Max Main ≡ Lois Lane (bylined) wrote in musingslogs, @ 2010-10-17 02:05:00 |
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Entry tags: | batman, lois lane |
Who: Max and Thomas
What: Car retrieval, worrying about Luke, and an absence of happy
Where: Max's warehouse
When: After this and this
Warnings: None
Max had finished Johnny’s chicken soup, and she’d talked to Thomas on the telephone, and she’d sat on the couch as the buzz from the beer wore off. She’d thought about everything Johnny had said, about what she could have done differently, what she should have done differently.
She never second guessed, not during an escape, and she never thought about it after. Thinking about it after just meant an endless ribbon of self-recriminations, swirling things made of silk so fine you could never close your fingers around it and make it stay. Luke had survived. She’d survived. Until that morning she’d considered that a successful mission.
No, no. That wasn’t true.
She’d known all along that The General would have considered it a failure, but she had considered it a success. Until Johnny, and the fact that taking Luke into a public place hadn’t only exposed the two of them, but it had also put everyone else on the team in danger.
She dressed in jeans and a button down plaid shirt, which she left open over a thin wife-beater, and she didn’t bother with makeup for the bruising on her face (it only made it more noticeable, made people look to see what she was trying to hide). It was cold out, and she cranked up the heat in the truck, cranked the music up even louder, and she drove to the warehouse. Thomas said he’d pick up the car later, and she wanted to see if it was gone yet. It was like returning to the scene of a crime, and Max understood now why criminals risked it
She parked her white truck outside, which she never did, but the place was deserted this late in the day. She’d chosen this warehouse intentionally for its very abandoned nature. There was no on-site staff, and most of the bays were rented by old men with hobby cars - old Caddys and ‘Vettes that she’d rolled up her sleeves to help with on occasion.
Inside, her own pet project was still and silent beside the large, commercial printer and the sleek black car that smelled of blood. The Jeep was of the Willis variety, 1945, and the green faded and rusted through in so many places there were more holes than metal. The engine inside, a G503, was original to the vehicle, and there were printouts scattered on the front seat with instructions for rebuilding the generator.
She tied her hair up messily, and she lost the flannel, the white bandage on her forearm stark against her gold-toned skin. She put on music, something country and mournful, and she tugged open the Jeep’s hood, the creak familiar and reassuring. Over her shoulder, the black car sat still, the hood still slightly open, the keys still in the ignition.
The day, Thomas realized, made him tired more than he realized. It frustrated him that he couldn't tell if he was more tired than normal or if it was just catching up to him the way twenty-four hour days sometimes did: when he least expected it. After Alfie ordered him out of the hospital with graceful but intent hints, he caught two buses back to his warehouse, taking the time to watch the flow of early morning commutes that he had never noticed before. At the warehouse he showered, changed into a different pair of slacks in a color only a shade away from slate and then sat down to track Max and his vehicle.
He found the latter, and after some consideration, again walked out into the sunlight. He wanted to visit the crime scene, of course, but he couldn't do that without a mask or in the daylight, so he took public transportation until he was a mile out of the GPS mark for his car, and then he walked.
He took his time after arriving, circling the building, listening to the music within with the ear of a scientist, not a musician. Absolutely silent, he finally slipped inside, stealth without really making the decision to be so. He saw her working on the jeep, but bypassed her for a look at his vehicle. He saw she'd taken up the hood and there were fingerprint smudges on the trunk. After a moment's thought, he came back around so his back was to the front door. "You're a little out of the way."
She hadn’t noticed him right away. In fact, between the music and how lost she was in her thoughts, it took her an embarrassingly long time to hear or notice anything in her own space. She’d managed to register two things before he spoke - 1) whoever it was had training and 2) they were inside. By the time he opened his mouth, she was already reaching for the gun hidden in the wheel-well and cocking it, as she leveled it at his face across the warehouse.
The pulse at her neck raced, visible from across the warehouse’s grease stained concrete, and she exhaled loudly with recognition. It was a slower thing, releasing her finger from the trigger and lowering the weapon, the time used to gain calm rather than out of any necessity from the injury under the bright-white bandage on her gun arm. “Ever heard of knocking, Brandon?” she asked.
Only a fool wouldn't react automatically to a gun pointed at his face. He had been watching her so of course he was not surprised. At the same time, instinct was instinct. Thomas tensed, visible through the pressed fabric of the pale shirt, but he didn't move nor attempt any of the several disarm techniques that came to his mind. He was too far away, anyway, perhaps ten yards, a clean straight shot but not a good position for him. Yet he was not concerned.
The look on his face was not one of fear as he looked down the steel barrel, it was closer to distaste, an extreme distaste that soured his mouth for a moment until she lowered it. He thought it only natural that she was startled, and stood still while she decided not to shoot him. "What did you think of the car?" He saw she had been through it.
She slipped the gun back into its hiding place, and she straightened and walked toward the sleek automobile, her hand trailing over the hood a moment before she lifted it and leaned over the impressive engine. She braced her hands on the lip of the car, arms spread wider than her stance, and she looked over her shoulder at him. “You have a lot of power in here,” she said. “Larger engine than I expected, even with the rumble,” she admitted, reaching out a hand and passing it over the cool metal, fingers already layered in black grease from the jeep. He looked clean, immaculate in the dirty warehouse bay, and she grinned over her shoulder at him. “Worried about getting close to the grease, Brandon?”
Thomas gave her a rather cool look, but it broke a second later with one of those slight twitches of mirth he indulge in on the rarest of occasions. "I skipped the Armani while I was assembling it," he said. His eyes followed the path of the gun, but he turned away from it, shadowing her as she came back to the car. "It is not..." he paused, looking for a word, "refined. But I couldn't afford to put manufacture in the hands of someone else." He meant he wanted to be untraceable, not that he didn't have the cash. The modified engine, suspension, frame, windows, and monitoring equipment must have cost a pretty penny. (Or, more apt, a dime or quarter.)
The gun was far enough away that she couldn’t reach it without him stopping her, even if was so inclined, which she wasn’t. She chuckled, and she looked back at the engine, the loose mess of her hair falling against her cheek to obscure the worst of the bruising. “I don’t know, Brandon, a man in Armani who can rebuild an engine with his own hands? That’s pretty fucking sexy.” She was touching things as she spoke, dipping her hand down to the alternator and testing her fingers on the pistons. “Better than a wife-beater and jeans,” she said, intentionally mocking her own attire. “Refined isn’t the selling point in a modified car,” she finally added, giving him a look that was appraising, concerned as he got closer. “What did you do to the inside?”
Thomas shot her one of his sideways looks, the same one he always wore when she said something he hadn't ever heard directed his way before. "I rebuilt it. I didn't say I rebuilt it well." The car was, as he said, adequate. There were some things that had been modified just so he could fit them into the space available, and a few other things that had the discordant design of being appropriated from other vehicles. He didn't understand the sudden shift of the conversation toward clothing, and assessed hers before finding it suited to her current occupation and otherwise unremarkable. Returning his gaze through the specially tinted windows that made it look as if the car was occupied, he said, "Most of the equipment monitors police bands, files, media outlets and news feeds. There is some additional processing power for navigation and some limited remote capabilities." He pondered the car and how to make it better.
She ducked her head further under the hood, and she considered more power, more speed, more bells and more whistles. In the end, she decided it would all be aesthetic, and aesthetics didn’t matter so much with what Thomas was attempting to do. The car, which she’d driven the night before, had that rumbling sort of power that Max loved, and she didn’t think it needed a damn thing. She walked away from the hood, walked past him and opened the passenger’s side door and slid inside. She nodded toward the panel, which she hadn’t wanted to risk touching the night before, and she thought of her own police radio rig in Bathos. “How’d you loop them together?” she asked, grabbing the keys from the ignition and tossing them to him in a quick, underhand throw. “Start her up and show me.”
He caught the keys, but he was clearly reluctant, hesitating from where he stood a little ways from one headlight. However, he could do nothing while the sun was out, and a quick glance over his shoulder told him that wouldn't be for a while yet. "It transcribes," he said, leaning into the frame of the driver's side with his palms braced on the edge of the roof. "The police bands are transcribed into text, the news aggregates, and so on. Then the computer highlights key phrases, location and crime, usually, and then reads them back to me as a whole depending on significance." He touched a button on the steering wheel and spoke a series of numbers at the dashboard. The entire thing lit up: a GPS screen, a row of lights labeled with mysterious numbers, another screen bisected into four screens that displayed security camera feed, and finally another that scrolled text organized by police codes and physical proximity.
He pointed at dial. "Audio. It will read that," he gestured at the organized scrolling screen, "or tap emergency services like 911 calls, or listen into police bands directly."
Max watched him lean into the car, the muscles of his arms clearly defined through the pale fabric of that designer shirt. There was no doubt that he was a handsome man, with a body to match and that fierce sort of determination that was so attractive (it was almost a military thing, even if she didn’t recognize it as such). She dragged her gaze away from the length of his body when the lights lit up, and she watched his fingers on the panel. That distracted her. She reached out her hand, touching the edge of a panel as it scrolled, showing crime after reported crime, and it was much more efficient that her audio version of the same data. “You’re plugged into Seattle’s mainframe computer, Brandon? I’m impressed.” And she was.
She looked up at his face, and she reached across the seat and yanked on his sleeve, no feminine restraint or wiles in the movement, the white bandage stark in the near darkness of the car. “Sit down and tell me how you’re doing,” she said. “And don’t give me that bullshit about being fine.”
He shook his head. "Seattle doesn't have a mainframe. I do." Never let it be said that Thomas was unnecessarily modest. He spoke of the car with frankness, its suitability to the job not up to his standard, and when it came to his job--his life, same thing--Thomas had very high standards.
He sat, not being able to find a reason not to, the seat plain and gray, more suited to the Bat than the washed out monochrome of his present attire. The tired eyes flicked reflexively up to the rearview, and then he studied the scrolling text. "I am fine," he said, slightly cross that she harped on the point. "I haven't had so much as a bullet in my direction for three days." Clearly, he felt his preemptive strikes of late indicated solidity of mind and spirit. "You're the one that should be resting that arm."
She chuckled at the confidence in his comment about the mainframe, a husky sound, appreciative, and she ran her hand over the steering wheel as he settled. She wasn’t deterred by the cross way in which he answered her; she was used to that whenever she dared to suggest he was mortal. “Bullets are easier to deal with that what’s been going on the past few days,” she said, looking over at him. He looked tired, looked like he felt tired too, like he needed a break; she knew better than to suggest it. “I haven’t worried about bullets once today. I did worry that I made the wrong damn choice taking the boy to that bar.” Even here, in the safe confines or car and warehouse, she didn’t say Luke’s name. “The face hurts more than the arm,” she admitted. “Neither are going to kill me.”
Thomas definitely felt mortal that day. There were faint lines around his eyes and mouth, and his voice had a barely detectable note of strain. They were small signs, not easily found, but they were there, particularly if you'd seen him at his best. (But then, perhaps Max had not seen him at his best.) "You did what you thought best at the time." Thomas was still watching the scrolling text. "And what your training dictates, which is to hide in a crowd."
He glanced at her. "I need to know everything that happened in that alley, detailed as possible." Report, in other words. Patterns of behavior were starting to emerge with this mask killer, and his time would come. The Bat was impatient for it.
She didn’t answer immediately, as if she was thinking, her attention slipping back as her hand moved from the steering wheel to rest on his forearm, reassuring and strong despite the delicate taper of long fingers that seemed too feminine for her. “I was talking to Johnny - the reporter at the Times - he thought going into the bar was pretty fantastically stupid. It got me to thinking of my training and what I should have done. Which was run, and leave the kid behind. Funny how things change, huh?” she asked it in a thoughtful way, a question to herself more than to him, and then she forced it away, the thought.
“I was heading North-East on the main road, and I heard the first bullet and began running West-Northwest. Two additional shots were fired as I approached, but the echoback let me know the shooter was in an alley, so I shot low once he was in sight, to avoid Ricochet and injuries to any Casuals in the area. The man wore a black trenchcoat, black bulletproof suit beneath and a white mask with geometric shapes. He held two, standard issue 9mm guns, and he was on the far side of the alley. The Casual was between us, and I could not get a clear shot without risking injuring the Casual, who was already wounded. The Casual sought cover behind a dumpster, which made reality of ricochet injury even more certain. Managed to get one shot on the Assailant, shoulder wound; he uses the trenchchoat to mimic more mass and movement than he has, so shots fall short. The Casual attempted to attack him with a staff weapon of some sort, but the Assailant had the literal high ground. The staff knocked one gun from the Assailant’s hand, and I joined the Casual behind the dumpster, even though the position was un-defendable, after obtaining the dropped weapon.” She sounded confused there for a moment, before she continued on with the rote report. “I blinded the lights, and I instructed the Casual to climb up the fire escape, while I emptied remaining cartridges for cover while the Casual cleared the area. The Casual did not retreat from the fire escape as ordered, and the Assailant was going to pursue. No remaining ammunition, so I darkened the alley and proceeded with hand-to-hand combat. I could hear the Casual breathing, and when I realized he would not leave, I created a diversion with fake sirens and gunfire. The Assailant fled. The Assailant does not seem to independently speak; he makes noises that mimic what is happening, and he repeated the things the Casual said.”
She blinked, shook her head a little, and if she thought there was anything strange about replaying the actions of a mission as if she was a conditioned soldier, it didn’t show on her face.
Thomas listened. He took no notes, expressed nothing in his face, and did not interrupt the explanation for trivialities. He seemed to think that her military recital was utterly normal, and there was no recrimination for anything she had done or did not do. He could paint the picture clearly in his mind, however, placing Robin where she indicated, moving the mask killer into position and shifting the pieces on the board until he could play them over and over at will.
After she finished he asked her a series of very careful and detailed questions. So far his one eye witness had been a teenage girl more confused than anything, but Max was trained to recognize the things about a man that a girl was not. His height, his weight, the quality of his clothing, the angle of his attack, the condition of his weapons, the facility of his movement that indicated whether or not he needed to pause for orders or was acting independently. Thomas was particularly interested in what the man said--or rather, if he made any sounds. Her responses did not surprise him, however.
"Based on your experience, how likely do you think it that this man will focus his attention on Robin alone?" It was a judgment call, not an observation one.
“Despite the fact that I had superior gun-power, he didn’t attempt to take me out. He retained his focus on Robin, even if it was a tactical error. I suspect the driving force was that Robin was a mask, and I wasn’t, but he also stayed when a retreat was wiser. Probability of a second attack - medium-high. I would plan for it. I don’t think logic or strategy rate very high for this man,” she said, slipping right back into what she’d left home to get away from. “If something else gets in his way, another mask, he’ll derail to pursue it, I think. And come back to Robin after.”
She leaned her head back against the car seat, and she turned her cheek to look at him. “Do you ever dream of more than this?” she asked, her voice still direct, military, but the question touched with some sort of longing.
Thomas was already far away, spinning plans and thinking through possibilities. Even if strategy was not a priority for the mask killer, it was to Thomas, and he depended on it when his own feelings clouded his judgment. If he focused on Robin, and if he worked alone, Thomas had a tactical advantage. Eventually, inevitably, the mask killer would have to come to where Robin was, and there was where Thomas would be.
"I don't dream," he replied, still focused on places far away.
“Brandon,” she said, touching her hand to his cheek, the touch slightly hesitant and awkward. “What the hell are you planning?” she asked, and she didn’t couch it in softness, the question. Then, softer, “what is it about that kid?” If anything had come from this, it was the proof that Thomas Brandon could care about someone. Maybe not her, maybe not the other vigilantes, but Robin - he was different. She didn’t know Robin well enough to know if there was something about him that reminded Thomas of himself at that age, if there was something in the way the boy thought, but there was something.
Not accustomed to casual contact, he leaned slightly away from her and surfaced from his thoughts with effort. "Nothing specific. I need to see the alley, later tonight." He was nonplussed by her question, which seemed to spring from the misconception that he knew very many kids, or indeed, very many other vigilantes. "I owe him a favor," he said, intentionally vague with the answer. "He has had the opportunity to benefit from it, but he chose not to. He doesn't deserve this." In one smooth movement, he shifted from his seat and exited the car.
Max had spent enough time with Thomas while he was pretending not to be the Bat to know he wasn’t there with her in the warehouse, not really. Thomas was normally an edgy sort of banter over barely concealed impatience, but this was different. This was all determination, all Bat and no man, and she sat in the cool confines of the car a moment before following suit and exiting. She was tired, drawn tight because of the previous night, the fear and adrenaline from it, the pain and the subsequent worry and conversation with Johnny. She reminded herself that she had never been cut out for being an operative, and this was why - she felt too much after, spent too much time after a mission wishing for strong arms and normalcy.
By the time she climbed out of the car, there was only a vestige of all that in her eyes, and she folded her arms over the thin shirt she wore and watched him. “He doesn’t deserve to be the mask killer’s target?” she asked, because his response had been vague enough to be a non-response.
He was looking off toward the exit, avoiding another lean on the frame of the car and simply standing still, watching the fading light. "That," he agreed and disagreed. "More than that. This isn't a job. It's not a career. It's a life. He has a good life, and he doesn't have a reason to waste it in some alleyway with a murderer."
She couldn’t disagree with that. No matter how much she felt Luke’s presence helped Thomas, no matter how much she felt Luke could help the man in front of her. Because, she was rapidly realizing that Luke getting hurt (even the possibility of it) outweighed any normalizing effect the boy brought to Thomas’ life. She’d reacted as she had in that alley because it was Luke, and because she’d known Thomas would tear himself to hell and back if the kid took a fall. “How are you convincing him of that?” she asked, no disagreement in the question. Convincing Luke to give it up, she knew, wasn’t going to be easy.
"I don't know." Thomas' brow furrowed, his expression clouded, and it was clear where the mask usually hid his emotions, across his forehead and at the corners of his eyes. "Perhaps I won't need to after this." It was a hope, at least. It was one of the many reasons Thomas had called Bunny to the hospital.
She lifted her hand to smooth his brow, where all that emotion was, but she pulled her hand short let her her palm rest in the center of his chest, power and muscled beneath her fingers and through the fabric of his shirt. She didn’t say anything for a second, just looking up at him. “You have to get out of your head, Brandon,” she finally said, because it was a liability, one she knew well (It had been a hard lesson in breaking that particular shortcoming).
He looked down at her with the distant gray of his eyes cooling as the warm light leaked away from the landscape around them. "I will. Later." There was a time for everything, and Thomas wasn't a different man in the armor and the mask. That was what was so disturbing about him. "It's not about me."
He broke away from her and set the hood to rights before returning to the driver's side and getting in. The panel glowed, acknowledging without welcoming. "Find a different life," he advised her, seriously. "This one doesn't suit you."
She grinned, a teasing thing that didn’t quite reach her eyes. “Brandon, if you think it’s that easy, then you don’t know me for shit. Some things don’t turn off, even when you want them to.” She shrugged her shoulders “I can’t change who I am, not any more than you can.” She moved back from the car. “Hurry up on those communicator replacements, would you? I feel naked without one.”
He let a small flicker of a smile reach his eyes, and then, with no further words, he shut the door. The car started up like a lazy tiger, rumbling with restrained power, and then the anonymous vehicle pulled away into the new dark.