you are very lucky to be speaking with me now. I have heard she only needs one shot per victim.

[ Which just brings her right back to unhappiness that he'd been in this situation at all. She leans in, a hand moving to settle overtop his. ]

You should not have been alone — don't you have a partner to work with?

One shot was clearly enough to kill me.

[ He eyes her hand for a second, and smiles as if to say the contact is welcome. ]

I'm touched that you care, Doctor. But normally, I work alone.

[ Which, of course, is not to say always. ]

And in my defense, I kept her on her toes more than she'd liked.

That said, I'm not against teaming up with someone the next time Talon rears their ugly heads.

[ On her toes is not quite enough to ease the worry apparent in Angela's face; not even close. It just takes one misstep, one too slow instant. She would have been retrieving a corpse, instead of a patient.

She sighs and gives his hand a squeeze. ]

Call me sooner, next time. It has been some time since Overwatch disbanded, but I'm sure I haven't forgotten everything.

[ She hates the though of action and violence, but even more she hates the thought of anything happening to him. ]

[ Dick's hands aren't in enough pain that he doesn't squeeze back. At her sigh, he attempts to give a reassuring smile. ]

I know you'd be excellent support, Angela.

I mean-- Doctor.

[ He chuckles to himself at that. ]

In case you find me dead the next time we meet, I think you deserve to know.

My secret identity, that is.

[ Leslie Thompkins is another doctor familiar with the Bat Family and their secret identities... it might be time for Dick to build that same bridge with Angela. She's been his lifeline countless times, never asking for more than his eventual recovery. Dick owes her profoundly.

So maybe... the least he can do is start with his name. ]

I go by Dick Grayson. You might know me as the heir to Bruce Wayne's fortune.

[ Her eyebrows hike up at mention of that, secret identity. She's always been aware of the secrecy, of the reasons for it, and willing to indulge in it even if it seemed a bit silly — but she never expected to simply drop the pretext.

She studies his face in a suddenly new light, brow knit. Has she seen him before, in a civilian context? Maybe. She at least knows the name Bruce Wayne, even if he's never been in any circles she's paid much attention to, perhaps she's skimmed some news article mentioning his heir. Looks like it's time to start paying a little more attention. ]

Well. It is nice to meet you, Dick. [ A bit of a superfluous statement, more to gather her thoughts than anything else. ] Although I like to think you can handle yourself well enough not to make that scenario very likely, or have I misjudged you all this time?

[ She hasn't, she knows that. She's just still surprised to have his identity out and between them. ]

Nice to meet you too, Angela. Formally, that is.

[ He'd love to shake her hand as if this were some sort of professional exchange, but his body was still bedridden. He just has to keep reminding himself of that fact. ]

I deal so thoroughly in subterfuge that I really can't give you an honest answer.

[ A beat. ]

Only kidding! I mean, I literally just told you my real name.

[ He shoots her a smirk. ]

I hope you appreciate the vote of confidence, Frau Doktor.

[ It's a good thing about that only kidding, because Angela doesn't look particularly amused. She's in the business of keeping people alive, thanks, and not very interested in enabling otherwise.

It is quite the vote of confidence though, and she grows a little more serious as she leans forward with a warm smile. ]

I do. [ Her hand on his, nearly forgotten, gives his a quick and reassuring rub before she finally pulls both hands back into her lap. ] Your secret will be safe with me, of course. Just make sure you keep your end of the deal — you call me whenever you need backup.

[ She really isn't thrilled about her offer, she's never enjoyed the battlefield. But she knows Nightwing — Dick — well enough by now to know that he does good work, and she trusts he isn't unnecessarily violent. What he does do, must be done.

She stands finally, smoothing out her labcoat with a few absent brushes. ]

But not just yet. I'm not giving you clearance to leave for a week, and I'll listen to no arguments for an early release.

Wouldn't dream of it, m'am!

[ Once Mercy made her way out, Dick activated his phone via voice command. He had asked her to move it to the side table for ease of use.

The TV was left on and turned to a channel that showcased some cold case exposés. Until Dick feels better, he won't waste his time just recuperating.

Like any good protege of the World's Greatest Detective, Dick carries out his endless crusade by calling the cold case hotline and giving them tips on how to solve these unsolved mysteries. ]

When Widowmaker caught wind of the mission to be assigned, she, for once, took interest. A rare thing for the apathetic tool of Talon. It didn't take much to arrange things in her favor, though. She's a senior member of Talon, accomplished and competent, with only one recent black mark to mar an otherwise beautifully deadly track record. And perhaps too it was understandable why she should want to take this mission — it involves, after all, the cause of said recent black mark. She'll want to clear her name, deciding minds muttered. It's understandable. She'd be driven, she'd have plenty of reason to carry it out and do it well.

The job was assigned to Widowmaker.

Her trap was carefully planned and even more carefully executed. She knows by now, of course, how slippery and cunning this little bird can be. She wasn't planning to let him have the best of her twice.

Rumor of her presence in the area would be enough to draw his attention, she'd decided, and she was right. He'd come calling like a faithful dog after his master. She'd played her part perfectly, the off duty woman, garnering looks for both her strangely colored skin and her long, elegant evening gown and the shapely woman in it. And when he showed he disappointingly didn't come as the little bird, and to be completely honest it had taken her some time to realize the gentleman come to hang around her was her quarry. But her feigned apathetic air kept up, an impenetrable act. She'd perfectly played that she really couldn't care less about him or anyone else there, she was really just there for the drinks —

— Until she'd gotten her moment.

The last thing he'd have seen would be her leaning close, a dark sort of growing interest smoldering in the sleepy apathy of her cool face, and then: a sharp prick, a gathering darkness. Not curare this time, something a little less lethal. But it's still more than enough to keep him solidly under for a good few hours. Two men sitting not far away had slid in on cue, supporting Nightwing's slumped shoulders, and the bar was left with only a hell of a story about the blue woman and the man with her that'd had too much to drink.

A holding cell had been prepared in advance, of course, and Nightwing was deposited in it with very little ceremony. He's given just the one chair, wrists secured behind its back and ankles to its legs. He was searched carefully, of course. Pockets, pouches, even the seams of clothing. Not that it's necessary. He'd also been given a guard. Should the man pick his way out of his chains, his watchful company would keep him contained.

And she is very watchful. Widowmaker knows he should be waking very soon now, she can hear it in the change of his breathing. She sits in a more cushioned, comfortable chair in the nearly empty room across from him, legs crossed and arms folded over her chest, once again suited up in her work clothes, hair pulled severely back and visor set atop it. The Widow's Kiss leans less than innocently in the corner of the locked, silent room.

Had Dick been less experienced at being a potential torture victim, he'd have panicked the moment he woke up. Now, his breathing does indeed change, emblematic of life and activity substituting what had once been motionless slumber. He can see that although his suit remains intact, he'd been relieved of his many toys - he can even tell by how relatively light he feels, despite his mobility being limited to the chair he's now restrained to. They haven't gagged him, at least, so there's the hope that he can talk his way out of this.

But given the circumstances - and namely the person he'd be talking to - that's very little hope.

Still, this wouldn't be the first impossible situation that Dick's survived.

So still, no panic.

He has nothing to pick at his chains with at this point, so Widowmaker's presence is almost ornamental. Surely there's another way out of this, then.

Talking, perhaps. Dick's inability to shut up, even in the most dire of circumstances, might finally have a practical purpose.

"You're not just gonna sit there and admire me from afar, are you, Widowmaker?"

Dick grins at her in a way that seems to suggest he's unaware of the danger he's in.

"Or should I say... Amélie?"

Turns out he couldn't be any more lucid.

He's only just awake, and already speaking. She supposes she should at least be impressed that he'd skipped the disoriented confusion, the alarm, the begging, whatever else a captive man wakes into. She can tell it's not his first go, which is an amusing thought. The career of a hero must be terribly hazardous.

She stares steadily as he speaks, until he gets to the name. That name. She feels no association with it, though she knows it so very well. Her pale eyes narrow.

"You should not." How has he come to know the name? She's curious, but she would never give him the validation of asking. "You had it right the first time."

She rises slowly, gracefully to her feet, unfolding like a dancer. When she slowly approaches him, though, it's more in line with a languid predator, a large and dark cat. She'd prefer to have this conversation on her own terms.

"I don't like the facial hair, Nightwing. It does not suit you."

At that, Dick could only scoff.

"If it looked appalling, the disguise was doing its job."

The disguise was gone, at least - Dick had been stripped of everything save for the Nightwing tights he had worn underneath his ensemble. Widowmaker had taken off Dick's mask, leaving his face on full display. He eyes Widowmaker's every movement, mindful of her imposing gracefulness. Everything about her points to the fact that she's an efficient killing machine - her piercing gaze would surely have disarmed a weaker man.

Fortunately, Dick was anything except weak.

"Whatever you're planning to do, Amélie, make it quick."

Upon closer inspection, Widowmaker will find that Dick is practically serene. His heart rate is closer to that of a Zen priest's than of a man fearing for his life.

"I'm already bored, you see."

Though Widowmaker is the obvious predator in the room, Nightwing is nothing close to prey.

Again, with the name. He may be growing bored, but she's growing irritated. Faintly, of course, only ever faintly. But she has to admit, it is about compounded by how utterly fearless he looks. Caught up so thoroughly in her web as he is, he should be a great deal more concerned for his wellbeing.

She comes to a stop before him and sets a hand at his chin, her long fingers grasping it tightly to angle his head sharply up toward her. She likes that, the way it exposes his throat.

"Perhaps you think you know me, mon loulou, knowing a name from the past. But you know less than nothing of me if you think this."

“Good thing I don’t presume to know everything about you.”

With her grip on his chin, Dick can certainly feel his throat exposed - the creeping sense of vulnerability it brings. But he can see in Widowmaker’s eyes that she has no intent of killing him yet. After all, why go through the effort of harboring him - interrogating him - only to murder him here? At least she wouldn’t do it so soon. Which is why his pulse, artery thumping under the skin of his neck, beats serenely. Whatever Widowmaker’s doing doesn’t seem to be enough to faze him.

“Would it be fair to ask how much you know about me? Why it is that your superiors wanted me captured so badly?”

He sounds more curious than offended. In fact, he almost sounds flattered that Talon’s taken such an interest.

Like this is still a game to him and he’s patiently playing along, biding his time.

It's her ungloved hand that rests on his throat, and she can feel that pulse under her thumb. Such a pretty little thing, calm and slow — but not so slow as hers. She doesn't answer him immediately, and she looks at him as if studying a sculpture. Of course there's no need to meet his eyes, why should she? There's so much other territory to consider.

"When has fair ever mattered?" she murmurs in time, which is the only answer on that he'll get. Talon makes her aware only when she needs to be aware, and of course she knows better than to impart any of whatever knowledge she's been given.

Her hand slides lower, down his neck, caressing like a lover. Then it tightens. Not so much as to cut off air entirely, but the suggestion is there.

"Hardly ever," he struggles to say, Widowmaker's grip firm around his neck.

At the same time that she's studying him, she's being studied back. She probably knows this. He knows that no amount of studying will be worth squat if he doesn't also figure out how to escape. However, it's not exactly easy - or even plausible - to pull something from under his sleeve while Widowmaker's so close. There's really not much he can do until he's left to his own devices.

Dick needs to wait for an opening - a chance to headbutt her hard enough to knock her out, perhaps - but that opening won't come as long as she's holding his neck.

Despite Widowmaker's hold on him, Dick can't help but shoot her a mischievous smirk.

"Didn't realize you were so into this, Widow," he continues to struggle saying.

It's like she still lacks complete control of the situation. Of his situation.

"Getting some dinner first would've been nice."

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