Mirror Mirror

<January 9, 2015>: Vorpal and Changeling stake out, looking for Veruca

Cobble Hill

A Starbucks in Every Corner



  • Civilians

Mood Music:
Dressed For Success

It's been a week since she had her encounter with the wolf God, a few days since she was fully healed and out roaming, a full day since her counsel with Damian and the video she left and.. you know what? For all intents and purposes, Veruca was human too. She had desires, wishes, wants just like any other woman and she wasn't going to get that by staying cooped up under someones thumb. Not that she minded it, of course. But when a woman is ready to take the man's credit card to purchase some clothing, she was going to do it.

Kisses upon the cheeks were had, the snatch of a card from her Little Bird's fingers, and out the door she went dressed as a normal person would. Granted, most who paid attention may not know her face, but they would know the eyes that she possessed, like a decent third of the population.

Cobble Hill is where she went, browsing stores, checking out the latest jewelry and clothing that would fit form to frame. Does she want this? No. Too gaudy. This? Too flashy. Little black dress? Yes please! Heels? Mmhmm!

There were bags in both arms as she walks out of the store, held akimbo, purse in between as she walks, sneakers hitting the pavement as she gives a little sigh. Perhaps she should have gotten sunglasses, the chill of the air was making her eyes cry.

There is, in Gotham, someone who knows that face. Midnighter had been the first to drop her name to Keith back when they were being considered for Egypt, and he had done his research- Terrorist acts. Murder, coercion, jury tampering, kidnapping, intimidation, larceny, the woman was more sought-after than Kim Kardashian's behind, the only crime she seemed not to indulge in was being unkind and not rewinding, really.

Then Waller, for reasons known only to her, decided to not send Keith and Gar to Egypt after all (which meant another mission must be down the line, somewhere. Keith had ideas on how to call that favor done…) and he had filed the face away in his mental shredder while he worried about things such as Not Dying from Druiditude.

And then the woman had killed Damian and several other people. That prompted new study sessions of the profile Waller had sent, the websites, everything he could find until he ended up seeing that face in his dreams because the woman was dangerous, and it paid to be aware of danger. He thought there was very little chance of finding her directly, notorious as she was.

He was more preoccupied with these two women, these hero killers. The Titans were fanning far and wide to find sight or sound of them, and that was priority number one. Priority number two was the actress who had disappeared, the one with the connection to Meredith McCorr. Kate Bishop, once again, had given the Titans a valuable clue by letting them know that the woman, a famous recluse, apparently could brainwash people with a glance and was in charge of some strange cult. There were no coincidences- that disappearance must be related. Gar was probably doing his detective work there, which left Gotham to Vorpal.

The Cheshire cat moves across rooftops with a grace- that stakling, predatorial fluidity of movement inherent in all but the clumsiest of felines. In the Gotham su-… dayli-… in the gloomy quasi-light that passes for daytime in Gotham City, with its constant fog and overabundance of clouds, the feline's purple pelt sticks out like a sore thumb.

That is exactly what he wants. It is almost him shouting "come and get me!", which by all accounts is the dumbest thing he could be doing with two hero killers on the lose.

Unless, of course, you happen to have powers of illusion and render yourself invisible, while placing your illusory double ten feet in front of you. Vorpal may have started out as a complete rookie, but he's managed to level up at a decent rate. One of these days he might be able to afford upgrades!

He makes a note to himself: stop playing World of Warcraft.

The phone rings within her pocket, she stops just at the entry point of an alleyway and buildings, bags shifting so that she could pull it from her bottom. "Hello? Oh yes.."

She slowly begins to pace, listening to the words upon the other end, the nicest smile that anyone had ever see her have, was had. "No, I'm not spending to much. Besides, you made the promise." But something caught her eye, something that dashes across the rooftops, something that makes her stop within her spot to adjust the bags as if she hadn't seen anything.

"I am not misbehaving." If she would blush, she would have, but she felt that terrible yearning to follow whatever it was up there, and to strike it down with a swipe and whip of her sword. "I'll call you back, Little Bird. Something's come up." She brandishes two kisses to her phone, then hangs it up immediately.

Now, what to do with her bags?

Vorpal stops at the edge of a building to look down on the street. Ten feet away from his, his illusory double does the same. Some people recognize him, down in the street, and point up at him. The illusion grins and offers a wave with an almost Booster Gold-ish attitude while the real cheshire studies the expressions of those pointing. Hatred? Disgust? No, nothing so far. What was the point of making yourself a target if nobody was going to take shots? Now he knows how fishermen feel like when the fish aren't biting- just sitting on your ass for hours on end holding a stick and hoping mouths are drawn to it.

Wait. There was something wrong with how he phrased that… nevermind.

++The art of the trap involves in making the bait irresistible, but not suspicious++

The Cait Sidhe. The Ancient One. One of the Fair Folk, a people who, through thousands of years, had developed the practice of baiting humans into traps into a veritable art.

~Fine. Let's add an extra layer~

Illusory Vorpal steps back from the ledge and takes something out of his pocket. A small lunch bag, complete with brown bag and 'V' on the front. This is Gotham, of course, and the illusory cheshire settles down on top of one of the Gargoyles that watch each corner of the building, crouching cat-like on top of it while starting on his lunch.

Watching himself eat makes the real invisible Vorpal regret that he had, in fact, forgotten to actually pack his own lunch.

Still, the vignette that he presentd should add an extra layer of attractiveness for a predator. This id not a vigilante being completely … er… vigilant. He id vulnerable, he is exposed-

Goddamnit, he is hungry.

Log Note= Ten feet away from his right.

No, Gar isn't back in Hollywood or wherever it is tracking down Yet Another Copycat Serial Murderess. He would be, but honestly, it's faster for the Chaos Cat to do that trip, and arguably less exhausting.

"Thanks, Fenshaw," Gar says to his Dad's butler, as he leaves the mansion. Adoptive Dad, really, but the man's been slightly more available since Gar actually spent an hour on New Years Day talking on the phone.

So. Family time valuable, but he also got some advice from the ever-cryptic parent: Consider the Pangolin and the Mylodon.

Right. So, some time spent on the train reading … how oddly apt. Pangolin, Gar knew about, but the Mylodon was strange. Father's Day needs to be observed this year.

A green mottled goshawk circles the neighborhood, looking for blatant purple-osity. And, there's one. So he starts to circle in closer.

There was a grunt and a little bit of a sigh. The one night where she wanted to enjoy herself? She had to catch sight of a roof jumping hero, or what she would assume to be one. She put the feelers out, her ten to their five. Sure it seemed like a large amount that she couldn't cover and yet, if she started now? She'd have ten dead by the time the others jumped on the bandwagon and reports start to hit across the nation.

But gaaah! She was shopping. While people oo'd and ahh'd, she was the only one throwing a hissy fit; jumping in spot out of frustration, she's got bags dammit! Jimmy chu's! Michael Kor's and some awesome Victoria's Secret ensemble that would make her dear love /blush/.

Speaking of, the phone was pried out again as she walks towards the curb, the number dialed and a glance given, left.. right.. and up..

Wait, is that mutherfucker eating a sandwich?


"Nightmare. Send me a car. Yes. A car. No, it's not urgent and you don't need to come. Just send the c.. what? Oh, that figures."

She was being followed, rightfully so, she almost died just only a week ago. The car pulled up immediately as the door was opened, but she didn't get inside. She only threw her bags in and closed it.. and left those within, waiting. This was curious. She was just going to sit back and watch.

The illusion noms away at the sandwich. Tuna. Oh, he could just smell it. The mother fucker. Wait, that was him. Congratulations, Keith O'Neil, you've made yourself jealous of yourself. Right… enough of that. He had stuck his colors out, now it was time to see if anyone bit. The Illusion does away with the bag (back into the pocket!) and jumps off the gargoyle, running quickly across the rooftop to jump to the other side… and then slide down a drainpipe, disappearing into the maze of alleyways back there.

While the illusion went to the ground, ducking in and out of shadows, the invisible cat remained over at the ledge, keeping a good view of the area.

The flapping of wings above draws his attention and he sees a green… bird. Vorpal was no ornithologist, but green was always a watch-out color for him. He considered hailing the bird, but that would disrupt his deception. If it was, indeed, Gar, then him sticking to the fake Vorpal would only make it seem that more real.

Besides, it would be sort of funny if he fell for that. He was never one to pass up a good joke.

Tuna sandwich. Brown bagging. On a gargoyle. Either Vorpal has lost his mind, Gar considers, or he's trying to lure in his target. Except there's no explosions, no march of the parking meters, therefore he hasn't found her. Fishing. Fine. Gar switches species, and his wings are now pigeon wings, because the Rats of the Sky are found everywhere. He's green, still, but not too ridiculously so; there are a few oddly colored pigeons in Gotham because of the prevalent mutagens, so he can attempt to blend in. Even if he does only have one head and two eyes. He lands amidst the flock and begins inspecting what they're eating. Oh ghod no.

She turns around, pressing her bottom against the car, trapping whomever was inside to only force them to lower the window, only a set of eyes to be seen. "Madam.." The man mumbles, offering up a phone to which she snags and presses against her ear.

"Oh. I know that. I'm just /waaatching/…" She teases, her gaze gone up to the rooftops to see the run and jump.. but not where he landed. There was a tic there, the urge to follow to see, but she was essentially unarmed, and she was sure that a black American Express card would hu.. oh wait. There /was/ that time in Prague.

"I'm comfortable with this. You've no need to worry. Now stop calling me."

The phone was tossed back into the car, along with her own for now. They had their ways to track her, sure, but the little peace that she wanted that night was interrupted by the realization that she'll never, ever be a normal girl. And that was alright.

Her hand is held out now, fingers wriggling. "Give me a cigarette."

"The Young Master would not appro-.."

"I do what I want. Give me a goddamned cigarette."

It was handed over, pre-lit, and soon tucked in between her lips as she gives the car another pat. "Get out of the car and go home. Give me the keys."

And they do so, figures in suits soon filtering out, keys dropped into the palm of mitten-clad hands. Hey, it was cold, and mittens RULE.

They walk on, leaving the car parked, which Veruca chirps and stuffs into her pocket. The hood was soon tugged over her head as she slowly begins to walk in that direction. She wasn't going towards the alley, she was going to walk by. Just a quick glimpse to get a look up close.

The illusory Vorpal seems to be talking to someone over his comm, standing far down the alleyway. Occasional words float towards Veruca:

"… negative. What?…" mumblemumble, "I'm fine. Few more hours… right. I'll talk to you at night…"

Invisible Vorpal keeps looking. That nice car parked… he'd love to have a car like that. Or, really, a car that was a little bigger than the Smrt Cr. Mostly because it was hard to go on outings with friends with the Smrt Cr. Anyone you brought in with you had to be very close.

Stool Pigeon Logan (Gar is standing on a bus bench now, harassing a Gotham businessman who is pretending not to see the pigeons staring at him in a collective gawk) is now in position to hear the chirp and he spots the girl … Hm. She doesn't LOOK like she'd kill people without a second thought. She looks like one of those girls who'd have someone else do it… without a second thought. Gar went to school with some of those. Well, fine. She's spotted, and watched, while he acts normal. He coos at the businessman, threateningly… it's Gotham. Pigeons do that here. Though … might want to turn it down a notch, they'll think he's a Penguin Bird.

Veruca stops long enough to take another drag out of the cigarette, smoke blowing from her nose as she takes a look at the edge and.. ew. "Newports." She mutters to herself, one last drag taken, ears peeled to the conversation, cigarette tossed to the ground and snuffed out without care in the world.

Rules of her own making are as such: If it looks as if it would be too easy? Then it would not be. She's learned her lesson over the years and more recently. Lone men often aren't just that. They're packing a punch and care needs to be taken.

Another rule? Play it smart.

Her intention was to go shopping, so she was going to keep doing that. Ignore the addiction, the need, replace with something else equally addicting, such as Newports.

She had her fill really, her hand lifting to rub at her chin as she continues on, veering to the left to open the door to the late night coffee shop to pile herself up with more bad things that are highly addictive so that she could go home and actually be /proud/.


Vorpal watches, but there is no discernible movement from anyone towards the alleyway.

~Did I wake up in an alternate reality and ended up in a safe Gotham, somehow?"~

The illusion climbs up the pipe to end back on the rooftops again, and the invisible original hms, pondering whether or not to call off the hunt.

Maybe the problem is that he's using the wrong kind of bait? The Titans usually aren't staples of Gotham. Here, it's the Bats.

He leaps across the gap and walks into his illusory double, dispelling all illusions so that he is actually standing there. He taps his bluetooth device to activate the TeamSpeak app.

"Vorpal here in Cobble Hill. No fish on this side of the pond. Anyone?" He didn't know who else was on patrol at the moment. He hoped it wasn't Raven.

One of the pigeons explodes away from the businessman, and the entire flock swirls around semi-chaotically like they've suddenly noticed the giant purple cat. Among the turbulence, who could notice one of them disappearing, and a tiny hummingbird zipping up to stick its beak in the purple cat-ear, and talk in a tiny bird voice.

"She went into the Starbucks. I don't think it'll be safe to do anything, there's shiny surfaces everywhere in there."

Then it dashes away because that has GOT to tickle.

As soon as she steps into the bright shop, she pats herself down and.. yep. Left her phones in the car. Oh well. So much for asking what Little Bird wanted to drink. Her feet were soon stamped upon the carpet, her gaze falling back towards the door to make sure that no one actually /made/ her as she peered into the alley, and felt.. relatively, bored. Oh well.

Feet cleaned from slush of snow, and soon she steps up towards the counter, Icy Blues considering the menu as she pulls out a few bills to dump into the glass tip jaw.

"I'll take a green tea latte, hold the cream, and possibly.." She clicks her teeth. "Oh right. A caramel machiatto, and.." She looks into the case. "Double fudge brownie, two of them, and a coffee cake. To go. Name's Magdalena."

She hands over the card, then looks over her shoulder once again, turning to move off to settle down at the table to wait for her name to be called.

At first, the purple cat bats at his ear, but manages to refrain from doing so lest he whack Gar off. "Huh… she's there? Understood."

He returns to his invisibility and approaches the edge of the building. "Go watch her reaction… I'm going to play dirty pool."

As has been previously stated, Vorpal has studied that face closely, memorized it. There are several reasons why one one does it- one of them being instant recognition. The other one? Well… it really helps you fuck with people's minds.

One of the many people in the street- by her clothes, one of the homeless of Gotham city, smudged and dirty. Her head is wrapped in old, tattered knitted caps piled on top of each other to keep her warm, but what is most striking about her is the icy blue eyes. She walks with the lack of energy that someone usually has when they are starved and cold. She stops at the windowed front of the Starbucks and stares inside, at the warm patrons and their coffees and little, overpriced food items. Her eyes are expressionless.

Her face is also Verucca's.

Log Note= delete 'off'

The bird zips across the street and vanishes against the wall of a building. What's clinging to that wall now is a chameleon, and while it might be green, it also is not green, but brick red. Watching. With those weird mobile eyes.

"Magdalena?" The barista calls. "Here!" She reaches up with a hand, standing from her little both to grab the coffee carrier and hot packages of food that she managed to acquire. Surely, it'll go to her hips. The Nightmare would be upset but hey. Evolution has it's price. She'd work it off later on by doing battle with the guard. That.. was always fun.

With a smile and nod of her head, she turns towards the door, taking a few steps as she looks into the bag to make sure all of her pastries were there. As soon as she looks up to see the homeless woman staring back at her, she gives pause. And a lowering of a brow. And a twist of her lips.


Second rule to villainy? Know when you're on drugs.

The woman continues to stare into the Starbucks. An extra level of realism is added to the illusion when a man in a well-tailored suit passes by and bumps into her, almost sending her sprawling to the ground. Picking herself up, she returns to watching through the window, lips slightly parted as she stares. Perhaps she's looking at a man with hot chocolate…

The man in the well-tailored suit continues walking down the street, and Vorpal watches, pulling the strings of both illusions like an invisible puppet-master.

This was curious. She knows she didn't make a copy of herself, nor did she fall into the use of barbituates, ever. So seeing someone that looks just like her, out on the sidewalk? She tsks loudly. She was born into the life of a criminal. Rigged elections, jury tampering, building of organized crimes from the ground up spanning across Japan, to China, to Russia. She's trained with the police over there, studied with Spetnaz, and a sidenote? Was a ballerina for a time. Cute little Veruca, in a tutu!

So as soon as she looked into the eyes that were not hers? She knew it was a trap. And with a slight sigh, she stuffs and crumples the pastries into her pocket, watching as the man knocks down the homeless copy of herself with a shake of her head. 'Dude, what an asshole'. She thought, but still..

The Green Tea latte was picked up and sipped, the caramel drink meant for her other was taken outside, the door swung upon, a shoulder leaned against the wall and the drink set down with a little bit of amusement.

"I'm pretty sure you're listening to me through the copies that you made." She takes another sip, her eyes dashing towards her car to take in the sight and /build/. "You're going to have to try a lot harder if you want to get time alone with me. Although, that was a nice touch. Nice touch indeed."

The woman looks at Veruca with an expression that is puzzled. "Ma'm?" The voice is not Veruca's.

In fact, as she answers, Veruca's face falls off. It drips off the woman as if it had been snow melting from a sudden burst of sun- but she doesn't notice it, and the face never hits the floor, it just vanishes. The woman is ordinary-looking, in her late thirties, although she does have strikingly beautiful eyes.

In the passersby, Veruca's face peers at Veruca, again. At one point she is a woman in a white pantsuit, but she vanishes in the shuffling of the crowd. At another, she stares at Veruca while pushing a stroller through the doors of a store. Always vanishing in the crowd. The homeless girl begins to back away warily, clearly uncomfortable at being addressed by the woman.

Vorpal frowns, concentrating in his weaving of illusions. There is one illusion that he is leaving there all the while- a man, easy to overlook, really- bundled up for the cold, but with a generous head of silver hair, sitting in one of the remote benches across the street from Veruca. He's not looking at her, but his head is bowed as if it were in prayer, and his fingers are moving, perhaps making mystic passes, although he is trying to disguise them as the twitches of old age and some rheumatism.

If Vorpal only knew Veruca had been a ballerina. Talk about Black Swan references he could be making!

Ut! She didn't expect that. She actually stands straight up as the voice was not her own, her eyes planted upon the woman as the mask of herself seemingly falls into nothingness. But yet, she still sips her tea. It was really quite healthy, even though it tasted like pure ass. Doctors orders. Take it easy, lest you cause far more damage than she really, really intended.

The sea of herself seemingly grows larger, each face that passes peers at her over and over again, her back pressed against the building as she draws out a little sigh, drink left for the homeless woman if she should take, and with a boost of her bottom she's heading for the car.

"If I were a vain person I'd stay back and watch.." She comments to herself, stopping once she sees the man upon the park bench, fingers twiddling which.. possibly seemed as if he had tourettes. He was the only one that didn't look like her, so she rightfully assumed that he was apart of it.


The keys were pulled from her pocket as she chirps the car, moving towards the drivers side door to open, leaving ajar so that she could swing herself across the seat to put her green tea latte into the holder.

The man seems oblivious to her, completely. It was as if he was completely focused on the spell he was not casting. The pattern of the Verucas is also very subtle- they are far more concentrated around the Starbucks. Hardly any, if any at all, in the area where the man is. But the dispersion of the appearances makes it hard to nail the pattern right away, unless you happened to be watching…

Sliding out of the car now, Veruca closes the door, harness held within her hand which is soon attached to her back. She had to play this one smart, as she does all things. While she could get into the car and leave…

She presses herself away from the car, keeping what she built open for a great escape, but also leaving the doors unlocked just in case she felt a drive would be necessary. She couldn't afford a fight, not now. People wouldn't appreciate that.

She wasn't paying attention to the pattern, didn't too much care for it. The man however, was slowly approached, her hood remaining upon her head as her terrible, cruel eyes pressed upon him. She didn't speak as she arrived, she only stood there, waiting to be noticed.

The elderly man keeps moving his fingers for a few more seconds. It is as if it takes him time to notice that someone is standing in front of him. Slowly, his head moves upwards to stare at the woman- he has a rather avuncular face, the kind that you would imagine bouncing a little niece or nephew up and down on his knees while he told ridiculous stories.

"Ah… hello my dear. Took you long enough," he says. The voice matches the face perfectly- warm, faintly scratchy.

There was a little sigh that escapes her lips as she stands, hooded, and mildly irritated. The night was supposed to end on a high note, trying on clothes, possibly hitting the night out on the town again to a show or a play. Whatever it is that they were allowed to do. Instead, she was here. Stores at her back, old man upon the bench, her brows lowering in a mild hint of anger. But her voice, it does not portray the anger that her face shows.

She just has resting bitch face, at times.

"Speak. What do you want. Tell me so I can go home." She was irritated, that was probably the only card that would be shown tonight.

"Oh… " the man looks flustered, as if surprised that this is actually happening. "Right. Right. First… best if we are private. I know just the thing- a private booth to talk-" he snaps his fingers.

A slab of concrete, about as long as the car, appears right on top of it, and collapses onto it, flattening it.

The slab would be purple and glowing- except that it is disguised by the powers of illusion, making it seem like a regular slab. There is the sound of the crunch and the shattering of glass, and oeople scream, running away from the slab that just materialized out of thing air.

"… Oh dear… oh dear, no, no no!" The man is agitated and stands up, waving his hand in the air, "Away! Away, you damned, you …"

The slab vanishes, leaving behind a car that…

Well, ask Green Arrow. He knows how it feels.

Across the street? The chameleon shifts back into something small and insectile, a millipede or worse, and dashes down the wall and across the alley and up the next building, making its way in a jerking, jinking fashion timed to the flicker of the traffic lights and the sooty gleam of the streetlights … when it stops, a tiny green weasel is mostly concealed along the vertical green stripes of an awning over one of those high priced stores selling mass-marketed designs by overpaid French designers who hate women and love to torment their feet.

Veruca's brows raise. There was no way in hell she was going anywhere with anyone alone. The last time she did that.. she was twelve. A man with a van and a plan tried to lure.. Story for another time.

She didn't turn at the first sound of the crash, instead, her eyes close, fingers pinch the bridge of her nose, a deep inhale is taken as she glances over her shoulder at the auto-carnage. Fucking. Magic. She abhors it.

"Alright.." She says, taking in a breath to stay calm. She was officially done.

"Yeah. Right. Enjoy the night, sir." And she turns her back. Her hands were shoved into her pockets, the bag stolen from it's place and tossed with expertise into the garbage. She may kill people, but at least she keeps the world feelin green and clean. Her entire night was ruined, but there may still be a pick me up waiting back at home in the form of a speed bag and swears.

"Do we move in for the take-down?" Vorpal says into his earpiece quietly. It was just the question of a well-placed Rabbit-Hole under her and she'd be on the rooftop with him. The illusion of the old man seems speechless, or embarrassed.

Oooh, that's bad car-ma, there. Gar resolves to keep the Smrt Cr completely away from Vorpal for the next month, lest it be horribly abused in retaliation by the Car Gods.

Still. If the universe were to do that repeatedly to Ms. Veruca, until it balanced out the lives she's callously snuffed, it might not be a bad thing. Why should murderers be given the reprieve of material comforts. Of course, she voluntarily drinks Starbucks, so she's clearly deranged anyway… perhaps … no, not until…

The weasel slides down a bit, and talks into a somehow-miniature communicator.

"No. We don't have a cell or a neutralizer prepared. Let her mourn for her couture."

There was a single and solitary glance back towards the man, and then a shake of her head. She lost all of the clothing she bought, and her henchmen? Lost a car. At least those suckers were out of.. aw man! Her phone! Her phones were in that car!

She passes by the wreckage, then gives it a sigh and a slump of her shoulders. "Fuckin A." She says aloud, then continues to walk a little further down the street. At least she had her harnesses, right?

Another car was soon approached, and she bends looking into the window, her hood peeled back as her hair is fixed within the reflection, her lips twitching this way and that, the taste of the green tea left on her tongue. Yeah. Traps a trap. She wasn't going to take any chances anymore.

With a lean upright and a few steps back, she rushes towards the car, the door and window itself a swirling pool of matter in which she seeks to sink herself into and turn up somewhere /else/.

"Do you think I should've been braver? Actually attack her?" Vorpal says, fading into view long after Veruca has vanished into the car door. He makes a note of that trick, to keep that in mind for when they face her. If she needs to get to a reflective surface to jump in… well, there are applications of his constructs that can take care of that.

"I mean, did we learn anything important?"

Gar checks the area they're resting in for reflective surfaces before he answers. Because, honestly, he suspects that Veruca might be a bit vindictive, and he's pretty sure this will result in more than usually strong pushback somehow.

"You should have been more circumspect, if anything. Would Sun Tzu have poked at her without the assurance that he could control the encounter?"

Oh, right. Remember to start reading Sun Tzu at night for bedtime reading. Meanwhile…

"I think we learned she's always got an out, that she's not a raving lunatic, and that she isn't easily taunted. None of these things makes me comfortable. Now, did SHE learn anything?

What did Veruca learn? Absolutely nothing! Well she did learn to just portal straight home with the bags of clothing and then possibly return for more. Price to pay in the wake of attempting to be normal, she supposes.

But she expends herself lightly, porting around, zig-zagging into Gotham, then to New York.. covering her tracks just in case she would be followed. In the end? It would take her at least three hours to get home, and a very angry Damian in wait.

"She learned that an old sorcerer sucks at spells," the cheshire volunteers. "So. She's a cold-blooded murderess, not an actual madwoman. And a mirror witch- Kate calls her Bloody Mary because of that, quaintly."

Vorpal takes a quiet breath and shakes his head. "The moment she puts you or me in her sights, though. She can come out of any reflection, if you listen to Kate. She got some sort of magic voodoo charm against it…" He rubs his hands, pursing his muzzle.

"She scares me, Gar."

"So we need to get everyone a charm? How much work is that going to take?" Gar asks. "Seriously, it reminds me of a bad guy from Super Sentai Ranger Samurai Speed Police Deployment."

Which is a show Gar was turned down for, when he attempted to get in as the Green Speed Samurai Ranger. Apparently, being green himself was simply too on-the-nose for even THAT show.

"Why did you attack once you knew she was there?"

"I didn't really attack… I just wanted to see if she could be lured out. So I used a few illusions." Vorpal sighs and sits on the edge of the roof. "She never saw the actual me. She thinks the old man I invented was behind it. I'm not that stupid…"

"So, I didn't think you were. But you engaged her without a plan for what would happen … that's pretty much cat thinking, right?"

Meanwhile back at the branch… the mutant pigeons of Gotham are discussing, among themselves, the meaning of the green intruder. They will hold off on action … for now.

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