Summary:Jason and Raven exchange info after the encounter with the Pigs Log Info:Storyteller: None |
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After the incident at the flea market, Red Hood drove Raven around for a bit, getting some distance between them and the authorities. Eventually, he takes an off-ramp into a rather dilapidated neighborhood, pulling into an underground garage. He climbs out and slides down a gate, obscuring the interior and preventing anyone else from following them. A short trip up a set of stairs and one of his hideyholes is reached.
It's a very simple, barebones place - bedroll on the floor, spare kitchen and bathroom. Cases with back-up guns and armor stacked up against the wall, like someone who moves a lot and never got around to unpacking. A juryrigged boxing bag hangs from the ceiling, dangling by a length of rope. He reaches up and pops the latches on his helmet, pulling it off.
The man beneath is young, definitely in his mid-twenties. His hair is buzzed on the sides and back, with a shock of tousled black atop his head. He has a boxer's face, the kind that's taken a few beatings and didn't come quite back together right, but he's still handsome enough, in a roughneck sort of way.
"Don't have much but beer and water," he says, gesturing to a small kitchen table that looks like it's seen better days, an obvious Goodwill pickup.
It's a wild ride, sitting next to the Red Hood who drives his car with seeming disregard for his personal safety, let alone hers… But, Rachel enjoys the abandon, and the zing of adrenaline that shivers its way through her system, though her outward expression wouldn't betray anything more than serene placidity. She remains in the car as he does the necessary steps to accessing entrance into his chosen secure location, but is close behind as he climbs the stairs.
There was a time that Rachel would've felt nervous about being in such a place, with someone she doesn't know, but heartbreak and a slow recovery have brought a bit of a darker streak out in Rachel, a lean toward the grey that she doesn't care to think about very much. It feels good to stretch out, where once she'd been so reined in by her training and the brainwashing of her teachers. Having her heart broken and finding a way to pick up the pieces was a bit like rebirth, and she's shed some of the strait-laced nature she'd been forced to embrace when under the thumb of others. Not all, but some. And, the hold that training has on her is…damaged. Much like she is. It was amicable — yes, of course it was — but tell that to her first-lovelorn feels.
She is, in fact, thinking of her erstwhile lover when she walks into the space, wandering aimlessly to a nearby window and peering out through its slatted blinds. Turning to look in his direction, she catches sight of the revealed face of Jason Todd, her lavender irises taking note of his rough-hewn features, still somewhat softened by his youth. "You didn't bring me here to host a tea party, so no judgment on your beverage selection. I appreciate the offer, but I'm fine," she says, moving away from the window and settling herself on the nearest perch. "I'm called Raven, when I'm doing things like that… But, you can call me Rachel, in social situations, if you like. I answer to both," she says, crossing her legs and hooking her finger-laced hands over her bent knee. "I figure we ought to get the most basic stuff out of the way, before I tell you what I know."
"Jason," he says, unbucking a bit more of his armor and stripping it off to leave him in an A-line tank of black cotton. His arms are muscled and his back broad. He has a few notable scars, especially one running down the back of his neck and into the meat of his shoulder, as if he'd been split open in some brutal way in the past, a puckered thing that carries history and pain.
"I don't worry too much about the secret identity thing. I'm not anybody and I don't have anybody," he says. Not strictly true, perhaps, but nothing about his name or face would attach itself to the other Bats. And he wasn't always sure how much he gave a damn about that anyway. He could live his own life on his own terms. He didn't owe anything to anybody.
He radiates a certain constant level of simmering anger, as if rage had taken hold of him, possessed him. Raven probably can't help but feel it. "My codename's Red Hood. I work mostly here out of Staten Island, since most of the cops and the capes have already stopped giving a damn about it. With a few exceptions, of course."
"I feel almost the same way," Rachel responds to the statement of being a nobody and having no one. "Sometimes, I don't get the point of using codenames, but it's nice to be able to say something other than the name that's on my mail if a bystander asks. That's just what most people do, in this business, I guess," she exhales a sigh and a her shoulders lift with a mild shrug. "Anyway," she continues, "..it's nice to meet you, Jason. Thanks for helping, earlier. I'm still not sure what's in the syringe," she glances at her messenger bag, where she stowed it safely for later testing.
"I don't really claim an area. I just kinda help wherever I am, and that's usually in and around New York, though not exclusively. Sometimes, I go out of my way to find interesting things," she says with a hint of dryness in her voice. "So. The weird woman's name is Gruecy, or so she told me. She was holding a doll with a camera in it. She mentioned a Brother Pig, who she said liked me — just awesome, really — and a Father Pig, who makes dolls like her. She was…really fucked up, in the face area. Bits of porcelain doll mask sewn onto her face. It wasn't pretty. Though, of course, she wanted to know if I thought she was. That big guy who jumped on you was called Strap, and he was muscle for them," she explains, recalling the gross man's fetid breath washing over her ear when he grabbed her from behind. "Gross."
Jason Todd listens carefully. He actually takes a few notes, writing in a small notebook he pulls out of his multi-chambered belt. "Having another name, another face, can give you an edge. The bad guys stop thinking you of as a person, more like a symbol or a creature. I've seen it firsthand. Sometimes terror can be one of the best weapons," he says, a begrudging acknowledgement of the influence of his former mentor.
"Lot of freaks in this area. Seems to attract them," he admits. "I don't know that one off-hand, but I was off the board for a little while. A, uh, medical issue," he says. "I can have the dart analyzed to see what's in it. Might be able to get a trace on the chemicals."
"I have other methods for inflicting terror on others," she says cryptically. It probably doesn't phase Jason, who's accustomed to the perennially-evasive stylings of one Batman, but it's there for noticing. Rachel opens her messenger bag and pulls out the sandwich baggie she secured it in. She places the wrapped syringe on the banged up coffee table in front of her, careful not to get near the uncapped hypodermic tip. "By all means. I don't have a standing set up with a lab or anything. I was going to have to ask someone for help with it, so thanks for offering," she replies, leaning back and closing up her messenger bag.
She pauses a moment before adding, "You know, speaking of terror… There was something really *off* about Gruecy. She didn't have normal fear-response that most people have. She wasn't concerned about her safety until you shot her. No fear. Just blind rage that 'Brother Pig' wanted me for his own, instead of her. She didn't feel fear, but she did experience rage and jealousy. Strange."
Jason Todd puts the hypo away. He'll maybe ask to see if they can run it for him, although he'd rather just sneak into the Cave and do it his damn self. Maybe he will. The minute he hands over evidence, there's a chance Batman will try and pull rank on him and Jason wants this one for himself. He wants anything he can get for himself.
"Brainwashing," he says. "Could be medical, but just as likely someone's just fucked up her brain. I've seen it enough. Turns people into fanatics. Willing to die for the cause. And kill," he says. "None of my business where you got your powers, but you seemed pretty capable out there. We don't get a lot of supers out in these neighborhoods."
Rachel nods her head in response to Jason's suppositions. "I'm almost certain there's good, old fashioned brainwashing at work. But, she didn't seem to feel pain, either. Something more than brainwashing, maybe. Though, the brain is an amazing thing. All we experience is ruled by it, so perhaps… Would have to be very, very good brainwashing, I guess."
She inhales at the question and smiles lopsidedly, "Born like this. Bit of a mutt. Human-plus. I did years of hardcore training to learn control, but I'm beginning to wonder if it wasn't all just a bunch of bullshit. Not all of it, 'course, but… You know how it is. You spend your life thinking one thing, something comes along and smashes you like a bug hitting a windshield going 90 miles an hour…and, you say to yourself, 'Oh, so it's like that, huh.' Suddenly, the worldview shifts and refocuses. Not completely different, but enough." She exhales a laugh. "Never mind me. Artists can be maudlin like that."
Jason Todd straddles a chair, turning it around as he faces Raven directly. He pulls out a pack of cigarettes, lighting one and tossing the remainder on the table if she wants to partake.
"Sounds a little familiar. I don't have the powers, but I got the training. Told I could do somethin' good and I guess I did. Then…splat," he says. He closes his eyes for a moment as the memory hits him. The crowbar cracking across his skull. His head splitting open, scarlet in his eyes. The laughter as he died. The black that followed.
He blinks, shaking his way out of it. Post-traumatic stress, he'd been told. He just thought of it like another scar. "I was never any good at art. More of a woodshop guy, when I went to school. Which I didn't do very much," he admits. "You look kinda like a piece o' art, really. Guess you design yourself as much as the stuff you make, huh?"
Rachel can sense the memory trying to blossom into Jason's consciousness, creeping back in like a nasty little imp that only has power when one thinks of it… She could help him with that, like she helped Harper with hers, spare him the emotional stress of dealing with it, punching it into submission somewhere back in a dark corner of his mind. But, that would be meddling. Who knows. Maybe Jason likes his damage just the way it is.
"Thanks," she half-smiles at the compliment?, tucking a lock of hair behind her ear as she considers his comment. "I suppose so. As much as anyone designs themselves. This is me as much as punk fashion isn't me. It's like how you know you're a woodshop guy instead of a carpenter. Woodshop says, 'I work with my hands and I get things done.' While carpenter does a similar thing, but maybe approaches it from an angle where design is a part of it, form is as important as function," she says.
Jason Todd takes a drag off his cigarette, "Sure," he says. "I never could do the punk thing. Too much hair dye. And I'm a little too hard to pass as goth. Mostly I was just the scumbag kid who took a beating until I kicked back. Then they just avoided me," he says.
"So, you want me to keep you in the loop on this investigation? Or you want me to let you not ever think about Gruecy and her creepy ass dollhead again?" he says with a hint of a smile. He pushes up and heads over to the fridge, getting a beer for himself and popping the top off of it on the edge of the counter.
Rachel reaches for the pack and gets one for herself, lipping it while she sparks the lighter to life. It's not the first time she's smoked. She's done social smoking for years, being friends with artists and free-spirited types. So, she takes a drag like she means it and cants her head. "Why were you a scumbag when you were taking beatings? Usually, it's the scumbags who dish out the beatings during childhood," she queries.
Then, to the question, she looks thoughtful, taking another deep drag. "You know, normally, I'd say just keep me out of it. But, my super team's kinda slowed to a halt, everyone busy with their own stuff. So, hey. If you think it'd be useful, take my number," she says, pulling a business card out of her messenger bag and sliding it onto the table next to the pack of smokes.