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Home at last. It hasn't actually been that long since Flash Thompson rode this subway back to Queens, but last time he did he was in much worse shape. The actual ride barely registers in his memory, addled as it was by cheap bourbon. Flash sits in his wheelchair, waiting for his train, alone in the station; no doubt a rare occurrence regardless of the time of day. He's visibly impatient, rolling back and forth just slightly as he waits, alone. Flash used to not mind being alone so much, but now it takes on a whole new meaning. He lets out a long sigh. A couple other men make their way down the stairs, and over the next few minutes engage in some rough banter with one another; you know the type, laced with profanity and talking disrespectfully about women they like the look of. After a time, Flash speaks up. "You guys want to shut the hell up?" And they don't look like they're too pleased to be spoken to that way. Even it's from a guy in a wheelchair with no legs.
Up the stairs walks a little old Jewish lady, dressed in a heavy cloak to keep her warm her features worn and wrinkled with age as she moves. Her cane helps her up the stairs one at a time as she tries to keep her head down hunched over heavily from a bad back with a clear limp. In her free hand she holds a small bag of groceries. She doesn't say much as she moves over to a bench near the group waiting for the next train to come on by.
The two men approach Flash, and one takes hold of his wheelchair, while the other stands in front of him. "What are you gonna do about it, cripple," one says tauntingly. Flash grips the wheels of his chair to keep himself in place as best he can, and stares up at the one in front of him. "I'm gonna ask you again. You want to shut the hell up, and wait for the train? No-one wants to hear that crap," he says flatly, giving a nod toward the old woman who just came in. "Mixed company, and all." There's a forced smirk. He may be all talk, considering his condition, but there's certainly no lack of confidence. They wouldn't dare hit a veteran in a wheelchair, would they?
"Thank you son, it's starting to get rarer every day someone remembers their manners." The kindly old woman speaks up her voice frail, and delicate but soft and warm. She's not making a threat or even sounding angry more quietly trying to dissuade them. "It's also not too kind to try an hurt a veteran." As she walks over slowly but steadily coming up behind the man with his hands on the wheelchair.
The man in front of the wheelchair just speaks up "Can it granny." Sending a back hand right towards her face. Yet instead of making impact a single hand catches his wrist mid air. The hand doesn't look like that of an old wrinkled clone but a black rubber gauntlet with fins running down the side.
When the old woman speaks up again it's with a completely different voice, that of Batman. Deep, inhumanly so, and menacing like that of a demon. "Didn't anyone ever tell you to respect your elders?" There's only a moments pause before the arm is twisted right behind the mans back in the same fluid motion the can wraps round his neck and is pulled tightly yanking him down towards the ground.
The cane is thrown forward over Flash's head and right at the forehead of the second goon. As the cane fly's through the air and the first thug falls backwards in surprise a boot comes up slamming down hard onto his chest sending him more rapidly into the ground the wrist suddenly locked into a handcuff before he's twisted over onto his side the other hand falling into a second handcuff.
The old woman stands up straight the cloak falling back to reveal that it was a cape all along. It's hooked to the back of a cowl. With one solitary motion the wig falls to the ground revealing the bald head of a mask, the cowl pushed up to hide the figures eyes revealing what had appeared to be a simple old woman to be none other then New York's own Dark Knight. "It's bad for your health."
To say that Flash is surprised by this turn of events would be a bit of an understatement. The first man gets pulled to the ground, and the second gets knocked over, and Flash just barely manages to maneuver himself out of the line of fire. "Jesus," he breathes out as he watches the whole thing unfold. When its over, he looks up at the Batman with a bit of incredulity, and wheels himself toward him a few inches. "Thank you for that," he says, though it lacks a lot of conviction. Maybe he thought he could have handled it himself. Maybe he was hoping they'd push him in front of a train. The in-between times are hard.
"If you want I can uncuff them and let you three alone to go a few rounds." Batman comments calmly as he pulls off the old woman mask, tucking it back away into his utility belt after rolling it up so that it looks like a small piece of rubbery parchment. His hand drops down to either side in order to adjust the cuffs of his bat suit. Those cool white eyes of the cowl lock down on the man in the wheelchair. "Just remember to leave me something after you're done to interrogate." His voice makes it a bit hard to tell if he's joking or not as he speaks.
"I've been tracking them for the last 5 hours." His attention going back to Flash once he's nice and comfortable. "It would be a shame if I didn't get to ask them any questions." His cape falling around himself to enshroud his form making him look honestly a bit ethereal all things considered.
"Funny," Flash says, a bit of a sarcastic edge in his voice. He rolls forward a bit further, a wheel coming to rest almost on top of one of them men's hands. If he rolls any further, it could get very uncomfortable for the prone figure. "Not gonna get in your way. What do you need to question them about? I'll bet it's not because you're on a one-man crusade to rid the city of people being assholes to disabled folk," he muses aloud. "Maybe I could help." Somehow. Of course, in a couple days when he's his whole self again, that offer might carry more weight.
"It's more about the ones they've already killed." Batman comments coldly of the men on the ground stood now with his arms folded beneath his long flowing cape. "They've been targeting disabled veterans all across town for the last few weeks." He doesn't honestly seem to bothered by the fact one of them is about to wind up with his hand crushed under a tire. "I've been trying to figure out who they're working for and put a stop to it before their group manages to kill any more."
"Wow, so they're not just random assholes.. you know, New York used to be full of people who were just jerks for no reason," Flash says, inching forward juuuuust a little. If the man below is still conscious, maybe he'll cringe, maybe he'll groan, but that chair isn't light, and neither is the person in it. "Everyone's got an agenda nowadays." He rolls back again, off the hand. "So, if you know they're targeting disabled veterans, you must know something about me..?" Here's where the true test of Flash's cover story, such as it is, comes. Does the 'disabled veteran' angle play out?
"Eugene Thompson, born February 6th 1944" What follows after is an in depth recitation of his complete service record beginning to end from memory. It's almost terrifying the level of detail in the recounting just off the top of his head as he stands there barely moving any muscle in his body except his mouth in order to speak as the goon cries out in pain at the feeling of having his hand rolled over trying to reach for it and clutch onto it. "They had a lookout stationed at the bottom of the steps making sure to divert away foot-traffic and potential witnesses." He takes a slight pause. "He wasn't much of a problem but once they saw me I guess they just figured they'd try to pass it off as you pissing off the wrong people rather then premeditated murder. Maybe accidentally shove you onto the tracks in the process."
"You've done your homework," Flash says, stonefaced. "Police know about this? I'll have to spread the word around the VA for the guys to watch their backs.." Maybe take a more proactive stance, once he's back together. That, of course, remains unsaid. "Good thing you were watching mine. I appreciate it.." He rolls forward again onto the man's hand once he's done crying about the previous crunching. "That's for trying to kill me, asshole," he growls. "Good luck. I assume you know how to contact me if there's anything I can do to help," he says to Batman, just as his train pulls up. He rolls back, and turns to board it. "Don't go too easy on 'em," he says finally, just before the doors close. There's a liquor store somewhere on this route, right?