shatterverse | (no subject)

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In Metropolis, one can find almost everything. All kinds of peoples - fighters, tricksters, thieves, innocent people just looking for a good time.

And occasionally, you can find a healthy looking kitty with silky white fur sitting on the porch of a nearby storefront to a club, grooming himself (because the cat itself is a boy, you see) and occasionally running off to walk a fence or leap on a row of trashcans or chase a mouse.

Rachel may or may not be avoiding the nightlife of other twenty-somethings.

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Dick gives her that wide warm smile again. "I could try sir?"

"So tell me," Rachel continues, eyes narrowing irritably, "what's the spandex for? To distract people from what you're saying or to cut off the air to the head on your shoulders?"

She could just walk away... but then how would she find out more about the gymnastics?

There's a breeze in the air. There always has been, in Dick's vicinity.

"Wait, Wayne got comic books in which he's Batman? Did no one tell him the meaning of secret identity?"

Dick's lips twitch as if he's trying not to laugh. "Well, it's mostly for movement," he says politely. "But it's not actually spandex. It's a kevlar-nomex layered weave. A little more protective, you know?"

"Oh. Well, then."

She'd make fun of his outfit some more, but... well, Rachel's in skintight midriff-exposed lycra. Not a single leg to stand on, really.

Rachel shuffles for a moment, frowning. And when she finally does speak, it's grudgingly. "...where'd you learn all that? The gymnastics?"

"The -- oh." He grins, surprised and slightly flattered. "Oh, uh, long story, really."

Rachel doesn't much care for modesty. She waits for a moment and then frowns when she realizes he's not going to continue.

"You're taller than most gymnasts," she points out after a moment. "Where'd you find someone to train you?"

"Well, I was more or less born to it," Dick says, with a bright smile. "Do you always ask masked strangers their life story?"

Rachel's quiet for a moment, gaze drifting, awkward.

"...I had to quit a long time ago, I got too tall."

(this may or may not be a request)

"Yeah?"

The vigilante eyes her thoughtfully.

Sympathetic: "You were a professional gymnast? -- or just wanted to be?"

Rachel shakes her head, making a face. "I wasn't planning on it, I just... it was important."

I found you an Olympic coach, Rach, I know you're good enough, I know you can do it.

"If you know someone that would teach me to move like you do, I want to meet him."

Dick's lips twist a little, regretful and sad.

"They're long dead. I'm sorry. But it isn't really something you could learn, not as old as you are now. I was -- literally -- born in a circus."

Rachel scowls just a little. That obviously wasn't the answer she wanted.

"I'm not a complete novice," she points out, frowning. A moment passes and her lips quirk, a tiny smirk as she nods back toward the fence the cat had been sitting on. "And I didn't grow up one-hundred percent normal either."

"I noticed," Dick agrees, grinning. "I'm ... not really looking for a gymnastics student, honestly."

He gives her an apologetic shrug.

"And I wasn't asking for you," Rachel replies - a little too quickly. "I was asking for your teacher."

Crap.

"It was just a question."

He smiles, apologetic, trying to smoothe over her awkwardness. "Wrong world, really. I've had a lot of teachers, but the acrobat ones died when I was twelve. I know there's a few of us at the farm who could give you some pointers, if you like -- Babs is in a chair these days, but Dinah's an incredible fighter, and Steph started in gymnastics too."

Rachel blinks and then groans, rolling her eyes. She'd forgotten Steph was one of them. "I've got things to do," she says, which is better than admitting there's someone who actively does not want her at the farm.

"Thanks, though."

"Sorry I couldn't be more help," Dick says ruefully. He glances upwards again, frowning slightly. Something or someone on the roof of the club again; probably trying to get in. Again. The clubs are a damn magnet for trouble these days -- not that clubbing was ever safe, but it's downright risky post-apocalypse. And yet more popular than ever.

"I've got to go, but if you need anything else, Oracle can always get in touch with me." There's a touch of fondness to that 'Oracle'.

Shame. Rachel doesn't care much for Oracle either.

She nods, following his gaze to the rooftops. "Yeah, sure."

She'll just have to practice more. She can teach herself if she tries hard enough, and that would be more useful than the gun - knowing how to move, how to fight in her own body, with her own body.

Dick gives her a salute, and springs into the air again, bouncing off the fence and catching a second-story flagpole to swing around and toss himself upwards again. Whatever he says about being trained in a circus, he also makes use of the street architecture in a way no circus tent could teach.

And also is pretty. The narrative is totally ogling his moves just as much as Rachel. Mmm, bendy Bat-boys.

... what, the narration here is easily distracted.

The narration is weak and should be trying harder.

...even if Dick's long gone by the time Rachel stops ogling the merchandise. Mmm.

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