eliyes

Title: Merry Messenger
Summary: An early encounter between Piper and Trickster.

Hartley Rathaway was hard at work. Few people realised how much preparation the Pied Piper criminal capers required in the way of researching the sonic frequencies and patterns to cause his trademark musical hypnotics and physical effects, and building the specialized instruments that produced them. Jailtime (and jailbreaking) weren't the only reasons there were such gaps between his illegal activities. At the moment, it was the latter, more mechanical aspect of his prep work that had his attention. He'd had this nifty idea...

He was so thoroughly engrossed in his tinkering that he hadn't bothered to get up and put on a new musical selection when the last one ended. He didn't even realise that he'd begun hearing music again until he noticed that he was tapping his foot.

Startled, the Pied Piper looked up. A sprightly, cheerful tune was playing on a single instrument -- in a range most humans couldn't hear. And it was coming from -- he turned this way and that, like a receiver dish seeking the clearest angle of broadcast.

-- it was coming from outside and above --

Hartley carefully set down his tools and trotted over to the window, hoping this wasn't another damned alien invasion. (Not that he didn't appreciate Flash being kept busy while he went about his business, but really now.) He unhitched the lock and slid aside the right-hand sash of the window, then cautiously stuck his head out.

The first thing he saw was a blue jester shoe at the end of a stripey-legging-clad leg. He blinked.

The Trickster was sitting midair outside his apartment window, one ankle casually crossing the opposite knee, playing what looked like a tiny tin whistle.

Hartley made an inarticulate noise, and the music stopped as the man gaining a reputation as 'the laughing Rogue' lowered the pipe and grinned at him.

Inarticulate noises being embarrassing, Hartley tried again to speak.

"Is that-- are you--"

"Modified from a dog whistle," said Trickster. "No offense."

"Can you hear that?"

"No, but you can, which was the point. Catch." Trickster tossed him the pipe, and Hartley (somewhat to his own amazement) caught it and looked it over.

"...This isn't bad work," he had to admit.

"Gee, thanks," Trickster replied, voice closer. "You want I should come in, or stay outside for the whole world to see?" He had moved down a bit and now had one foot on the windowsill. Hartley blinked again, and immediately saw the wisdom of not having costumed criminal types hanging out around his location if he wanted it kept secret.

"Oh, by all means, come in before someone thinks to look up." He stepped back to give him space as Trickster climbed in. "To what do I owe the pleasure?"

Trickster chuckled, turning to shut the window. "I like the way you say that. Polite-like, but wry without being --" He grunted. "-- snide -- hey, what gives with this window?"

Hartley slipped Trickster's pipe into a pocket, nudging him aside. "It sticks." He gave the lintel a solid thump and pulled the sash to, then locked it. Turning, he raised an eyebrow. "You gonna answer my question? And stay away from my workbench."

Trickster held up both hands and veered instead towards the couch.

"Sorry! Professional curiosity."

Hartley crossed his arms.

"Right! Well, Cold sent me." Trickster chuckled again. "Actually, he bet me a century note I couldn't get your attention. Apparently you have a rep for being, um, unsociable when you're in the midst of creation!" He gestured to the forbidden workbench with one outflung hand, then laced his fingers over his belly. "It wasn't so tricky, once I thought it over."

Grudgingly, Hartley came over and perched on the arm of the chair opposite his guest. "Yes, and how did you play that when you couldn't hear it?"

"Practiced on something I could hear, naturally."

"Oh, naturally."

Trickster grinned. "You're real posh, y'know that?" He wriggled his shoulders against the back of the couch like a pleased puppy. "You want to hear the pitch now? 'Cause I could chitchat like this a while longer, no problem."

Hartley considered the question -- or more accurately, considered the man posing it. It was an interesting subject...

"I wasn't aware you worked for the Captain," he essayed.

"With, not for." Trickster shrugged. "Now and then. Sometimes he comes up with a group caper that sounds like a real gas to be in on."

"And being in on, he expects people to say 'how high' when he says 'jump'."

"Naw, you gotta say 'what's in it for me'," Trickster informed him, smile turning into something confident and ...something else, something almost dangerous... "But then, we've already established that I can jump higher'n he can shoot." He shrugged, and that hint of danger disappeared again, shuffled back behind his face like a card trick. Now you see it, now you don't.

"So what's the pitch?"

Trickster spread his hands apologetically. "Well, my pitch is you put on your fighting togs and come with me so Cold can give you his pitch, me being just a messenger boy and all. He didn't expect I could get you to talk to me, so if you get involved, the plan changes."

Hartley snorted and stood.

"Not by much, I'm sure. His plans usually involve me providing cover, keeping away complications like guards and police. Leaves me in the lurch with no loot if the getaway falls through."

"Repeat after me: 'what's in it for me?'"

"'What's in it for me'," Hartley parroted affably.

Trickster leaned forward. "A hell of a take if we pull it off."

Intrigued despite himself, Hartley chewed his lip for a moment and thought. Unfortunately, knowing Cold's methods, there was a probable snag. He sighed.

"This thing happening before the seventh?"

"We-ell..."

"Yes or no."

Trickster seemed to hear that he was serious, cocking his head.

"Likely."

"Then I must regretfully decline."

"Another job?" Trickster asked, but Hartley shook his head.

"No. Something personal." His sister's birthday, not that he had any intention of saying so.

Trickster eyed him for a moment, then apparently accepted that he was telling the truth, and sighed gustily. "Ah, damn." He clapped his hands on his knees and then stood.

Amused, Hartley prodded, "What, you can't be so disappointed to not lose part of the cut to me," as he led Trickster back to the window.

"Well, not really. But if I don't bring you back, Cold will never believe I got you to talk to me, and I won't get that hundred bucks!"

Hartley snickered, sliding the window open. "I'd send you with a note, but he'd just accuse you of forging it."

"Probably," Trickster said morosely as he stepped over the sill into the night air. "Ah, well." He brightened slightly. "At least I can repeat the trick!" He held up a hand, where something shiny twirled between his fingers. It looked just like the pipe he'd tossed Hartley earlier.

"You made two?"

"Nope!" Trickster skipped away through the sky, playing a bouncy version of 'For He's A Jolly Good Fellow' as the only man who could hear it stuck his hands in his pockets, discovered they'd been picked -- and, after a pause, started laughing.

Cross-posted to