A black-gloved finger points to an entrance on the east side of the building.
"We can get in through there. It's the least well-monitored entrance. With a little luck, we can get in without setting off any alarms. It's a little farther from where most of them will be, but we can get the drop on them."
She's good with stealth and planning. She is, after all, a Bat.
Sonia staggers back from the orb. Her vision is blurry.
It's not until she makes her way to the bathroom, feeling slightly nauseous (like one does after witnessing one's own death at the hands of one's... friend), and catches a glimpse of herself in the mirror that she realizes she's actually crying.
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...
"The hell?"
She glances around the room, then back at the object. Where did that even come from?
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The apartment is small, but the lights never seem to get rid of all the shadows.
That old beat-up radio he had in his office is still working, over on a shelf in the back corner of the kitchen. Playing some old jazz station.
He's looking somewhat dejectedly into the phone.
"No luck."
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She looks older. Her hair is a little longer.
She studies his face for a moment, having been deep in thought until a minute ago.
"Okay," she says. "You'll find something else."
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Short hair has grown back, and it's grayed a bit.
His age is in his eyes as he rubs them.
"Yeah. I will."
The determination sounds less convincing after each refusal.
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Her voice is quiet, but firm.
"You will."
We don't really have a choice, is the unspoken conclusion to that thought.
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A rooftop next to a dark, cloaked figure against the night sky.
"They're in there," Dr. Mid-Nite says, nodding towards the factory building to their left.
"Any thoughts on how best to take the down?"
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"We can get in through there. It's the least well-monitored entrance. With a little luck, we can get in without setting off any alarms. It's a little farther from where most of them will be, but we can get the drop on them."
She's good with stealth and planning. She is, after all, a Bat.
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"Excellent. Let's try to minimize the injuries inflicted here - I don't have time to make shin-splints for drug cartels."
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Being welcome is a good feeling. Certainly never one she got from the costumed set in Gotham. It's taken some getting used to.
"Let's bring these guys down," she says.
The glider kicks into gear and she's off, trusting him to follow.
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Likely why he was able to get to her doorway without being stopped.
He takes a long moment to gaze at her from the shadows.
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Finally, though, she speaks up.
"Are you going to come in?"
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"You need your rest."
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A sigh. She shakes her head, to clear it a little.
"Come in before someone sees you, Harvey. It's not exactly visiting hours."
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It's not until she makes her way to the bathroom, feeling slightly nauseous (like one does after witnessing one's own death at the hands of one's... friend), and catches a glimpse of herself in the mirror that she realizes she's actually crying.
Typical.
At least there's no one else around right now.
Also typical.
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