"Dick! Dick! You gotta help me this guy just stole my body!"
The municipal cleaning mechanisms have broken down in Metropolis these days, so still no one's bothered about the body in this alleyway. By now it's little more than a disarticulated skeleton, thanks to the combined work of rats and other city vermin.
Until he lands behind him with a sound, anyway. We specify making-a-sound here because it is certainly not normal for Nightwing to do that. Almost as if he were looking to get attention.
"You're not the one from my world," Dick says, with certainty. He's spent far too long watching his own Batman not to recognise him. "But you're from a world where I exist."
"I just ran into Sparrow's ghost -- or spirit -- or something," Dick reports, rubbing the small filthy piece of bone thoughtfully. "She says she's alive, it's just that someone's run off with her body. So if you see someone looking like Sparrow -- we want that body back and intact, and we want whoever the hell it is out of there."
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The municipal cleaning mechanisms have broken down in Metropolis these days, so still no one's bothered about the body in this alleyway. By now it's little more than a disarticulated skeleton, thanks to the combined work of rats and other city vermin.
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Or ... most of a body.
Or bits of a ...
"... yeah, whoever did this is long gone. I can't do much good here."
Talking to oneself is a great comic-book-hero tradition. It's easy exposition.
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Not a lot he can do at all, actually.
She taps him on the shoulder. Hits him on the shoulder, actually, as hard as she can.
Is it cold around here?
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... or everywhere?
"Is anyone there?" he asks, all confident and commanding and stuff. "I can help you."
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Until he lands behind him with a sound, anyway. We specify making-a-sound here because it is certainly not normal for Nightwing to do that. Almost as if he were looking to get attention.
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Thoughtful.
"Not Sparrow's, then."
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