2013.06.16 - Just Like An Arrow

DynamTech. Until recently, it was just another name to Dinah; another fatcat company dealing in tech she doesn't even pretend to understand. Now there's rich kids going missing, technology kicking about that's too advanced and deadly for even the luddite blonde to go ignoring, and she's been set on a series of dead-end trails across the city in the hope of finding something - anything - resembling an independently-acquired lead.
Tonight was almost a night off, until she heard that all-too familiar voice in her ear. One of the company's middle-management boffin's has been traced making clandestine deals, having left the company a few weeks prior; the timing a little too coincidental to be that, the money trading hands just slightly too much to fall beneath Oracle's very thorough radar.
It brings the Black Canary to, of all places, a crapola bar referred to by its seedy clientele as 'The Fitz'. A dusty sign hanging outside on a creaking chain once proudly proclaimed the name of the Fitzgerald family - once infamous for their crimes, fingers in a thousand pies, etc. Now they're dead or imprisoned, leaving the Fitz in the ownership of a fat thug named Larry Moe.
Dinah's not got Oracle in her ear now, and hasn't called for any other form of backup; there's nothing in the Fitz she can't handle, even on a busy night there might be a dozen two-bit bottom-feeders, perhaps a scrawny fixer or two... and tonight, one very smartly-dressed middle-aged man of nervous demeanour and prematurely gray hair. It didn't take long to work out her target. She 'enjoyed' a particularly watery beer before collaring the poor chump, which is when she found herself blindsided.
Long story short, the Black Canary finds herself fighting through the bar and out into the backroom, where she's summarily surrounded by six hired guns. Literally. Whoever's after DynamTech's secrets, they've got cash to spare; high-velocity rounds have done a number of the building's rear wall by the time Dinah comes crashing through it, hitting a roll that carries her through three filthy puddles before straightening herself against a heavily-graffiti'd wall, turning to find three barrels already trained upon her denim and leather-clad figure.
Whipping her honed body back into a fighting stance, she stands her ground, beaten and bloodied but none too perturbed. Eyes of chipped blue ice stare down the band's apparent leader, his kevlar gleaming in the reddish light as rain scatters the air between them. His finger tightens on the trigger.
"What are you waiting for, tough guy?" Dinah goads him, tossing her dishevelled mane and flexing her lead hand until leather creaks a faint protest. Her smirk is perverse given the situation, but she's unwaveringly confident even as the men to either side chamber their own rounds. "Need me to tell you how big it is before you squeeze it?"
She moves in the same instant that a shot rings out.
While he doesn't go out every night, Connor Hawke is still hoping to catch up with Green Arrow again. He's peeked into Sherwood Florist a couple of times, but nerves got him every time. It was far easier to speak with him when he was masked and the other seemed clueless. Now that he's actually met the man though, he's noticed the similarities...beyond the archery. The blonde hair and green eyes were a big giveaway and while Connor may not be as tall as Green Arrow, the build was similar.
He did choose to go out tonight in his makeshift costume and domino mask. His bow and quiver are, as usual, at his back and he was in the area when the fight broke out. Hearing the sounds of it, he made his way to the bar and arrived just about the time that the leader's gun was aimed at Black Canary. His bow is knocked and an arrow fired at the gun just about the same time as it was fired.
The gun's report isn't the only sound to mar the uneasy - and only ever momentary - still of Gotham's dismal night. In tandem is a keening shriek, quite unexpected to the Canary as she drops into a fluid crouching pirouette, coming about to witness the fade of the muzzle flash give way to one very astonished face. There's that too-familiar whisper in the background, the hiss of a skyward arrow, diverted from the shiny firearm.
Panic takes over the trio of gunmen, the central scrambling to grab up his fallen weapon as the two flanking divert their attention from the 'mere woman' before them to search for this second threat. It could be a number of people, of course; but none of them are good news for the pair. One fires off a wild three-round burst, attempting to score a lucky hit or at least draw out the bow-slinging hero from the shadows.
The Black Canary, meanwhile, has already recovered from her own surprise to cover the distance in a low, lunging sprint.
There are a thousand people faster then her, and more than a few who could have stopped the bullet dead in the air; but Dinah's got two things on her side that so many others don't. She's experienced, possessing a quick wit that lifts her capacity for triumph against the odds well above the endowment of her physical gifts... and when that fails? It seems there's always someone just around the corner to bail her out. Family, friend...
Or lover.
Her elbow finds the face of the hired thugs' erstwhile leader, a driving strike that breaks his nose immediately, followed with a quick twist and a shoulder-check to plow him back through the ragged hole in the building's brickwork. Dinah is already moving to intercept the next nearest man, stealthily creeping along the trash-littered end of the alleyway. If she can take him, she's sure the 'mysterious' man watching her back can take the other.
There is no indication if any of the bullets hit for there is no cry of pain. Another arrow is soon fired, aimed to knock that other gun from the other gunman's hands. Whomever it is just doesn't seem to like said firearms.
That shriek is familiar and Connor can't help a slight smile even as his ears ring from the brief sound. At least it doesn't last too long. Even as the two move off in search of him, one sans gun, he hopes, he quietly follows the one a few steps before he lashes out with his bow to the back of the man's knees. It's more than just a ranged weapon.
"Shit!" The expletive comes alongside another metallic ring as Connor's second arrow strikes straight and true, spinning the expensive assault rifle from his target's hands. Another burst of fire rakes out as the weapon clatters to the wet alleyway, ping-pinging off the wall and rending a sizable hole in a rusted old trashcan. "Cover me for a second, Riley!"
"Ditch it!" Comes the reply from one merc to the other, forcing an immediate pause in his reckless pursuit of the sodden carbine. "Use your sidearm; let's see him shoot a .38 out of your hands. And keep mov--- hngh!!" One more shot rings out, thumping harmlessly into a pile of rat-infested sacks as Canary takes Riley from behind, rolling in and sweeping his leg in tandem with Connor's self-same treatment of the other.
But these *are* professionals, and neither is finished; Connor's opponent bouncing off a shoulder and coming up squeezing off shots from his .38 Special, the little revolver's chamber spinning as he unloads on the stealthy archer.
Canary meanwhile eats a return kick, barely catching it on a forearm and turning to lash out with a palm-strike that barely diverts the rifle-butt in time for yet another shot. This one heads out of the alleyway, rattling the framework of a small sedan and immediately setting the alarm to a pitched whine.
"Boys," grunts the blonde, hurling herself forward with reckless abandon to clasp the merc in a headlock, driving him down beside her on the filthy alley floor. "And your *toys*!"
Connor Hawke drops to the ground as the gun comes at him. There's already a bit of blood staining one of his sleeves but he's doing his best to ignore that. Rolling off to the side, he tries to avoid any and all bullets, but there might be a little more blood before too long. He's good, but guns suck. No wonder Batman doesn't like them.
Waiting for a pause in the gunfire, he darts forward to try and tackle the man to the ground. If he can manage to get the gun out of his hand, so much the better. But the time to fire arrows seems to have passed.
It's an efficient little gun, the .38, but the man's firing desperately - too fast to be entirely effective at this range, at least on such a skilled opponent. And he's only got six shots to play with. He's snarling by the time he pulls the trigger a seventh time, the sharp *click* of an empty chamber still quite audible over the scream of the nearby car alarm.
When Connor drives forward, he catches the moment of shock perfectly, and the merc's head bounces hard off the damp ground. Blood scatters in thick droplets, striking the dismal gray of a nearby puddle as the revolver bounces and comes to a sliding halt... beneath the heel of a heavy motorcyle boot.
"Cutting it close again, Oliver Queen?"
The Canary's voice is sharply teasing, the sort of playful scathing reserved only for the very closest of friends as she kicks the gun aside and takes another step forward - affording Connor plenty of time to finish off his grounded, stunned opponent however he sees fit. But he's in a dark, shadowy patch of the alley; and even that extra moment doesn't give Dinah time to make out the details of his appearance. Assumptions can be dangerous, too, and she's well down the line with this one.
When she extends a hand with a smile, she's still convinced it's the Arrow himself.
"Thanks for the save. Hardly the night out you promised, though."
He didn't expect the tackle to end up knocking the man cold. There's a moment of surprise before he pulls out some zip-ties to cuff the man's hands together. There's a pause at Black Canary's words but he finishes making sure that the man won't be running off by zip-tieing his ankles together as well. Only then does he look up at the woman and takes her offered hand.
"I'm flattered, but...I'm not Green Arrow." He stands and looks to his arm, poking at it experimentally before he looks back to the woman, "I'm sorry if I interrupted your night with him, but it sounded like you needed help."
Dinah's grip is firm, the palm calloused and strong beneath the padding leather of her fingerless gloves. Yet she falters for a moment, strength fading for an instant in which her bicep strains to take up the slack. It's not enough for her to drop Connor, but it's an expression of the astonishment she barely shows as he comes into the dim light before her. Those cool blue eyes regard the blond boy, dark brows arching.
"You..." She seems to lack words, pulling her hand away and clearing her throat, gaze flicking sidelong to Connor's injured arm. "You're hurt. I've got a kit stowed on my bike; we should't be hanging around here anyway." Not with a siren blaring, and another three unconscious men inside. She's not concerned with apprehending them - she's got what she came for, tonight.
Reaching for the archer's other shoulder, she steers him toward the shadows at the alley's end, where a tiny crack between the buildings - barely an alley itself - allows a covert access back to the street. Conveniently away from the alarmed car.
"You *shoot* like him," she continues once they're moving, not making eye contact with Connor, "You even look like him. I've seen some real diehard fans in my time, but--" She looks askance now, firing off a lopsided grin that dimples one cheek, a mischievous flicker in eyes of chipped ice. "You take the cake, kiddo. What do you call yourself?"
Connor's eyes turn away after a moment of Dinah's scrutiny and he goes back to looking at his arm. At her offer of help with the wound, he follows, "I've never been shot before. Do you think it's bad?" Now that the adrenaline is fading, he's beginning to feel the pain. As she turns from him, he looks at her, playing that little 'I won't catch you looking at me' game. When she mentions that he shoots like Green Arrow, his eyebrows shoot up, "I do?"
He looks back to the street in front of him, "You're Black Canary, aren't you? You and he work together, right? I've heard your...uhh...cry before. At the museum." He's evading the question.
"You'll survive." It's spoken with the confident assurance of one who's been shot more times than she can count, the smile not fading as she flicks another lightning-fast sideglance - playing the same game, trying to catch Connor out. To confirm her assessment of his abilities, she merely nods, a slow inclination of her head, expression otherwise failing to mask a great deal of curiosity. How can someone be that good and not know it?
It's abruptly her own turn to be blindsided, though it's in a manner to which she's accustomed. She's not exactly a household name, but she hardly runs in obscurity either. Chances are, if someone's not heard of her then they've heard of her mother. Mention of the museum, though, that drops her jaw.
"The Art Institute?" Dinah fires back, rhetorically, as much for an excuse to quickly shut her mouth again. "You know, that explains a thing or two," she enigmatically adds, mouth pouting thoughtfully as they emerge from the dark alley and head toward a nearby lot, where her sleek, shiny motorcyle awaits. "But yeah, that's me. Let's not be formal, though, considering you just saved my life." She holds up her hand as she says that, as though to preemptively avert any protest. "Call me Dinah."
While he can be naive, Connor isn't stupid. Black Canary was at the Museum...or rather, the Art Institute. She called Green Arrow by his real name and he seemed to have promised her a fun night out. This woman is close to the man. Blinking as they step into the brighter lot, he pauses as Dinah offers her name and her hand.
"I was at the Art Institute, yes...but I was inside. With Green Arrow. Uhm." He looks down then as they didn't cover this sort of thing at the monastary. 'Meeting your estranged father's friends' wasn't discussed. "I don't know that I saved your life but I thought vigilantes weren't supposed to give their names?" That said, he takes the offered hand, "I'm Connor."
There's a further arching of a groomed brow as Connor confirms the suspicion raised moments before; he wasn't just there, but alongside the man in tights himself. Something vaguely testy in Dinah's expression suggests there'll be a few questions asked about this, and no mistake. However, she remains friendly, shaking the tanned archer's hand with a pleasant grin.
"A pleasure, Connor," she murmurs, setting the other hand to her hip and giving a prideful toss of her head as she continues, "And I tend to think it's a matter of personal preference. You've helped me, you've helped my--" A subtle, but telling hesitation, accompanied by a flash of those cool blue eyes, "Friend, and I trust my judgement. Besides, I'm not a hard woman to find. I prefer a straight fight to shadows and deception."
She emphasises each word with a dramatic widening of the eyes, her previously shaking hand wiggling fingers in the air. She certainly wears her heart on her sleeve, and as she turns away it's with just that sort of businesslike air, popping the compartment behind the saddle to pull free a small medical kit. Bidding Connor to lean up against the stabilized vehicle, she moves to tend to him, first inspecting for a lodged bullet.
"So what makes a bright young man like you take to the streets with a bow and arrow? Just out for the greater good, or..." She glances up, mouth a hard line and expression solemn for the first time. Her voice lowers as she finishes, "Something else?"
There are just going to be more questions eventually, although not all may be for him to answer. Connor hasn't been interrogated by anyone, much less a woman, in a number of years and while he's trying to maintain some measure of coolness, the fact that he's been shot and there could be a bullet in his arm and this woman who is close to his father is questioning him that makes it all much more difficult to deal with.
Leaning up against the bike as instructed, he hisses as the wound is touched, but takes in a few slow breaths to calm down and relax. The wound isn't gushing blood so no vital arteries were severed, but there might be something lodged in there.
Green eyes lift to look at her before they look back to the pavement before him. He's been holding this secret in for so long and he isn't too sure how much longer he can keep it in. The way the question is asked, however, makes it very difficult to say something truthful without giving specifics. Dinah might be too close to the situation in general.
There is a long pause when she finishes asking her question before he finally lifts his gaze again to meet her's, "I'm just following in my father's footsteps."
Dinah Lance is an insightful woman. She hasn't built such a reputation for herself without being capable of both empathy and strong intuitive senses when it comes to the moods of others; and the secrets they may or may not be hiding. But nobody's perfect. As she keeps thumb and index finger gently pressing to either side of Connor's wound, she reaches for a pair of tweezers...
...and then comes the revelation. She's aware that he's looking at her, a soft 'hm?' breaching her throat as if she's entirely forgotten the question she just asked. It's a curiously oblivious moment, and his response echoes for several moments longer before she turns her icy blue eyes away, back to the leaking wound.
The tweezers move forward, carefully probing.
"Likewise," she replies in a low, but surprisingly casual murmur, eking out a smile without meeting the archer's gaze. "Though for me it was my mother. Who was--"
The tweezers freeze, and then her hand twitches, rubbing cold metal against inflamed skin and the outer layer of muscle. For Connor it's probably excruciating, but all she says is: "Oh."
"Oh!" Until she realizes what she's done, wide-eyed shock becoming the panic of a mother who's just realized she's smothering her baby, pulling the instrument away and gripping Connor's shoulder as if she could alleviate the pain that way. "I'm sorry, I didn't mean to--" Distraction comes and goes, and absurdly she lets out a short, sharp and breathless laugh. "You mean you're--" Where does she even start? "Wow. *Wow*."
She's staring at Connor's face now, like a blind person seeing for the first time, absorbing every tiny visible detail - the line of his jaw, his cheekbones, the familiar blonde hair. After several seconds she realizes she's not doing anything else, and a hot flush overcomes her cheeks, shining like a beacon. She's still not sure what she could add, or how best to react, but instinct takes over to ask the only question that seems to matter. Her voice comes out clear, confident but sensitive.
"Does he know?"
Connor Hawke takes in a few deep breaths and closes his eyes as the tweezers come out and touch him...if he stays calm, maybe it won't hurt as much. At the twitch though, his eyes fly open and he mostly swallows a cry of pain. That hurt! Holding his breath against the pain he nods acceptance of her apology even as he slowly lets that breath out. He takes in another slow breath and lets it out...he can't meditate at the moment but he can certainly use some of that technique right now.
Once he's able to speak again he offers, "It's all right. At least you didn't punch me." With his other hand, he reaches to pull down the makeshift domino mask from his face even as Dinah stares at him. This question he answers quickly, "No. I don't think he does. My mother said she never told him."
A dozen questions nag at her mind, the overall effect quite enough to threaten a headache, and it's the Canary's turn to take a calming breath as she kneels there. Slowly nodding, she processes the import of this revelation, already feeling a lead weight settle in her stomach. She knows this much: it isn't hers to share, or her place to tell Connor what to do next. But she feels responsible. She can't not. Rubbing at her right temple, she gives another nod, swabbing clean the tweezers and turning back toward the wound. Whatever else, it needs to be dealt with.
"Then don't say anything until you're ready. Ollie's..." Brash? Arrogant? Impossible? She smiles to herself, then decides to just pour it out there, "The best man I know. He's brave, selfless, and - when he wants to be - he's understanding. You couldn't hope for a better father, if that's what you want him to be."
She leaves that hanging there, switching to a businesslike tone.
"Brace yourself. This is gonna sting."
There's a moment to prepare, and then she deftly snatches the end of the lodged bullet, metal grating against bone as it's hauled out in Dinah's firm grip and swiftly replaced with an antiseptic swab.
Connor Hawke just had to tell someone. It's a weight that's actually lifted, some, from his shoulders. It's not entirely gone, but it's helped to share, even a little of the burden. He does, however, look away as Dinah starts to rub her temple. "I'm sorry. I probably shouldn't have told you, but you asked and I don't lie..." so he wasn't left with many other options.
As she offers her advice, he nods, "I've heard lots about him, but...he's also Green Arrow. I think that I want him to be whatever he wants to be, but I needed to meet him. To get to know him. If he decided, after finding out, that he wants nothing to do with me, I'll accept it and move on." It's said quietly, but earnestly.
At the change in conversation and the warning, he grips onto...whatever he can on the bike and, instead of taking in a breath, lets it out. His hands spasm on the bike at the pain, but he doesn't make a sound. A few seconds later he asks very quietly, "Did you get it?"
Brave. Honest. Tough. Even as she focuses on stopping the bloodflow and getting Connor's wound properly cleaned and bandaged, Dinah can't help but keep smiling at the array of boxes the young archer is ticking. At the same time, it's a little painful; because she knows, too, that he's liable to be every bit as proud as his father. She wants to tell him it'll be alright. Damn it, a part of her feels like giving him a hug.
But she's got her own pride. Her own toughness.
"I got it," she confirms as she continues her ministrations, the smile slipping away as she gives a firm nod. "It went in clean, so it'll heal the same. You'll want to rest your arm for a couple of days; normal activity is fine, but no fighting and no shooting. I know what you archers are like."
There's so much emotion in that seemingly-teasing sentence that she can't help but laugh, halting it with a sniffle that's rather more moist than might be expected. She finishes binding the wound, making sure it's good and tight before patting the boy upon his opposite shoulder and standing tall.
"He'd be proud of you." She doesn't even mean to say it, it just tumbles out before she can catch herself, a rapid blink of those cool blue eyes expressing as much before she continues breezily - if a little too hurriedly. "Have you got somewhere to stay? We... don't live together, and you're welcome to use my couch. It's the least I can do after tonight. It would be my pleasure."
Pride isn't something that Connor tends to have...at least, he's never considered himself as having it. He was taught to be humble and modest without becoming a doormat for others. He's just using what methods he knows to cope with whatever's being thrown at him. He is a leaf on the wind. Or a Willow Tree. Or whatever metaphor seems to work for the particular situation. "A couple of days?" He looks to his arm as it's bandaged up, "Thank you for helping me with this. Do you think I need to go to the hospital too? Not that you didn't do an excellent job, but...never been shot before." As he mentioned earlier. 
There's a slight smile when she mentions that she knows the archer's mentality. The smile fades in surprise when she speaks next. "Do you think so? I...I tried. I mean, it certainly helped my interest in archery," even though it was also used for a focusing exercise. Wiggling his fingers to see just how much his arm is going to hurt at movement, he flicks his gaze up again, "Oh. I've been staying at a Buddhist Temple in Manhattan. I wouldn't want to trouble you and I've been getting a lot of chances to practice my Tibetan."
There she goes with those presumptions again. One thing Dinah certainly hadn't assumed was that this stoic young man has been bunking under spiritual eaves, though it goes some way to explaining his demeanour and tolerance for pain. Again, where does she begin? ...at home, she decides.
"If vigilantes aren't supposed to give their names, they certainly shouldn't be causing a stir in hospitals," remarks the Canary with an arched brow, before reaching once more toward the back of her bike. There's a helmet attached to the rear flank, and it's now passed rather insistently to Connor. "Rest is good, but you need a little more than meditation. I can keep you checked up until you're ready to go again."
Steering him aside, she slings herself onto the bike and nods behind her.
"Saddle up."
Trouble be damned, she's not taking 'no' for an answer.
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