Nightly Flight -Fem Percy-

ch. 21 Goons, Guns, and Theatrics

 I wouldn't exactly describe myself as a psychotic idiot. I believe I would most likely use the words "Out of one's mind," but "blundering fool" is also a great string of words to use to describe me. Deciding is a decently hard thing to do. Oh right. Alley Way. NightWing. Guns. Sarcasm. Are you up to speed yet? 

Let me explain. 

I wasn't always one for the idiocy of chasing after people. Scratch that. I was usually the one being chased after. We all know about by presumptuous teen years that have led me to years of violence, trauma, and more violence. It's not exactly that I chase the thrill, It is more accurate to say the thrill is pulling me along and I'm here for the ride. It's not like I asked for the years of battle, but I was definitely asking for this. 

A shocked look transpired from the masked face of NightWing. 

"You just had to be here?" His voice echoes around the valley, making the insult go on for a lot longer than needed. 

"Well I'm sorry you can't escape my charm." I muttered as we shared a look before the next knife was thrown. 

"DUCK!" was heard before a crow bar swept over my forehead, the gust of air from the swing fluttering my eyelashes.

"Where did you learn to fight like this?"

"Can we talk about this later, man. Like when we aren't getting bashed in the noggin by crowbars? In case you haven't noticed, we are drawing more of a crowd."

A simple shrug was his answer before he flipped around a masked man's head. One after another the thugs were gone the only people left in the alley was NightWing, myself, and the presence of tension. 

> > > > >

So you may be asking yourself, "How did Percy Jackson end up convincing Dick Grayson to talk to her?" 

Well to be precise and very blunt, he had no choice. 

You see, the only way I would ever have a chance to talk and clear things up with him was if I wasn't my self. Now obviously, I unlike Frank, have a problem of not being able to shape shift. The good genes of changing the good genes did not pass over to regular me. So like any good hero, a damsel in distress was a pleading call for an unexpected meeting. I would say I played my part quite well. 

It all started out with my escape plan which really was unneeded, more theatrical than beneficial. It was one point to use water to soften up the glue holding Ash's window shut, which was entirely needed, but it was another point to pretend to be in a spy movie where every shadow was a secret agent out for my guts. Let's say I should have just used the front door. 

The fire escape creaked underneath the foreign weight of a person- definitely not up to standard if there were an actual fire. Now for the easy part, finding crime. To say my plan was easy is an overstatement. I walked home, grabbed some tight, but not too revealing clothes, put them on, and soon enough there was a gross 40 year old man following me. To keep the act going running was needed- simple enough- a few wrong turns, and oh no! I'm cornered! 

The drunken words spilled out of the man's mouth going unnoticed by a high pitched and dainty "Help me!" Soon enough there was a pit pat on the floor, more goons, and just the person who I had wanted to see.