Summary: Memory gets an assist from one of her heroes

Location: Washington Heights

Participants: Batman and Memory

Rating: PG

To her credit, five of the jerks are down for the count. Its the sixth one that's a problem. Turns out she's a meta. Low-level. Just a bit of superstrength, no need to breath, and bullet proof skin but its enough that Memory's having problems with the fight. No pressure points to hit and her mutant life support system means Memory can't use the gas on her. So, yeah. That's Memory sailing through the window out towards the street below. Fifth floor window.

In town to get the debriefing on the cosmic occurance the night before, Batman decided to get a change of scenery and does a quick rooftop tour around New York City. You come here all the time, he tells himself, and yet never look around. And yet even while touristing, he still finds trouble, as he watches a scuffle from across the street through a pair of Bat-noculars. He doesn't intervene, partially because he would rather not get involved with his shoulder still sore, and partially because the girl is putting up enough of a fight to fend off most challenges. Her tool doesn't make him too comfortable though; judging from the reactions of the baddies, it could be a variant of the Scarecrow's gas.

Of course, things go a bit pear-shaped when one of the bad guys turns out to be a meta. And when she's thrown out the window, that is Batman's cue to play hero. Shooting off a grappling hook line, he swings across the way, timing his jump so that he catches the girl with about a story and a half to go. "Hold on tight," he offers helpfully, swinging between two speeding cars before elevating again towards another rooftop. He sets the girl on her feet before taking a few steps back to give her room to get her footing.

Woosh! One moment she's falling. The next she's up against a manly man of a chest and swinging through the air. And she lands. Bang. There's a wobble and then Memory's upright, staring. "... ohmyGod you're Batman." She whispers. Because, there's no doubt this isn't some guy in a Batman costume. Who else would have this sort of... aura.

Seventeen, with platinum blonde curls, Memory looks suspiciously look a young Marilyn Monroe. Of course, that's a young Marilyn Monroe wearing a white, three piece suit with matching fedora. And a domino mask.

Batman doesn't crack a smile but he does nod his head a bit. "I'm Batman," he concurs, before adding. "And you're very lucky that I was here." He brings a hand out from behind his back, revealing a familiar fedora. He holds it forward, having snapped it from the air seconds before. "Believe this is yours."

"Thank you." Memory takes the hat and replaces it on her head, never taking her eyes off the man in black. "Umm... I have to go and finish the job. One of those nasties downstairs knows where a kidnap victim is being held. Excuse me?" She waits a moment and then runs to the roof's edge and swings off. There's no grapple line. Instead, she free climbs down the side of the building and then jumps back into the window.

Batman looks a bit surprised that she runs back into danger, after having such a near brush with death. After a moment of hestitation, he follows after the young detective, following her path back to the original building. As she arrives, he towers behind and over her, making anyone who's there know that she has back-up now.

Which brings us to a comical moment when the last remaining thugette throws in the towel. Memory does the "Really?" thing and then notices that her former attacker's eyes aren't on HER but focused behind her. "Batman's behind me, isn't he?" Memory sighs but proceeds to get the answer she's looking for. It seems just the possibility Batman might get involved loosens the tongue.

Memory slips a cellphone from her pocket and quickly thumbs through menus until she gets the number she wants. "Detective? I've found her. The old Choco Chicken warehouse by Marble Street, near the docks. Please call me when you have her? This phone will be viable for another two hours. Thank you."

Batman is there primarily for intimidating glowering, allowing the girl to do her work getting the information, and then inform the police like a good citizen. After she hangs up, he speaks again, his growl perhaps slightly less gruff than usual. "You're good at what you do," he compliments before adding. "You just need to be a bit more careful. If I hadn't been nearby..." he starts, letting her fill in the rest.

"Yeah. I.. uh... I admit, I wasn't expecting them to have a meta with them." Memory says, her cheeks burning red. "My research indicated a six man gang. I expected five here." She uses the industrial strength zipties to secure the mutant enforcer's hands behind her back and then takes a good look at the woman's face. In seconds, she's run through her memorized felon database. "... and that's why. Roxanne "the Brick" Roberts. She just got out of prison yesterday. A last minute addition to the group."

"A reasonable mistake to make," Batman says with a slight nod, again hanging back and letting her do her research. "So if you don't mind me asking, but how long have you been doing this? You seem pretty competent," he offers, which is a fairly high compliment from the gosh darn Batman, "But I don't believe I've seen you around before. Have you met with the Titans?" He might mention the girl to Nightwing, see if she might need some mentoring, or at least someone to watch her back next time she gets thrown out a window.
"A month." Memory admits, "I've been training longer." Though not by much. "Wow, you're Batman. THE Batman.. I don't know any Titans. I've met Power Woman. And she put me contact with Oracle. I'm assuming you know Oracle. How can you not? You're Batman... I'm gushing a little."

Batman doesn't seem too uncomfortable with the gushing. He's used to being recognized, though it is nice to not have 'Oh my God, it's Batman!' not accompanied for terrored fleeing. "Must be the blood rush to your head," he says, giving her an excuse other than fangirling. "And Oracle is a friend, and an ally," he says, slightly surprised that the girl wasn't mentioned. Could be the whole Jason Todd imposter has both of them distracted. "You'll excuse me though, I didn't catch your handle."

"Memory." She answers, quickly. "My grandmother was Miss Memory. She did this in the 40s. Wasn't a member of the Justice Society or any other group." A relatively "minor" mystery woman. Miss Memory fought mostly mob types during the 40s using her intelligence, skills, and a memory enhancing perfume.

Few people have as encyclopedic knowledge of 40s mystery men and women like Batman, so the legacy isn't lost. "That explains that gas I saw you shooting at the thugs earlier," he says, showing a clear familiarity with her grandmother's work. "I am hoping you plan to use it as carefully as she did."

"Memory perfume." Memory says, pulling back a sleeve to reveal her wrist mounted aresol sprayer. "In low doses, it enhances someone's memory. A concentrated dose forces someone to relive a past memory. I am careful and try not to use it unless I have to. There's a sedative in the dose but someone with powerful PTSD might overcome it."

Batman eyes the aresol dispenser, nodding his head slightly. "Reminds me of someone I know back home," he says, a slight grumble in his voice as he looks back in the girl's face. "I'm happy to report that other than that, you two have nothing in common." For one, she doesn't consider burlap to be a fashion statement. He starts to step backwards, the edge of his heels hanging over the broken windowsill; the Wayne Institute will make an anonymous donation to the landlord to pay for the cost of replacement, he mentally notes. "Believe our work here is done," he muses. "Need to be dropped off anywhere?" Its difficult to tell with his voice snarling just about everything but he SOUNDS serious.

"Umm... no. My motorcycle's outside." Memory says, though inside she wishes it wasn't because, Batmobile? Or jet or whatever. SQUEE! Still. "Oracle has a copy of the formula. Of the memory formula. If you ever need it to, I don't know, do something. I'd want it. In case I crossed the line or a villain got hold of it or something. I gave it to her. Just in case. I'm babbling again."

At that, Batman simply shakes his head a bit. "Blood rush," he reminds. "Just remember, be careful. Believe it or not, when I first started, I made mistakes. Lots of them. I was lucky to survive, and what I learned from those mistakes is what helped me become better," he says. Its a bit cliche, but he also sounds earnest. "Good luck Memory. You are...gifted, to say the least. But remember: there is always more to learn."

"Tell me about it. I read at least a thousand pages of text a day and there's always more." Memory says. She grins, though. Because, hey, BATMAN just complimented her. HER! "I guess I should go. Umm... thank you. For saving my life." She inches back towards the door, gropes back, opens it, steps out, closes it. Then opens it again, popping her head in. "Wow. Batman. Wicked." Then she closes the door again. The bike ride home? She'll have TWO processes replaying this particular encounter!

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