See You in the Storm

1

                                                 -2 years later-

I slink out from behind the dumpster, knife clenched between my teeth. The tip of the blade pokes against the edge of my lip, I rub my blood stained hands on my pants, thankful for the dark colored fabric. 

It's a good night to make some money, the rain will wash away all traces of me. My bloody hand prints will fall away from the rust colored bricks, the smell of burnt flesh will soften as steam ebbs off the body. 

The body is a man, more specifically, an asshole, who stole from the mob I work for. Maybe asshole isn't the right term, maybe idiot is. My targets are often stupid people, often terrible people, which somehow makes my brain believe I'm holding the hand of justice as I kill. 

I am not. 

I am no hero. 

But on nights like this, after a particularly bad fight that's left my ribs sore and bruised, justice and fiction feel pretty good. 

I pull my mask off of my face and stuff it into the pockets of my jeans, trying to hide it's silver hue. I cough, wiping traces of grime and blood off my exposed face. My knife is tucked away, my damp hair is hidden beneath my hoodie. 

Halfway down the street I notice a figure dancing across the rooftops. My false sense of confidence evaporates almost as fast as the drizzle turns into a full blown thunderstorm. 

I pray that my injuries aren't revealing, that my mask isn't see through. It never has been. I have never once failed. To the untrained eye, I am just a teenage girl, walking home from god knows what party or boyfriend's house. 

The night air in Gotham chills you to the bone, something I haven't yet gotten used to after two years of living in the city. There really is no place like it, except of course for Hell. 

I zip my hoodie up higher, trying to keep the wind out. My ribs hurt, I want to go home to my shitty apartment and sleep for three days straight. But I'm doing this for Ethan and I can't quit now. Not when I'm so close. 

The figure I've been watching drops onto the sidewalk about twenty paces in front of me and stops. I can see them clearer now, blue and black suit. Nightwing. My least favorite hero in this hello-hole of a city. I know it's him because even though it's past 2 am he cant mind his own damn business. I continue walking, bruised knuckles shoved into pockets. 

"Excuse me," he says, charm thick. "Its pretty late to be walking around Gotham."

I've only met him once before and from afar, listening into other people's conversations, peering around corners and keeping my distance. He's a detective. A good one. And I know my lie has to either be believable or absolutely embarrassing. The latter seems more entertaining. 

"I know." I increase the pitch of my voice, a whine. My eyes water. 

He takes a step closer, hand out between us. "You alright there, miss?"

Wrapping my arms around myself, I sniff. "Boys suck, you know? They really do. I spend three weeks talking to this guy and he tells me to come over, right? So I do. And guess what?" 

God damn me, this better work. 

I watch the gears in his mind shift as he debates his answer. Finally, he frowns. "Did he hurt you?"

What a fucking goody two shoes. 

"He lasted ten seconds!" I stifle my own laugh with a sob, the back of my hands pressed to my cheeks to hide the redness from my blush and the blood on my fingers.