12034/(Night) Birds of a Feather

(Night) Birds of a Feather
Date of Scene:	19 August 2020
Location:	Central Heights, Old Gotham
Synopsis:	Sparrowhawk and Nightwing explain what Okay does not mean and repel a clumsy probing attack by the Court of Owls
Cast of Characters:	Nightwing, Sparrowhawk

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Nightwing has posed:
    The night is cooler than the last couple with the breeze coming in off the ocean. It is refreshing, other than the smell. Gotham gets 'the jersey smell' pretty bad in some places. The stench of industry, decay, and maybe even human misery. The wind keeps some of the more polluted clouds from forming a sickly haze. So, there is that at least? Still, the cool air has a certain relief to it once one gets past the acrid taste.

    Nightwing is graceful on the swingline. He doesn't swing, he flies on it. There is an economy of motion and a precise, crisp air to him that is simply natural with the device in his hand. He soars up and with a smooth gesture launches into a dismount. A pair of somersaults break up a little of his momentum and he lands on the rooftop with only a faint scatter of loose gravel. He snaps the grapnel back to his side and smoothly drops into a crouch, pivoting only his head a little to watch for his companion of the evening. His lips part in a faint, tight smile as he looks over his shoulder for Sparrowhawk. His eyes are behind the mask, but they are looking at her form, seeking out points of weakness and things to help improve to help make her more safe in the future.

Sparrowhawk has posed:
    The strength is there, certainly, with a sense of grace that comes from years of training -- just not to Nightwing's extent, nor to his talents! Sparrowhawk doesn't quite fly as she swings, only on her third week or so of using the lines, and has worked herself to the point where at least her shoulder's not in too much danger of coing out of the socket.

    She doesn't do any aerial stunts, her conservation of movement there was fluid, and she shoulder-rolls to the ground, kicking up a little gravel, and then slides along, scattering the little rocks and stone as she slides.

    Better than landing face-first, and at least none of it sticks to her cape.

Nightwing has posed:
    "Sparrowhawk, that dog won't hunt." Nightwing states in a calm, quiet, direct voice. It is not an angry or mean tone. Maybe disappointed or vaguely amused? Maybe both. It might be worse.

    "If we had landed in a fight I'm not fighting now. I'm moving to protect you from getting the crap kicked out of you." His voice is quiet,and patient. "Now. We did not swing into a fight. You would not have done that if we had." He's giving her credit. "I need you to treat every landing like you are about to move into a fight, or hide. They need to be that smooth. You need to be sure, precise, and quiet. Also, open your wrist a little more on the release. You get better control." He echoes Batman's criticism. If he knew he was, he would be scandalized.

    Unlike Batman, who was in a different situation, Nightwing demonstrates. He lifts his grapnel and gestures with his wrist, showing the motion. "If you want to learn it, get a wrist brace and wear it and play with the swingline. That is how my parents taught me how to dismount back when I was small." There is nostalgia in his voice, along with a wistful, vague sense of melancholic hurt at that admission.

    "You want to show me? Swing back across, then come back and stick the landing?" Nightwng's voice is patient and he tilts his head to one side as he says it. "I am sure you can do it. You have some natural talent." He pauses, and his hand reaches over to grab for her wrist. "This is not about perfection, although you should start chasing that now and not be a slacker like I was for a while. This is about safety." In his mind's eyes, they are falling. He can hear her shriek. The hairs on the back of his neck rise. "There isn't a net, Sparrowhawk."

Sparrowhawk has posed:
    It could be worse. Sparrowhawk was pretty sure Batman could see through souls when he was looming over her.

    She gives a nod, drawing up a little bit and rolling her shoulderss as she listens to Nightwing's advice -- though the comment about the wrist makes her nose wrinkle, and she gives a soft huff of air. "I keep expecting the gauntlets to be stiffer." she explains quietly, but watches Nightwing's wrist. She mimics the motions with her hands at her sides, but at the note in his voice, she draws her eyes up, and she gives gives a slight nod as she turns, drawing the grapple from her side, she feels the hand on her wrist. She can almost sense the tenseness in the air, and she takes a deep breath as she looks to Nightwing, and gives a grave nod. "I know." she whispers, "I'm being mindful." she gives a little, wan smile to Nightwing again, something very gentle and soft, and then peers up. "... you all right, Nightwing?"

Nightwing has posed:
    "No. I am a grown man wearing a mask and a skin tight armoured costume teaching a young woman who should be working on her college education how to swing through the air on a high test line. I am never okay. Do not confuse yourself into thinking that you are okay if you want to do this. Our behavior is not okay. We are not okay." Nightwing explains it quietly, and with some grim humor to his voice. His white lenses meet her gaze. "Do not fool yourself into thinking that we are doing is okay. If we have to do this, there is something wrong with us. This is coping for us. This is what passes for healthy for us." Nightwing stands up to watch her go. His lips part in a soft, self-mocking smile.

Sparrowhawk has posed:
    There were so many possible answers to that first part. Nightwing might be able to feel Sparrowhawk tense up on the rooftop as he speaks, the lenses on her own maks, shadowed slightly by the cowl as he stands, and her gaze follows him up, her breath caught in her chest at the explaination.

    He might be able to see the shift in her throat as she swallows something down -- pain, fear, an admission, who could say? - but she turns, and makes her way to the side of the building where she fires out the line, and making sure it's tightened she swings out, bringing her legs forward to let the movement carry her.

    There's just a brief moment before she swings back.

    Expect that every landing will be into a fight. Keep your wrist open. She releases the second time much better, smoother as she arches through the air, landing on the rooftop with much less gravel being sent everywhere, sliding a foot, but in a ready crouch.

Nightwing has posed:
    It was a harsh truth, but delivered as kindly as it could. There was no blame or judgment. Dick simply told her the truth. Nightwing watches her like a hawk. His smile is always more ready to his lips than his own mentor. His smile is there for her when she gets back. He gives her a nod. "Very good. Not perfect, so keep at it. Pursue perfection but that was easily half again better than your earlier. Feel free to improvise. Your foot slipping like that?--"

    There is a crunch of gravel nearby, and Nightwing hits the deck even as a heavy throwing knife embeds the rooftop water tower some fifteen feet past the pair. Gravel sprays as the attackers come running towards the duo. Two women, both taller than Phoebe. Lean, hard, and clad in tight uniforms with weapons and tools hooked to them. Their cowl is vaguely owl in appearance. Nightwing moves to an acrobatic roll and springs to his feet, leaping skyward to fling out a wingding in a smooth gesture. "Sparrowhawk!" He warns as the throwing iron whines and winds through the air to stick into one shoulder. "This is not a drill."

Sparrowhawk has posed:
    A harsh truth, but one that needed to be told. It was the Truth, and Phoebe had long ago accepted it, before she even knew this world.

    She pauses at the sound of the crunch of gravel, and she turned -- seeing the two women in their owl-like cowls. C-owls? She hitches a breath, and where as Nightwing goes high, she stays low. She flicks her wrist, her extension staff dropping to her palm as she draws back slightly, dropping one of her own daggers into her palm,

    She gets too close to them, they could get caught in her aura and begin to heal. Too far away and -- well, she didn't want to know how much damage the armor could take, really.

    She doesn't offer quips, but she moves to flank one of the owls, her pole held as easily as if it were an extension of herself.

Nightwing has posed:
Hisnother knife gets flung from one as the other pulls a bloody throwing iron from her shoulder to heave it as well. The wingding doesn't fly straight, and the knife is aimed at Sparrowhawk. It is not thrown as precisely as the first, still it is thrown with some force. The knife does tumble though. Nightwing hits the ground and comes up with his escrima sticks. He moves towards the uninjured one and they twist and move. Swaying, ducking, and weaving. Knives striking the hardened polymer sticks with soft noises as they trade blows. The wounded owl-clothed woman leaping towards Sparrowhawk and extending her left foot in a vicious spinning kick. She is swinging for the fences in the first strike. She has power, but the strike lacks real finesse.

Sparrowhawk has posed:
    There's the sound of metal on metal as Sparrowhawk's staff sweeps the throwing knife away, and Sparrowhawk goes for the injured Owl, balanced, her head drawn slightly down.

    The kick is indeed strong, and Sparrowhawk can feel the power behind it as she ducks, rises, and brings her elbow to the thigh of the kicker, and the flat of her gloved hand to her back to shove her away and put her off balance.

    Best way to avoid trouble, after all, is to not be within kicking distance!

Nightwing has posed:
    here is a meaty thunk as Sparrowhawk's elbow connects. She doesn't completely deadleg the other woman, but the injured owl is clearly favoring one leg over the other as she gets shoved. She slides and more gravel gets scattered. He right hand pulls another knife out. "So you like to dance, chica?" She says, not sounding as tough as she hopes. "Let's polka!" She swings the blade. This time, with more finesse. Her blade sliding low and trying to get past Sparrowhawk's guard.

    As the two women fight, the other pair are also involved. Hands and feet slapping, striking, blocking, and weaving as they maneuver past each other. There is a trio of hard strikes to the owl-clad woman's torso, and the pop of ribs separating can be heard.

Sparrowhawk has posed:
    Looks like, at present, Sparowhawk and her owl seem evenly matched.

    Sparrowhawk turns, leaning her body to the side as she speaks, the vocorder changing her voice "Polka? Hardly." she leans back, drawing her arm up to grip the knife-holding woman's wrist as she pushes the arm to the side, as she turns her back slightly, bringing the owl's arm up, and over her and then uses the inertia to throw the owl to the gravel.

    She draws back, and brings her staff out now to keep distance.

    "Tango? Maybe."

Nightwing has posed:
    The owl hits the gravel hard. She scrambles upwards and throws her knife at Sparrowhawk sloppily. She's not particularly well trained. Perhaps finishing her training. Perhaps scared. Any number of things. The knife was a distraction as she drops a gas grenade. There is a muffled 'whump' as it goes off and floods the roof with thick, oily, cloying gas. Gravel scatters and the women both seek to disengage from the two bats (or birds). The smoke stinks and has a slight sting to the eyes, nose, and throat.

    "Sparrowhawk? Status?" Nightwing says sharply in the smoky haze.

Sparrowhawk has posed:
    Sparrowhawk is able to sidestep the throwing five with a little hop to the side, and was coming in for the takedown when the whump hits and the gas goes off.

    The harsh TANG! of metal hitting gravel instead of her opponent, and she feels the vibration all the way up her arm, gritting her teeth slightly as she backs away from the gas, trying to breathe shallowly a she withdraws.

    "She withdrew." she coughs, reaching for the rebreather. "Tear gas?" she asks.

Nightwing has posed:
    "Just cheap smoke." Nightwing says as he finally gets clear. He continues to talk. "I am over here. Come my way. We regroup, then we're done for the night. Are you injured?" When she gets clear, he is unharmed, crouching low and has his head on a swivel in case the two attackers come back after them. "They sometimes travel in packs. We need to stay sharp and get back the 'bird. I'll get you home. They have had people shadowing me off and on for a week or so now." He pauses in his visual scans to look her over. "I don't see any damage."

Sparrowhawk has posed:
    "Mmfph." Sparrowhawk replies, and she follows the sound of his voice, coming out and crouching back down as she coughs a moment to clear her lungs. "I'm all right, anything she hit will heal up. I'll just be tired for class in the momrning." she replies, and she looks him over with a critical eye, and gives a slight nod, collapsing her staff back down, and pinning it to its place on her belt, she turns to look back to Nightwing.

    "I'd say I didn't need an escort, but we both know that'd be the wrong answer." she replies with a bit of an edge to her voice -- nerves, maybe -- and she crosses her arms over her knees as she breathes out, then nods to NIghtwing. "I'll follow your lead?"

    And she pauses a moment, then looks to him: "... thank you, by the way... for the honesty. And you're absolutely right."