(no subject)
Acrobats.
These two should be Nightwing's problem. But he's got a baby, and a wife. Two things Cassandra doesn't have.
So, when a report comes over the wire of two identically dressed acrobats robbing the penthouse of the Cathcart Towers, she takes it. She's been training on her new motorcycle. Twelve minutes, fourteen seconds from her cave to the Towers. A verbal command locks the tires of the bike and engages the bolt-thrower hidden in the ignition system. Anyone trying to boost the bike gets a nasty surprise.
The twins in the yellow costumes are faster than she is. More used to using their surroundings as both weapon and obstacle course. But she can anticipate some of their moves. The sets of their shoulders, the position of their feet signalling subtly their intention to leap this way or that.
A pivot-turn-kick, and one of the brightly-clad twins is kicked just as she leaps, sending her crashing into a wall, leading with her chin. The other curses in a language Cassandra does not understand, and dives at her, the thought of escape driven away by the picture of her sister being knocked unconscious.
"Stupid," Cassandra says quietly, blocking every clumsy blow. These girls are good at the flipping and dodging, not so much at the fighting.
Sixty seconds later, the cold night wind ripples Cassandra's cape as she binds the wrists of the two girls.
"O. Bad girls. Caught them," she says into her wrist-mic, catching her breath.
These two should be Nightwing's problem. But he's got a baby, and a wife. Two things Cassandra doesn't have.
So, when a report comes over the wire of two identically dressed acrobats robbing the penthouse of the Cathcart Towers, she takes it. She's been training on her new motorcycle. Twelve minutes, fourteen seconds from her cave to the Towers. A verbal command locks the tires of the bike and engages the bolt-thrower hidden in the ignition system. Anyone trying to boost the bike gets a nasty surprise.
The twins in the yellow costumes are faster than she is. More used to using their surroundings as both weapon and obstacle course. But she can anticipate some of their moves. The sets of their shoulders, the position of their feet signalling subtly their intention to leap this way or that.
A pivot-turn-kick, and one of the brightly-clad twins is kicked just as she leaps, sending her crashing into a wall, leading with her chin. The other curses in a language Cassandra does not understand, and dives at her, the thought of escape driven away by the picture of her sister being knocked unconscious.
"Stupid," Cassandra says quietly, blocking every clumsy blow. These girls are good at the flipping and dodging, not so much at the fighting.
Sixty seconds later, the cold night wind ripples Cassandra's cape as she binds the wrists of the two girls.
"O. Bad girls. Caught them," she says into her wrist-mic, catching her breath.