Beginning of Something Good

[agent_wisdom]

Pete answered the call with a duck and a flourish.

"Agent Wisdom, make it quick." His leg spun out in a trip, and one of the men fell down. Two others had their knives out, ready to attack, and he'd narrowly avoided a shot from one he still couldn't see.

Agent, there's been a situation. S.T.R.I.K.E. is requesting our help--it seems there's been a rash of murders in Wales, low-level psychics mostly. They've sent an operative to... the voice faded out for a minute as Pete switched the phone to a different ear and rolled beneath a desk, narrowly avoiding a knife blade. ...but he's been reported as MIA. They're requesting MI-6 support.

Ripping the gun taped to the bottom of the desk down, Pete quickly unloaded a shot into the shin of the man closest to him. He fell with a cry, and the second bullet caught him right in the skull.

Agent, is everything under control there?

"Just peachy, mate." His feet warmed, and with a kick, he generated one of his 'hot knives,' the loving term Kitty had given his mutant ability to project focused heat through his body. The blade burned right through the desk, and he heard the man gasp as it cauterized his midsection.

"So, investigate the murder of a bunch of so-called 'psychics' who couldn't even tell they were gonna get killed, and bring the fucker to S.T.R.I.K.E. Izzat right?"

That is correct, Agent. Further, we suggest the use of a partner for this mission. Whoever is doing this, he's quite good if he can get around a bunch of telepaths. We'll be sending another agent to assist.

Through the gurgles of the dissected attacker, Pete heard the soft sound of feet on the carpet--the gunman, and female most likely. He watched the legs approach the desk, and he rolled out directly into them. His weight tripped her, and when she landed, Pete rolled right on top of her.

The phone was set aside for a minute as he pinned the gunwoman's hands above her head, and pushed his weight against her legs.

"Vell, Mister Visdom. You are as gud as zey say. Pethaps we can...make another arrangement?" Her accent was Russian, German and French all at once--meaning this was small-time, and she was some daft Yank trying to sound exotic.

"Lady, not if you were the last woman on earth." He focuses his powers and heard her cringe as the gun melted to slag in her hands, leaving a burn across her palms. He reached one hand behind for a pair of handcuffs, clasped them on her wrists, and rolled off. His cigarette still hadn't fallen from his mouth.

He finally pushed off her, and grabbed the phone off the ground.

"Don't worry, I have someone in mind already. Send me the details, and I'll review them on my way. Wisdom out."

Learning? No. Training

[able_cain]

Cassandra called out "Z," and her foot shattered the marked board.

Now, time for words.

Still trying to teach herself to read better, Cassandra had taken to using her own gifts to her advantage. Dragon allowed her the use of his dojo one night a week, and Alfred had helped her paint letters on wooden boards. She set the boards up around the room, and struck out at each one.

Each board was marked with a letter or a word, and she had to read the words out loud as she connected with the board. She'd just finished up the alphabet, and now she would move on to the words.

"Book! Shoe! Horse! Nife! Lake!" She knocked out the first five in one move, starting to feel almost confident with the smaller words. When she trained or fight, she could go to this zone, and it made the reading easier. It was just another type of battle.

"Horseshoe! Alligator! Gotham!" Those three were harder, it took almost 5 seconds to break all three.

"Imajinashun! Injinearing! Inhairitence!" She struggled with pronunciation, but she was getting better at sounding them out.

Focus, Cassandra. 100 more words left for the night.

There is always time for tea

[bat_tlebutler]

The New Year's party at Wayne Manor had, of course, been the social event in Gotham. All the right people had been invited, all the right drinks served, all the right food presented and eaten. There had been that minor incident regarding an especially relentless member of the paparazzi, but he had been thoroughly educated as to the nature of his mistake and the consequences thereof. Alfred Pennyworth wished the piecrust table in the west wing foyer had survived the experience, but its sacrifice had been necessary.

The usual debris from that gala affair had been tidied away, and life in the stately home had returned to normal. By Master Bruce's definition of the term, of course. Unique, as all his definitions were. Thankfully.

A different guest was expected now. A most singular and always welcome guest.

Now, where had the sugar bowl for the Poole silver tea service escaped to? Ah, yes, of course. Up in the hall chandelier again. The result of a spirited reconstruction. Really, Master Bruce.

Taking a breath....

[threelivesdown]

The apartment had felt small, had felt confining. She'd had to get out and take a run, leaping from rooftop to rooftop, sliding down a fire escape here and climbing the side of a building there. Now, she's pausing for a brief few moments on one of the taller buildings with a flat roof in the city. It has some nice lions at the corners too, instead of gargoyles. The cold of the night air is cooling her down. Continuing to walk so it doesn't cool her down too quickly, she stretches a little, trying to keep loose.

She has to get back home, after all.

There are some nights where she just wants to get out and see the city. She isn't always sure why she stays but she really does love this place.