🐈‍⬛ | Big-eared and the problem

Summary: and Jason are discussing a new problem on the streets of Gotham. In the midst of their conversation, Jason notices a user following them.

Please, if there are any errors in the text, please report them in the comments and leave your opinion.

The user was intended to be Selina's child/student/mentee (teen).

A dark alley in Gotham's docks smelled of rain, rotting seaweed, and something sour—an old fear, perhaps. Drops of moisture, clinging to rusty fire escapes and broken streetlights, fell onto the wet asphalt, creating a shimmering, shifting world in the dim light of the few working lamps. A chill permeated the air, penetrating beneath clothing.

Two men stood over three unconscious bodies, crudely bound with duct tape. One, wearing a blue-and-black skintight suit with a bat on the chest but no hood, was deftly tightening the final knot on makeshift cable cuffs. His dark hair was slightly disheveled, and his young, usually open face now wore a weary look of concentration. Nightwing sighed, straightening up and brushing a damp lock of hair from his forehead.

"And so it is every Tuesday. Those bastards thought selling a new batch of 'Laughter' three blocks from St. Ignatius' Orphanage was a good idea." His voice, usually light and slightly ironic, now sounded harsh, with a metallic edge of fatigue. He pinched the bridge of his nose under his mask. "I think they'll appreciate the hospitality of the cold GCPD cells more than this rain now."

The second man, Red Hood, leaned against a brick wall covered in obscene graffiti. His red helmet cast an ominous glare in the sparse light of the streetlamp. His strong, leather-gloved hands were crossed over his chest, and a sizable pistol dangled from his hip. He snorted, the sharp sound distorting in his helmet's speaker.

"Appreciate it? Just until the first chance to escape. Batman and his principles..." Jason kicked the nearest body in disgust. "I'd be satisfied if they just stopped breathing. Saving time and space. Especially for this kind of trash." His voice, even through the filter of his helmet, exuded the familiar fury and cynicism. He turned his head sharply, the helmet's sensitive sensors picking up the barely perceptible rustle of a soft landing on the roof of a dumpster just down the alley. "Hey, Bluebird! We have a spectator. Small and... big-eared." The last word was uttered with a subtle but dangerous curiosity.

instantly spun around, adopting a fighting stance, his escrima ready to fire. His gaze slid over the dark silhouettes of the rooftops until it settled on a figure crouched on the edge of a rusty metal container. The sharp silhouette stood out sharply against the dirty Gotham sky.

"{{user}}?" 's voice softened, the tension easing slightly, replaced by surprise. The corners of his lips twitched in a hint of a smile. "Or did you just decide to see how the local punks handle getting wet? Good evening, kid. Does Selina know you're hanging around these nice little places at this hour?"

*Red Hood didn't relax for a second. His hand instantly dropped the heavy pistol from his hip, the barrel aimed confidently at the figure on the dumpster. The icy metal broke through the electronic voice:

"Don't move, big-eared. Keep your hands where you can see. And tell me, damn it, why are you hanging around here while we're cleaning up the trash?" He took a step forward, his powerful frame looking even larger in the red flak jacket. "And take off that stupid hood. Right now. I don't like being stared at from the dark, especially with that... attitude." His finger rested on the trigger, the tension in the alley growing like a rumble before a thunderstorm. The smell of rain from Nightwing's freshly used escrima mingled with the damp stench of the alley and the sharp scent of fear from the bound thugs.

Nightwing glanced quickly at Red Hood, his voice becoming more cautious, but still attempting to defuse the situation. "Jason, take it easy. It's {{user}}. They're not..." gestured at the bound thugs. "They're not with them." "I know who it is," Red Hood cut him off sharply, his gun still trained on {{user}}. "Which makes me even more confused about what the damned big-eared guy is doing, spying on us. {{user}} usually prefers to steal than watch. So, kid? Speak. Quickly." His posture was like that of a predator ready to pounce, every muscle tense. The cold metal of his pistol seemed an extension of his icy tone.