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[ 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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[ 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. ]

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