Summary:Batman offers Betty a warning. And a lead. Log Info:Storyteller: N/A |
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It was all settling in now. Her 'quests' were over for the time being but the work was piling up. That and she gave out her name to the world. It was time for a change. Jameson promised she could still live where she was, regardless of her changed circumstances, but with little protest and a protective embrace, she made up her mind.
Shuffling about the space in socks and a long shirt, the dirty-blonde wraps piece after piece of dishes with old Bugle print. Secure, she boxes them and keeps working, only pausing long enough to claim a drink from her bowl sized coffee mug.
"You're moving. Good." comes the voice at the window. Standing there, in the open window, on the fire escape, is a figure that most people still believe is only a legend. The Batman. The grey and black of his uniform muddles most of his features, though the exposed skin of his jaw and chin do clarify the rumors - late thirties. Caucasian.
"You're in danger." Though whether or not /he/ is the danger is not made immediately clear.
Betty Brant startles at the sudden voice. A plate drops and shatters across her floor. "Shit, sorry!" She's not sure why she said 'sorry'. Looking down at the pieces she carefully slips away from it and grabs an old hay stalk broom. "So are you." She states toward the Bat looming outside her window. "At least your reputation, and the fact that there's a man under all that bat." Sweeping now, she motions with her head. "Com'on inside if you're going to visit. Be careful of the glass."
"Elizabeth Brant, secretary to J. Jonah Jameson, sometime reporter. A serial murderer has decided to target you." comes Batman's response. He's already in the room, before she even has a chance to finish inviting him in. The glass apparently wasn't a deterrent. Opening up the gauntlet on his wrist, he pulls out a small USB drive. "The man the police should be looking for is Victor Zsasz. A former inmate of Ravencroft - former billionaire. Took up killing for a rush after spending all of his funds."
"He's using an impersonator to copy me. Basil Karlos. Goes by Clayface." He sets the USB drive on the table. "That has all the information you should need. "I suggest scrubbinbg your social media of everything that may hint of your location and places you visit or frequent. Tell Jameson you're taking time off."
Betty Brant swallows and stop sweeping. Head up, she watches after the man-bat (not that one) listening attentively. Huggly losely around her broom handle, she turns and faces down toward the USB, the names he's offering her being filed away to memory.
Reaching over, she claims the key, eyes it and returns her attention to Batman. "I don't really use social media. I'm already taking…leave from work for another matter. I guess a bit longer won't hurt things." Staring, silent, she rests the broom down. "May I…would you like a coffee or something?" Pause, "How're you doing? Not as the mask, the man. Someone trying to string you up is never nice. Doesn't matter who you are."
"I'm fine. I don't need coffee." Or apparently sympathy. The Bat is as impassive as all the stories tend to make him out to be. After he sets down the USB and device. "He's targetting those that may be close to figuring out who he is. Or those that had ties between himself and Ravencroft. The doctor that was murder was the one that tended to him. Mister Denver was one of the doctor's patients that obsessed over my identity." he offers.
And then his attention moves to look around. And he frowns. "You were already moving. Related to your recent stories?" he asks her curiously.
"I know. Someone reached out to me about some truth to the matter. What's spilling out in the news just…well, it's wrong. I'm not sure if you read my piece, but I support you." Eyeing the key she steps back, claiming her coffee. A cautious pass of air across its top, she sips from the liquid and eyes the modest amount of boxes starting to stack up. "No." She swallows, her voice softening. "I was…dealing with some things. For years. It came to a head, finally ended, but the price for that was my mom's life." A pause, she sips again. "I can't keep living here. It'll kill me."
"Yes. It may." Batman agrees simply with Betty's assessment of the situation. "You are not to print this information. Right now, it would only stoke the situation, instead of helping to resolve it. You said that someone else spoke with you. A member of the police force?" he asks her, as he looks over the room, and steps towards one of the box, opening it and taking out a picture of Betty with her mother. "My condolences on your mother." He knows what it's like to lose a parent.
Betty Brant watches after him. She lingers in the tiny kichenette, cradling her drink and allowing it to warm her. Swallowing, she nods and then moves away from the counter, looking into the box he was so keen on. "Yes. I have connections I was going to ask for a solid, too. If I'm not to write about it, what would you like me to do? Is there anything you want to say? On record?" Then the picture. Betty smiles weakly and nods. "Yeah. Thanks." A sigh. "Sorry. Thank you. I wish I could say she had a good life, but that's bullshit. Uh, you don't need to hear that, though. Is there anything else I can do for you? To help you?"
"I know of your connections, Miss Brant. Past and present." Batman responds, as he turns to look at her. "Make sure that gets into the right hands. You can research it if you want - but the police need a direction. And they will not follow one from me. This will provide them that - it will also provide you with the incentive you need to make sure you go underground for a while. I'm not going to tell a reporter to stop reporting. But don't let the story cost you your life." When she asks him if there's anything he'd like to say on record, he gives a brief grunt.
"No." comes the gruff response, before he steps to the window, setting down the picture frame. On the back of it is now attached a small tracking and listening device. "If you need to reach me." A small communication device is set on the table before he's out of the window and off into the darkness of the New York night.