13 Nightling Against the Shrink

As the police cruiser meandered its way through the maze of vehicles dotting the NYPD parking lot, Nightling retracted his booted feet from the dashboard, the worn leather of the seat creaking under his shifting weight. He scanned the surroundings, a touch of curiosity flickering in his dark eyes. He hadn't been bluffing when he'd quipped about his unfamiliarity with the station. In truth, most of his daylight hours were spent navigating the perils of high school, not law enforcement complexes. Plus, as Nightling, his powers had always ensured his encounters with the police were fleeting, at best.

Just as Captain George, a grizzled veteran with a penchant for strong coffee and stronger words, managed to coax the cruiser into a snug parking spot, Nightling was already in motion. The door popped open with an audible creak, and he hopped out, landing with cat-like grace on the asphalt.

The effect on the officers nearby was immediate and dramatic. Eyes widened in surprise, a chorus of shocked exclamations echoed around, and firearms materialized in hands quicker than a magician's final act. It was as if a phantom had suddenly materialized in their midst.

Captain George, now emerging from his cruiser, caught the spectacle. His weathered face was unreadable as he glanced at Nightling, then at the assemblage of wide-eyed officers. The shake of his head was slight but clear, serving as a silent admonition to his subordinates. As if to say, 'Easy boys, there is no need to get into an altercation we are likely to lose.' His warning carried the unspoken weight of experience, urging them not to escalate the situation further.

As the officers reluctantly lowered their weapons, they kept their fingers hovering over the holsters, maintaining their 'ready-for-action' pose, looking like they were about to break into a slightly tense interpretive dance at any moment.

"Alright Captain! Do the uh... arrest process on me. I want the whole shebang, the full monty!' Nightling announced, as if he was ordering off a menu at a theme restaurant. 'You can even set me up with a good cop, bad cop routine - or in this place, probably more like a mediocre cop, and another mediocre cop routine, but hey, I'm easy. Just remember, you only got two hours, so make it snappy. Keep it lively. Juggle something if you have to!" His tone was a blend of mockery and barely concealed amusement.

With that, Nightling began to saunter towards the entrance of the station. He moved with a sense of unearned familiarity, like a dog casually making its way to its favorite hydrant, his handcuffed hands swinging cheerfully in front of him.

The station doors swung open, and Nightling entered, grinning like a kid on a field trip. Behind him, Captain George sighed and massaged his neck, his expression that of a parent who'd just found their kid finger-painting on the living room wall, but the 'paint' was blood...

As they entered the gloomy station, the officers watched Nightling with a mix of fear, respect, and a dash of bewilderment. How often do you see a literal creature of the night sashaying through your workspace, demanding to be arrested 'for the experience'? The answer: not often. Well, unless you worked at this precinct, of course.

Captain George, his face a portrait of resignation, followed Nightling into the station. It was shaping up to be another one of those 'only in New York' kind of days, and it was barely past 12 PM.

Navigating through the buzzing station, Nightling soaked in the experience with all the glee of a themepark goer. First stop, a mugshot - 'say cheese!' - that was now probably going to be the station's unofficial 'meme of the month'. Then came the fingerprinting, which turned out to be a bit of a fiasco, thanks to his fancy shadow gloves refusing to cooperate.

Finally, for the grand finale, they ushered him into the infamous interrogation room. Nightling, ever the performer, casually reclined in the chair, boots up on the table, looking as at ease as a cat sunning itself on a windowsill.

"Captain, are you sure this is safe…" an officer asked George, eyes darting nervously to Nightling who was now inspecting his nails with exaggerated interest inside the interrogation room, only separated from them by a one-way window. This wasn't just any officer, it was the officer George had mentioned earlier to Luke and Max - the one with the beaming smile and the tales of domestic bliss with his partner.

"Safe? Not a chance," Captain George replied, watching Nightling as though he were a particularly unpredictable breed of exotic snake. "But it's safer for the public if he's in here making our lives miserable rather than out there doing... whatever it is he does."

"Any sightings of Spider-Woman?" George asked, turning back to the officer who appeared to be a twitch away from a full-blown panic attack.

"A few," he replied, swallowing nervously. "We can't get in touch with her though. She's... she's doing that thing she does where she zips through traffic like a caffeinated hummingbird. I swear, she's going to have nine lives before she's through."

George let out an exhausted sigh, rubbing the bridge of his nose. "Don't get an interrogator," he finally said, turning to the officer. "Bring in a shrink. Might as well use this situation to find out how that darkness-infused head of his works..."

It wasn't the first time someone had tried to psychoanalyze Nightling, and it likely wouldn't be the last. But it was the first time he'd been subjected to it while snacking on police station vending machine chips, maybe psychoanalyzing him might have a result when they can actually ask him questions, so there was that to look forward to.

A smidge over twenty minutes later, the door creaked open and a woman sauntered in. She was probably in her early 40s, but seemed to be aging as gracefully as a Hollywood starlet. With her air of composed professionalism, she was a stark contrast to the room's current inhabitant, who was halfway through his bag of vending machine chips.

"Hello, I'm Ms. Parker. I'll be trying to delve into the enigma that is your mind today. Care for a pastry before we dive into your subconscious?" She offered, her smile warmer than a July afternoon.

Nightling took in her smart attire and soft-spoken manner. "You don't look like a cop…" he commented, a bit suspiciously.

Her smile never wavered. "I'm a bit like a substitute teacher. The department calls me in when they need a break from chasing their own tails. Your case...it's a special one." Her tone remained cordial, but her eyes were as sharp as a hawk's.

"Cool. Do your thing, Doc," Nightling said nonchalantly, sliding back into his 'I couldn't care less' pose, and rattling his chip bag for good measure.

As Ms. Parker looked at him, he gave her his best bored teenager look, followed by an impressive burp. Yep, this was going to be an interesting session, to say the least.

"Let's startwith the basics. Could I have your name?" Ms. Parker asked, settling down on her chair. She smoothly retrieved a professional-looking notepad and a pen from her bag.

"Nightling, but my friends call me--just joking! Did you seriously think I was going to reveal my secret identity?" Nightling's laughter echoed in the plain interrogation room, bouncing off the sterile white walls.

Unfazed by his response, Ms. Parker retained her patient smile. "Hardly, I just wanted to start with something light. Now, is there anything you'd like to discuss before we delve deeper?"

She paused, pen at the ready above her notepad. Nightling, however, casually popped a chip into his mouth, savoring the crunch before offering a reply. His eyes twinkled with a mischief that felt at odds with the situation.

"Actually, there is something," he started, leaning forward. "Let's skip the mundane and go straight to the interesting bits."

With a light chuckle, he reclined back in his chair, looking quite pleased with his own wit. Ms. Parker, in her steady, professional manner, merely jotted down 'Prefers direct approach' in her notepad.

Their conversation began like a fencing match - an exchange of parries and ripostes. "What drives you, Nightling?" Ms. Parker opened, her eyes locked onto his masked face. Poised over her notepad, her pen waited to capture his every word.

"Well," he began, stretching languidly in his chair, "you know what they say about idle hands. Imagine idle hands with the power to control shadows. Boring, right?"

'Uses humor to deflect' - Ms. Parker wrote quickly on her notepad before pressing on. "But is there any particular reason you chose this... lifestyle?"

His response came in the form of a wry smile. "I find it... entertaining. Way better than laying in my room waiting to fall asleep."

The words 'Thrill-seeking', and 'Boredom with mundane' joined her earlier note.

Their verbal jousting continued, an intricate dance where each step revealed another hidden layer. "Did you always have this sense of humor, Nightling?" Ms. Parker asked, her gaze never leaving his shadowy figure.

"Comes with the package," he said, his words dripping with sarcasm. "Laughter is the best coping mechanism, right?"

'Mask of humor to deflect and cope', her pen quickly danced across the paper.

Seeing an opening, she shifted gears. "Do you recall the first time you felt different when you discovered your abilities?"

His body language changed, becoming slightly defensive. "Yeah, I guess. It was like being told you've won a lifetime supply of ice cream, only to realize it's all kale-flavored, but as one gets older, their tastes change, I don't mind kale-flavored ice cream."

'Came into powers young; viewed it as a double-edged sword', Ms. Parker annotated, decoding his flippant response. She was starting to understand his profile better, a complex mix of humor, evasion, and just a hint of youthful uncertainty.

"Have you had anyone to guide you, or have you been on this journey alone?" she asked, her tone delicate, like one handling an unexploded grenade.

Nightling's amusement seemed to ebb away. "Guidance? Nah. It's been a solo act. A shadow learns best in solitude."

Ms. Parker quickly wrote - 'Lack of mentorship or guidance, possibly absence of father figure.' She was starting to piece together a picture of a lone child, navigating uncharted waters without a map or compass.

"Is there anything else you'd like to share, Nightling?" She posed the question lightly, aware of the precious minutes ticking away.

"Nope, I think you've had your fill," he responded, the sardonic smile back in place. "I'd hate to bore you with the inner workings of the dark side."

With that, as quick as a shadow's whisper, Nightling vanished, leaving behind a pair of handcuffs in the empty chair. The room fell into a surprised silence, punctuated only by the soft scratch of Ms. Parker's pen as she scribbled down a final note - 'Excels at theatrics; retreats when bored or unchallenged.' The drama of Nightling's exit would have been comedic if not for the underlying concern it carried - this was a being of undeniable power, a person capable of vanishing into thin air, leaving no trace behind.

Captain George, seemingly unfazed by the vanishing act, ambled in with the measured steps of a man used to peculiarities. He collected the discarded handcuffs and fixed them back onto his belt, sighing at the empty chair where his elusive detainee had just been seated. He turned to Ms. Parker, a question hanging heavy in his gaze. "Well, Doc, what's the word? Are we dealing with a misguided knight of the night, or just a menace with too much power and not enough supervision?"

Ms. Parker took a moment to arrange her thoughts before she began. "There's more to Nightling than meets the eye, George," she started, "He's quick, has a sharp wit, and he's smart. He's using humor not just as a defense, but as a diversion. He's careful to let out just enough to keep us interested but never enough to truly unmask him."

She sifted through her notes, pausing to read her quickly scrawled observations. "Despite his evasiveness, his choice of metaphors and his perception of his powers hint at his youth. He could be in high school, or perhaps just out of it."

She looked up at George, her expression serious. "There's also a sense of isolation in his words. He's figuring this out on his own. There's no father figure, possibly no parent figure at all. For a young man dealing with extraordinary powers, this is a critical concern."

George's face softened at the mention of Nightling's youth, his rugged features reflecting the concern of a man watching a child toy dangerously with matches. "Well," he began slowly, "his antics, this 'game' as he sees it, they've put people at serious risk. That's what makes him a villain in our book."

"But," he added, a surprising admission that piqued Ms. Parker's interest, "he's never actually killed anyone. Sure, he's thrown the city into chaos, but he's stopped short of taking a life. We can't be certain if it's sheer luck or a conscious effort. If it's the latter, then we're dealing with a whole new layer of complexity."

"George," Ms. Parker chimed in, a sense of excitement coloring her tone. "Nightling, I'd say, is akin to a master chess player. He loves the game, relishes every move. He's center-stage, making bold moves that hold the crowd in a state of rapt attention. Yet, when the game is done, he vanishes, almost as if he fears an unplanned rematch."

As she spoke, her pen danced on the notepad, trying to capture her thoughts. A soft chuckle escaped her as she continued, "Chess, George, is all about strategy and misdirection. The obvious move might be a feint, while the real intent remains hidden. This is Nightling's modus operandi. He orchestrates a spectacle, keeping everyone focused on the drama while the true intent stays shrouded."

"But we mustn't let his theatrics cloud our judgment. We're not simply observing a game or a stage show. This is a complex puzzle we're trying to solve. Beneath his performance, we might be dealing with a young individual who is misunderstood and grappling with an extraordinary situation."

She leaned back in her chair, carefully considering her next words. "Yet, we can't overlook the possibility that we're dealing with a master manipulator, one skilled enough at deception to have us chasing phantoms while he operates from behind the scenes. It seems unlikely, given his apparent youthfulness, but no theory can be ruled out."

Finishing her notes, Ms. Parker closed her notebook with a subtle, decisive motion. Her gaze, focused and analytical, met George's. "One last point that struck me, George, is his seemingly addictive relationship with the public eye. Nightling isn't just drawn to the limelight, he is... tethered to it, as though it's a vital part of his existence. We're yet to fully grasp how this fixation drives him, or what gratification it provides. This, George, is the captivating conundrum that is Nightling."

She paused for a moment, collecting her thoughts, before adding, "And let's not overlook his audacity, his brazen disregard for conventional boundaries. No villain, no matter how dexterous or elusive, would dare walk into a police station, shackled in handcuffs, only to escape with such theatrical ease. It's as if he thrives on the adrenaline, the danger, the sheer excitement of it all. This thrill-seeking behavior of his, this penchant for peril... it's another intriguing facet of our mysterious Nightling."