Stranger Danger!

August 28, 2017:

Two of Gotham's vigilantes fall onto the trail of Emery Papsworth's car being tailed.


NPCs: None.



Mood Music: None.

Fade In…

The drive back from New York isn't always a terribly long one, but there's plenty of bridges and traffic in the final hours of Monday's working hours. Congested traffic blocks the highway and with the addition of an accident on the road and zero detours to be had, it isn't until the onset of darkness that the road permits Emery's return to Gotham City.

The Real Estate Agent has texted an award-winning seven times, waiting with electronic tablet and oversized purse in the lobby of a luxury apartment building called the "Admiral's Arms" near Gotham's swanky Chelsea District. Well lit. Relatively safe in Gotham terms. Expensive. The extra finder's fee for a clinched deal is more than enough to keep the agent waiting.

But as Emery's car slips into Gotham and into the city proper, one black sedan that has been six cars back since Manhattan is joined by a singular headlight of a motorcycle.

Emery Papsworth is attracting a train of mysterious figures.


When one has spent a large percentage of their lives following others or being followed. There's this tingle in the back of your neck, an aura of discomfort about your shoulders. Professionalism keeps you from looking around yourself like a paranoid idiot. But it comes with the life. And one must keep living.

Emery cruises along comfortably in a sleek dark green 1967 mustang, black leather interior. Pat Benatar belting out 'We are strong!' at a low volume as the Irishman subtly headbangs to the rhythm of the music, occasionally singing along shamelessly. His hair is still slightly damp so hanging in natural waves and brushing his collar, he's tossed on a dark black leather jacket over a well pressed cream colored button down, his black jeans fitted as usual and dark brown boots on his feet. The texts from the Real Estate agent got a late response mostly because he had to jump in the shower, get dressed…promise a 5 year old that he would be back…but the message 'Almost There, 15 mins max' texted about 10 minutes ago was sent.

He noted the damn sedan, occasionally glancing up at his rearview mirror. He even changed lanes a few time since he's been driving. But now, he starts to slow down, steering the car over to a random side street much to the distress of his GPS, and idling there. Watching that mirror. He is back in gotham, so he's got a black duffle bag in his back seat and he wears his hidden sheathes under that leather jacket, narrowing his eyes as he grips the steering wheel.


"-No one can tell us we're wrong."
"Searching our hearts for so-AT THE NEXT LIGHT, TAKE A LEFT."

Not only does Emery's GPS protests, but it protests over the din on Pat Benetar's neverending tales of teenaged rebellion and independence. When the pleasant, if not slightly sexy enough to toe the edge of sanitary, GPS voice cuts off, the music returns. The simple, single bass-kicks of the eighties concuss through the speakers…providing ample background music to the rear-view display Emery keeps of the traffic behind him.

After the fourth second passes, the Black Toyota Camry slows to a stop and turns down the street. The windows are tinted and its headlights wave a path around the corner until they illuminate the one thing they've been following for nearly a half hour: That Ireland-shaded muscle car.

For a second, the sedan doesn't seem to know whether it should slow down or continue past Emery's vehicle. It coasts a few feet after the turn…then pulls over to the side of the road to idle.

Behind it, in the mirror, a swath of long, blonde hair in a leather jacket, faint in the distance, idles as well at the cusp of the corner.


"Oh, SHADDUP ye bossy wench…"

Some people argue with their GPS's, Emery is one of those people but he can murmur softly under his breath..

"Love is a battlefield…"

And it is, in so many ways. A glance flicks to the smiling picture of the young girl that is the reason for his whole existence( and then that dark gaze flicks back to the rear view window. "Keep goin'…Keep goin'…"

When the Black Camry pulls over, Emery's eyes roll up towards the black ceiling of his car as if asking for divine intervention, lips pulling back in a grimace. "Goddamnit." Another pause and he utters another explicative under his breath.

Then he just kills his engine, pulling the keys from the ignition and turning off his lights.


If love is a battlefield, then Gotham must be more romantic than Venice. Oozing at the gills with love since its founding.

The windshield of the Camry is clear enough to see the two hazy figures within, unmoving and watching, but be it a trick of the light or excellent vision, one seems to throw his hands up when the Mustang shuts off. With no move left other than to end the facade or pass on by, the Camry rocks gently as the gearshift is manhandled, and it begins to roll forward, once more.

The Black Camry, common and uninspiring in design enough to be a decent choice for assassins and hired thugs, passes the Mustang on the left for a slow creep by, black windows with the overt implication of intimidation. It waits until the front windows have crossed over the threshold, then the driver guns it…propelling the dark vehicle towards the dimly lit streets that run alongside the city's train system.

The long blonde hair flows as the motorcycle, too, chooses this time to put on some speed. The front tire lifts just a little and the unmistakable boom of a Harley rattles off of the windows, moving at a rush to follow.


It is only when that Camry starts rolling forward that Emery slips the keys back in the ignition, turning sloooowly as the car starts. He doesn't turn the lights on yet though, but the rumble of the car is distinct enough. He tugs a cigarette free from a breast pocket, placing it between his lips as he just watches that Camry pass by slowly, sinking down slightly reflexively as it passes.
hen he double takes where he was watching out that passenger window to see the motorcycle rushes off after the Camry as well. With a roll of his eyes he, shifts the car into Drive, pulling out and following after the motorcycle and the Camry.


It is only when that Camry starts rolling forward that Emery slips the keys back in the ignition, turning sloooowly as the car starts. He doesn't turn the lights on yet though, but the rumble of the car is distinct enough. He tugs a cigarette free from a breast pocket, placing it between his lips as he just watches that Camry pass by slowly, sinking down slightly reflexively as it passes.

Then he double takes where he was watching out that passenger window to see the motorcycle rushes off after the Camry as well. With a roll of his eyes he, shifts the car into Drive, pulling out and following after the motorcycle and the Camry.


The Harley's engine rattles the Mustang's poor window as it closes the distance, slipping around the parked vehicle in a threading weave. By the time Emery starts his engine, whoever is driving the Camry sees the woman too, as engines suck at gasoline and internal combustion engines are set loose to floored throttles.

Fishnets. About a mile of them, ending in cuffed boots and tucking into some kind of bodice. Where the leather jacket isn't being buffeted by her long blonde hair, the driver of the motorcycle's back is awash in Emery's headlights, much to her own surprise. Even though she's chasing down the Camry, the woman jerks her chin over her shoulder to look through the front of Emery's windshield…

…blue eyes caked over in dark eye makeup, smeared in a line, and covered by a leather domino mask. One of Gotham's urban legends meets eyes with the man, all before she twists her wrist and rockets to ride alongside the Camry.

The baton crashes against the Camry's window…shattering it.


The Irishman's eyes widen slightly as his headlights turn on and illuminate the woman in front of him, gaze taking in the boots, and fishnets and then he sits back when she looks over his shoulder at him, eyebrows raising and lips parting to allow that cigarette to drop into his lap. "What the sweet baby…"

CRASH, glass is shattered by the baton and from within the Mustang the sound is echoed quietly in the Mustang by Emery's incredulous, "…Jaysus." And he slams on the breaks, the mustang screeching to a stop.

And in perfect timing that iconic drum intro starts playing to lead into Pat Benatar's "…your love is like a tidal wave…"~

Cigarette is retrieved from lap and slowly brought back to his lips.


The Black Canary wastes no time in sticking the baton into the cuff of her boot and reaching into her leather jacket. Ruby red lips flash and bark harsh instructions through the shattered window of the wavering vehicle. Her fist comes swinging back out of her jacket to hold up a slim, black device that *FLASHES* into the Camry.

The motorcycle lays off the speed, and the other car is left to race off into the night alone with an air-kiss of lips and an upturned middle finger cast their way. Black polish to match the jacket.

Then, without warning or preamble, the matte-black Harley Davidson does a U-Turn and races forward on a course directly towards the hood ornament of Emery's Mustang. Only this time, her fingers press down on the brakes and she rolls to a stop, jamming her boot down to let the kickstand into place.

"Hey!" Black fingertips flap as the blonde swings one leg off of her motorcycle and begins to approach the driver side window. Lips pleasant and reserved in her greeting, there's a twitch of perturbed, fireplug blonde on her brow. "Heartbreaker, you got a second to have a heart to heart?"


The Cigarette remains unlit for now, just removed from between his lips and tucked behind an ear as he watches what transpires. "…what do they feed these Gotham Wimmen?" Its a legitimate question, as he recovers from his surprise, shaking his head slowly.

Emery does runs his fingers through his hair, pulling it out of his face and resting his other hand on the steering wheel. He's narrowing his eyes as the Harley starts /heading back in his direction/. Hand dropping in preparation to slam the car into reverse, but he just pauses with his hand hovering over the gear shift. That hand then moves to turn the volume of the radio down.

"Well…hello officer, how are ye this evening?" Comes the melodic lilt of his motherland and Emery's eyebrows raise a fraction as he rolls the window down slowly.


Black Canary can't help but grin. The Irishman's words bunch up one cheek in a dimple as she finishes her long-legged walk, hips rocking only due to the necessity of the heel on her boots. Fishnets and leather or not, the way she tugs the phone out of her wrist and turns it on is more coplike than anything.

She turns a knuckle over to graze it over the curves of the Mustang, appreciatively, all of the way to Emery's window.

"I am all kinds of peaches and cream and for you and your accent's sake, fresh out of field sobriety test swag." Her voice is dry, sarcastic, but decidedly as American as a baseball bat. Her heels clap to a stop beside his window, and with a dip, her blue eyes stare down at his. "Better question is how are yuh?" She mimics his accent. "Because whoever those guys were, I didn't see copies of the Watchtower inside of their vehicle, so for whatever reason they followed you all of the way since the White Castle on eighty-sixth, it wasn't to save your soul."


While that knuckle is grazing appreciatively over the curves of Maggie the Mustang…Emery's eyes appreciatively travel over the curves of the approaching blonde, head tilting back a bit as he catches his bottom lip between his teeth.

Dark brown eyes meet blue and an eyebrow raises slowly before he flashes a grin, his dimples coming out to play as he chuckles softly. But the question causes him to look over his shoulder at the rear window and then back to the stranger. "Mm, they were probably either tryin' to spook me or kill me. It happens from time to time." He shrugs helplessly. "I tink it is somethin' about the accent…"


One blue eye, framed in black paint behind the domino mask, narrows coyly at their trade in dimples. One half of her face stretches one way, the other tugs with her lip in a catlike smirk to Emery, flashing a sliver of teeth to the man in appreciation. "Damn, I didn't have to have to threaten you with waterboarding or anything. Maybe this city really is getting better."

A laugh escapes the blonde as she rocks back away from the window, righting to her full height in a sloped look down to Emery, keeping her eye on him. The utility belt and closed zipper of her one-piece stretches as she rakes a finger through her hair, then comes down again, cell phone in hand.

"I'm gonna be straight with you, a'aight?" She looks down to him, smile halted in reserve. "We've had shootings outside of churches and then I see this beautiful baby girl of a Mustang getting followed, and at least one of those guys in that car looked like Ron Weasley's cousin. So…" The wind-up ends, the pitch is thrown. "…you the good guy or the bad guy in this situation? What were they after you for?"


"Oh Angel…in those boots ye could threaten me with a good paddlin' and I'd just ask for more." Emery drawls softly, putting the car in park so his foot can relax on the brake pedal. A look goes to her utility belt before traveling back up to her face. "M' sure ye 'ave a tool or toy for every situation."

Then he nods slowly at the earnest inquiry, a split second as he makes a decision and he bobs his head again. "Maggie is a beauty isn't she?" He muses this over as he considers how to best response. "I'm a professional Butler and certified Personal Assistant. I'm damn good at it miss. But ye see tings in my profession. Know tings. We all go through tings we're not proud of, but I moved to this Country of Freedom and Fried Foods and Flags with the only truly good ting I've ever done in me life…" He slips his phone from its dashboard holder to swipe it open and tap in a code, then holds up the picture of his daughter.

"I've a feelin' they want to take it from me."


"Believe me, I've given out plenty of paddlins with cast iron skillets and two by fours, Heartbreaker," The Canary is used to being flirted with. Deathstroke the Terminator himself said that she dresses like a cabaret girl. Almost every single time, until the handspring and a knee to the face, it's whistles and cat-calls. It makes Dinah smile, but knowing the day the catcalls end is a day she'll have to rethink her five year plan. "But you're getting a pass for calling me Angel. Warning. No ticket."

Suddenly reminded of her boots, Canary holds up a finger and dips like a curtsy, gripping the baton stuffed into her boot. She cracks it against the floor once, turning it into a single, short tube, and stuffs it in her belt.

"She's a beauty; I don't know if I'd have the heart to take her on the highway for fear of the city traffic." Dinah continues, busying herself with tucking a lock of her hair behind her ear and dipping to place herself at eye level with the window once more. All of the talk of butlers and fried food flies through one ear and out the other when she comes face to face with a picture of a little girl.

Dinah blinks her blue eyes, looks to Emery, then to the picture again. A gentle huff storms through her nostrils and she looks up and down the street, blonde hair swaying.

"Well that's not going to happen, not while you're in Gotham. We don't let little girls get kidnapped, not on my watch." Canary lowers her tone to sympathy. Sympathy that threatens sarcasm once the moment is ruined. "If you lead me by where you and your little girl are staying I can keep my eyes open, if that would help."


The Irishman watches Canary with a wary appreciation, when the baton comes out, he tracks its journey to her belt before he gives the steering wheel a tiny pat. "She's a risky girl, my Maggie. loves to be takin' out for a spin…"

But now focus is on the picture of the girl and he smiles, almost sadly as he takes a deep breath. "Mm. I've not even been in this country for a week, and I've been shot at by the bloody mafia and tailed by god knows who…is Gotham really the safest place to bring up a wee one?"

He looks ahead in the direction the Camry went, body tensing up with the reflex to pursuit and eliminate the threat but he relaxes slowly, taking a deep breath."Well, I was in the city to check out some place…"


Long legs, fishnets, boots, leather jacket and streams of honey-wheat blonde hair? If it weren't for the domino mask and the parked motorcycle, the picture of Black Canary standing in the street next to the driver's side door of Emery's green, vinage Mustang would seem suspicious. With her head pointed downwards, though, the domino mask cannot be seen, but the wealth of shattered glass up the road from them and the black smudges of peeled-out tires are just as suspicious.

"Well, if Maggie and your daughter don't want to be an easy follow, Maggie might have to hang out in the garage for a while, know what I'm saying?" Canary taps her knuckles against the rubberized lip that holds the rolled-down window. "And if you're in this kind of trouble…"

Canary glances down the street and then leans her palm against the well of the door for balance. Heels. Ugh.

"…you're probably safer here in a place they wouldn't suspect than somewhere nice." Canary continues, glancing at the picture of the little girl once more, then steeling her eyes from looking at it ever, ever again. "DA's usually give witness protection to people who testify, but unless you've got something worth their while, changing your last name to Smith and moving to Nebraska probably isn't happening."

The Black Canary shifts her weight from one hip to the other, then levels a stare at the man.

"I'm willing to help you for her sake," Dinah narrows her eyes. "But if you turn out to be bad news, it's still gonna be for her sake, alright?" A beat. "You're a grown-ass man who drives a 'stang."


Emery is 'safely' in the 1967 dark green Mustang that he's named 'Maggie' because that's original. The Irishman just sighs softly. "Happens to be the only car I still had stored in this Country. I'll see about new wheels." He waves a hand vaguely and shrugs a shoulder. He probably purchased the car in the 60s or 70s but that's just ancient history at this point.

He hmms thoughtfully. "Ye 'ave a point." He idly scratches his cheek, head turning to meet that stare from Black Canary, a smile tugging at his lips. "Everyting I do is for her sake." He murmurs softly, taking a deep breath.

His eyes drift back to his front windshield, in the direction the Camry went. "Aye, I'm a grown-ass man who drives a 'stang. You're a beautiful angel who has a Harley. I approve, it works wit' the whole…badarse ting."


"Good." Canary sharply nods her head, giving the wall above his head a gentle pat with her palm. Fingertips lift away from the hood. Metal has a habit of leaving fingerprint-shaped smudges. "That kind of attitude and a little extra flattery from the local help goes along way in the right direction. Now I'm just going to need to get some information from you."

Canary's blonde hair sways over her leatherclad shoulders with a kicked up breeze. Her cheek tugs in a returned smile, paired with eyes that sharpen for another second of scrutiny. She points her finger between his eyes, a silent warning.

"What, you mean I make the bike look like a badass? I know that's what you meant. I'm sure she appreciates the kind words, you dark eyed Slytherin." Dinah stuffs her knuckles into the inner breast pocket of her jacket, pulling out a small computerized tablet wrapped in the world's most aggressive OtterBox. She waggles her fingers, cracks a few knuckles, then plucks the stylus from the tablet's side. "Your name, phone number, important addresses, you know the drill."




Men with guns…?

Normal? Check. No colors nor markings that concern Huntress.

But what or who are they running from, is a thing that brings a black booted toe to the pavement from the foothold beside the folded and contoured accent of chassis cover upon her motorcycle. The plates are dealer, registered to a false identification and name, as Huntress is test driving specs that are close to what she may have custom integrated, if not upgraded. So once the ….

Camry? Really? Rent-a-thug 'cheap'?

Yeah, the family sedan of fuel efficiency passes and the headlightof the Aprilia RSV4 cuts a light through darkness leaving track-smoke behind, rumbling forward and then lowering in throttle to follow the escape route marked in burnt rubber.

Backtrack is easy when it is left in trails of skid-marks and the ammonia smell of 'cheap' thugs in the face of…

At the end of the block where Canary and Emery pause, her single lamp reflects back, causing Canary's figure to silhouette in curvature along the side of the Muscle 'Stang.

A rock of deep purple gloves revs that Italian modified motor, slowly progressing proximity to reveal the side of the duo to a clearer picture, while the woman in black, midnight violet, and a marking of white peeking from plexus to 'cross' over her chest. A mask framed in waves of long black…

"Not at all what I expected to see scaring off the Economically Friendly Gangsters."


Inhale…2..3..4. Emery takes a nice, natural breath and exhales a breathy chuckle, hand pressing over his heart. "Aye…that's exactly what I meant miss." He reaches into his inner jacket pocket to slip out a sleek black business card with his Name, Number, Email and such on it. "Emery Papsworth, at your Service." His introduction is delivered with a polished tonality that sounds more in place in England, posh and proper like.

Then his natural accent creeps back in as he offers the card through the window, rattling off his digits as he's momentarily distracted.

Its professional wariness that has him aware of the light from yonder Aprilia breaks, and he squints towards the light and the faint sound, even though there's little clarity in his mind of who it might be. "Ye dun be havin' a twin that's about to come out of no where and play bad cop, right?"


EXACTLY what he meant. Of course. Black Canary understanding so well is likely EXACTLY why she laughs and pinches his business card between two fingers. "Emery Papsworth," She repeats lowly, slipping the card and her tablet back into her coat. "And you said that you're a butler? I can see it all so cl-"

That isn't the rumble to Canary's motorcycle. No, she knows every purr, every beg, every groan out of her own ironhorse. The arrival of another cycle coming their way has her looking down her shoulder, away from Emery.

Canary's shadow may be cast against the Mustang, but the half-moon coverage over her backside, lined in fishnet, gets the forefront heat of the headlighs. The dangling buckles and zippers jingle as, slowly, she rises and turns, hip against the car's closed door, to take in the sight of the masked woman. The OTHER masked woman.

"That would be a hell of a plot twist if it was your birthday wasn't it? Spoilers? No." Dinah replies to Emery quickly and turns her chin upwards, eyes sweeping the Huntress curiously. "Is that a compliment?" Dinah calls out to the woman. "I guess it depends if they were your economically friendly friends?"


The lowering of a boot has the stand 'kicked' down by the heel of a boot. Black, strapped wih purple lashes of criss-crossing that end high upon thighs in a small buckle and /tongue/, looping beneath a metal hold to keep small tac-puches upon the rim where metal padding and plating covers joins to protect and pad impact points where the Yang to the Yin ~curves~ against the lights of the vehicle gathering in the middle of a street with no regard to any possible traffic.

Where canary has netting upon upper thigh to posterior, Huntress has none, tanned thighs, a lift to hips left exposed until the cut of stretched black pleather (though kev;ar reinforced).

"No friends of mine, and by the smell… None of yours?" A flare of nostrils while pale blue eyes framed in a spired masque(rade) look upon the two. "What was their crime? Aside from bad taste…" A slide of gaze to the Harley, the Mustang, the -Butler-. "And fines for the West Coast Hippies?" Were their guns cheap too?



"Ah. Close…enough." Comes the Butlers response to a birthday fantasy spoiled as the Huntress comes into view. Eyes track from her bike to her boots, up those…legs and further up to the mask.

Emery just looks between the two, back and forth and forth and back. There is a slight tilt of his head as he studies familiar curves of the one in black and purple. Nooo…could not be. "This kind lady those tasteless goons following me, miss, and chased them off."

When all else fails, be the dude in distress. "Dunno what would've happened if she hadn't come along to scare them off…" He drawls softly. "This city..filled with gorgeous women hellbent on saving my ass. That was not on the travel guide."


"Friends of mine? If they were, smashing in their window to get a picture of two surprised assholes didn't win me any awards." Emery Papsworth is front seat to a brief showdown of the two long-legged women. Gotham doesn't have any shortage of fighting crime, even less with mostly bared legs, and for a moment there, Dinah thought she was the only other one. So, the appraisal she gives the Huntress is on some level, weighing their choice in attire. "It's like he says. Bad men harassing a father who needed their cage rattled."

Canary grabs the lapels of her jacket and tugs them into place. She steps over a crack in the pavement, careful of her short heel, and turns sideways to Huntress. The black smears of her eyes behind her mask never leave the woman, even as she waves a hand to introduce the man in the Mustang to her.

"Sweet of you to say, but hellbent to save your daughter's ass, Emery. Saving you is a fringe benny." Canary throws in the dry humor, free of charge. "He was being tailed and his kid's in trouble. I was just explaining to this gentleman here that the people who watch over Gotham don't take kindly to that." Canary drops her eyes to Emery, then tilts her head, and eyes, to Huntress. "We're not about to scrap, are we? Can we just get that question out of the way, first?"


There is an evident pause, Huntress' decision to dismount her Aprilia brought to a screeching halt. A scrape of heavily 'cleated' sole along pavement drags that kick-stand back up and into place.

There may have been a moment of 'scrap'ping, but there is a recognition in that deep blue gaze lined in shadowed plum, even if diverted. Gotham is not that small, but everything..

Canary gets a shift from periphery, a flash if ice against the shadows painted on lids, a norrowed inset of sapphire to light a trail of flames her way…
.. a kindling that dies on the note of a child.

The engine bolsters in a twist of wrist, feet lifting to come off the street of burnout and a frat level of expulsion.

"Gotham is the safest place for children…" A pause as the motorcycle slowly rolls behind the duo, the concave inhale upon abdomen shadowing in an arch of spine that shows a moment of true pause and repent while those eyes burn over the duo.

"At least now." And from idle that engine passes rice-burner levels to a 'flip-of-switch', rumble.

"Save it for later." A pause upon Canary, slowly in passing that goes from boots to Blonde, lingering to the Irish In The Window over leather coated shoulder. Opposing hand holsters a crossbow beneath a cape of plum with "silver lining".

If able that card Emery passes to Canary is taken before Huntress speeds off!
But that Harley? Plate numbers are memorized…


"Mmhm. I'll take it." Is offered by the dark haired Butler in response to being an added benny. Oh if things were as simple as he is painting them. Emery however has a part to play and play it he does. "I can rest easy now knowing me daughter has atleast one or two other people looking out for her…."

Then Huntress is echoing the Gotham being a safe place for kids thing now and Emery has not slept in 72 hours and his headache is oncoming. Another card is offered to Canary as Huntress speeds off. "Call…me sometime beautiful….if you need anyting, anyting at all, I owe you one."


Black Canary has just taken the business card out of her pocket to hold up it for Huntress to see. A little bit 'cat that ate the canary' on her face. Bare leg to fishnet. Blonde to brunette. Rice burner to Harley. The little game of show and tell has Black Canary feeling like the top dog up until the point the Huntress speeds off with the snatching of the business card from her fingertips.


But when the Huntress looks back to her motorcycle, she'll see a sheet of black and a definite vehicle violation at the sheet of black where a license plate should be. The Canary spins on her heel to watch the woman race off.

"You know, Emery Papsworth, all things considered? I kind of dig her vibe." Snap! Canary plucks the card from his fingertips and offers him her back as she walks towards her motorcycle, heels clicking on the pavement. "Within twenty-four hours you'll be getting a message with a phone number, Irish. If things start catching on fire, I want you to call that number." There's a hint of grin in the way she waves over her back to Emery, then swings over and kickstarts her Harley.

"You'll end up owing me plenty come New Year's."

Black Canary doesn't bother to hide the loud of her engine in the way she roars off into the dark.

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