A/N: We're still taking this story slow (I say story because all stories have introduction, rising action, then finale). For fans of Watchman Draft One, prepare to nerd out. Lets just say my spellchecker isn't fond of me right now and all the accented words this chapter pumped out. What's important though is Gar's on his way, setting up something interesting for Chap 3. Enjoy, mackies.

Under a Blood Red Sky...

"The nightmares came just as they always do; never any escape from them either. Some nights I might see Jinx, the bullet-torn wound in her head never stopping her from whispering to me in a pale, deathly voice. Always with that raspy, pleading voice… "Why couldn't you save me?" or something like that, nothing but death in her eyes and only her lips quivering with each word.

Sometimes I don't see Jinx; I see Kristine. Her body torn apart as if she'd tried to dive on to the top of a large chainsaw, blood all throughout that apartment. Any memories I might've held for that apartment, the moments we shared through those warm nights, they vanish at the thought of her gruesome, violent death. Unlike Jinx, she doesn't speak to me; that's something for me to do in my sleep. Reaching out to her, asking for forgiveness for not stopping her killer…

And on the rare nights I see what must've happened on that island off of the coast. Never anything much, just the Lazarus Pit and then a whirling vortex of black, jets of crimson blood as I move about. I can hear the screams; that terrifying sound of people in their final moments like lambs being led to the slaughter. Arms, pieces of skin flying around as gunfire echoes in the background but the stream of black bats obscures what little I can see already. Whatever happened on that island, whatever I did after the Lazarus Pit, I'm not sure if I could forgive myself I did what I think I've done… When I killed those men outside the garage, they were a victim of an incidental death. Those men on that island though… Could I have killed them willingly?"

The next morning, Detective Montoya enters the room to a strange sight indeed. Rather than sprawling out on the couch or disappearing altogether, it seems this visitor is sitting on the couch, arms to his chest, and staring straight forward. His coat wrapped about his body, he stares blankly at the wall before him lost in a sea of thoughts.

The sound of her approach catches his attention however, his ears perking up curiously as he finally notices her arrival. Green pools of emerald in his eyes surrounded by the dark bags of a sleepless night tell her all she needs to know.
"Trouble sleeping?"

A soft, tiny nod at the comment though he doesn't let his arms go. "Nightmares kept me up. Only slept an hour, maybe two."

"You look like it. Coffee?"

Moments later a cup of hot liquid is placed before the vagrant, the man taking it with a polite thank you and taking in a deep sip. Across from his couch on a chair, she observes her guest with the eyes of a detective, a trait learned from the GCPD and possibly Question himself. Although this man can't be much more than twenty-four, the distant look and wear and his face tells a different story. Much like a combat soldier in the field too long, he too looks as though life has aged him far more than most young adults in America.

"Aren't you going in today?" he asks, shaking her out of her thoughts for a second.

"Today's my day off. Even detectives need to rest, right?"

Sipping from his cup again, he suggests "That's true. Wish I could have one of those days off."

"You can take any day you want if you really wanted to. It's not as though you work from what I can tell."

Looking over at her, the frank expression on her Spanish face, his admission is blunt at best "No, I can't. Maybe before I left the West Coast but now it would just be an insult to those I've left behind."

"That's true but if you don't rest sometime, you'll eventually burn out and be good to no one."

Got him on that one but it wouldn't change things; things need to be done and only God can stop him by this point. "I'll have to finish my job then before I get to that point. In the meantime, maybe you can help me get the ball rolling."

"Just so you know, " Renee begins while setting her cup down on the table "I can't help you with anything illegal. I'm willing to help with Q's investigations sometime but I'm still an officer of the GCPD."

"Then who should I talk to find out about illegal activities around here?"

A finger to her lip, that's a bit of a large question given the large criminal element in the city. "For someone who's new to town, it wouldn't be a good idea to attract too much attention. If I were you, I'd pay a visit to a bar on 72nd Street in Lower East."

"Criminals?" Gar inquires, the destination sounding familiar to some old joints back in Jump.

A wry smirk fills her face as she warns him "Yeah, the trouble kind. They're not the mask-type but you should careful about their boss. He's… a bit on the strange side."

If the buildings by the docks weren't claustrophobic enough, seeing the poverty-stricken lines of buildings in Gotham's Lower East Side is just insufferable. Homes that have probably been around since the Civil War or earlier, several windows barred and boarded up, this side of the city just seems to scream "low-income". What's more interesting to the man from Jump is the vibe of this section of town between 70th and 75th streets. Lines of clothes stretching from building to building, kids in the street despite being a Friday, and the tell-tale signs tell that there's more than one bar around here. Not to mention all of the bars seem to host an Irish tone to them, ranging from "Mickey's" to "The Lucky Club".

The address given to him by Renee leads him to the centerpiece of this five-block madhouse: "The Mad Irish Pub", a bar most likely carved from an old house and adorned with a sign designating it so. Besides the sign reading "ONLY IRISH NEED APPLY", the sound of loud violins and guitars beckon him into the unknown like a dangerous siren of old Greek mythos. Unlike the other pubs in the area though, none of them seem to have the two unpleasant-looking fellas serving as bodyguards by the entrance. It could take some negotiation to get into this place.

"Hey, who do ya think you are, boy?" one asks in a thick Irish accent. "Care to tell us yer' name or you just another piece of pork tryin' to stir up the trouble in here?"

"The name's Logan, that's all you need to know. And no, I'm not a piggy in disguise." Gar replies, just as blunt as the doorman does on him.

"Well I can tell y'not from round here." The other speaks up with a deeper though still similar tone "You don't sound even Gotham. Where ya from, boy?"

"Belfast. I'm here to see when you stubborn Micks are gonna accept King and Country."

The first doorman's face seems to turn just as red as the sky above but it's the second man that cracks the first grin. "You got balls, boy. Take it yer' here to see the boss?"

"Depends. If he's as stubborn as you two bastards, I might just grab a pint and run. So, you gonna let me in and see just how kind the waitresses are here?"

Turning away from the door, he gestures to enter but not before warning. "Hey, better not tell that to the boys inside. Say somethin' smart like that in there, promise y'not see outside again in one piece. The boss ain't too much a fan of the English, for yer own sake."

"What in God's name did I get myself into, walking into that bar like I was the baddest man in the world? Not that I couldn't handle a few people but for two in the afternoon, the pub was PACKED. I've never in my life seen so many taps of Guinness, Harp, kegs of Jameson, and fifths of Tullamore Dew in my entire life. Not that the large Irish flag along the wall wasn't impressive enough, the three-piece band jamming out fit that bill, but it really sealed the deal for me about not talking about England. Any man crazy enough to go this far into Hibernophilia would be someone you'd avoid talking about the English to.

I didn't notice him at first, he was behind the bar like the other three keeps working the rounds. He was speaking just like the others: loud, dirty, and thickly Irish, perhaps more so than the rest. It wasn't until he made eye contact with me that the whole party stopped."

"Ey! You wit' the stubborn eyes!" curses the man in question at the bar, throwing his arm out in accusation. Around him, the others stop and look to this new arrival while the band tones down their music. All at once, it seems nearly eighty sets of eyeballs have converged on Gar at once. "Who in Saint Pat do y'think y'bein' in here without a righteous and proper introducin'?"

Taken back a moment, the shocK of becoming the center of attention so suddenly, he can only blurt back "A thirsty alcoholic that's lookin' for a pint and good conversation."

Silence in the room by now, the band having shut up at the retort. The mood changes as the bartender hops over the wooden banister, taking a few steps up to Garfield. Then again, his slight 5'10 height and skinny frame isn't much compared to Gar's near 6'4 height and muscular build.

"Lookin' for a few words wit a'man, so? Might I be askin' thusly what it be you to be needin' from this here establishment and fine cadre of respectable gents?"

Looking over at the bar, he notices a familiar bottle of drink not seen since his final days in Jump. "For starters some of that fine drink in the Jameson bottle would do. I've come a long way just to say hello to these respectable gentlemen." Leaning in close, he whispers to the shorter Irishman. "That and Montoya told me you'd be good at helping me with finding the man I'm looking for."

As the bouncer earlier had, so to does the man's face burst into a smile then further into a wide, manic grin. "Boy, I like yer' style, that I do! Come, we'll be needin' some ponies and a big bottle of the good stuff, won't we?"

"No offense but it's not even three o'clock yet."

Now leading the new arrival to the bar, the barkeep mutters only "As Mr. Jackson would quote, "It's five o'clock somewhere", right?"

Away from the customers, the kegs of beer and liquor, the two men find themselves going into a back room after a pair of whiskey shots. Unlike Gar, however, the barkeep doesn't even seem to appear flustered. Then again, Gar admits he's been out of practice in shots, much to his host's amusement.

As they arrive in the privacy of the back, however, the vibe changes entirely. A serious tone in his voice, the keep asks simply "What are ya truly here for, Logan?

"I told you I'm looking for someone, Mr...?"

"For the time bein', safety an' all, you to be callin' me Someone. Use that name sparingly if y'please, m'name's a bit of a curse all round this town."

"Fair enough. I'm here looking for an hired gun that goes by the name Deadshot." Gar begins, wishing he had his sunglasses at the moment to hide from the Irishman's tough gaze. Shorter than him or not, he still has the eyes of a predator eyeing a piece of fresh meat.

"Deadshot's yer' target, aye? Mighty brave a'ya goin' after one of that world's deadliest men outside of me'self." Moving to a desk in the back of the room, he opens a drawer and produces a bottle of Jameson. Unlike earlier though, he alone takes a drink from the bottle. "I take it yer' not lookin' for him to make peace, are ya?"

"I'm not as gung-ho about my nationality as you are, Irish, but I bleed green myself. Not too many of us like to make peace, do we?" Intense gaze or not, he won't be intimidated so easily. Gar too has seen some things and he's been that same predator many times prior himself.

The sly grin on his face speaks the truth enough, pouring a glass but not handing it over quite yet. "No that's not the business I choose to be makin' me living. Take it the good detective hasn't filled ya in on me business, has she?"

That whiskey smells good but now's not the time for another shot, not when the last two haven't hit his brain just yet. "No and I asked her not to. Sometimes it's safer for everyone included not to know what your contacts are dealing in."

The grin turning into a nod as well, he pushes over the drink. "Wise words for a'man barely old enough to trim a beard. Y'got the eye of a tough Mackie, y'know that?"

Taking the shot in hand, he replies solemnly "Didn't get that way by choice, did we Someone?"

Leaning back in the chair, Someone tells his guest "I'm not too keen as of late on what ol' Deadie's been up to. In me business, I to be only a middle man in a'much larger game a'supply and demand, y'understand me, Mackie?"

"Your name isn't cursed around the city though if you weren't a man who could get things done, right?" Gar offers, playing up the ego just a little bit.

"Flattery only earnin' ya points if yer honest, Mackie. I'll get ya to Deadie in exchange for two things an' only these two."

Arms folding behind his back, the iron glare of Garfield Logan comes down on the tough stare of the Irishman. "Shoot."

"As a'rule of mine, if you to be workin' with me in any venture, you need a thorough toastin' and soakin' if y'know what I mean." Raising the whiskey bottle, he warns "An'trust me, we're not in the business a'bein lightweights 'round here, aye?"

"Fair enough, a night of whiskey binging might be fun. And what's the other?"

Seriousness taking over from the mirth of the first request, Irish declares "You keep any'ting we do or say from Montoya, and that's a damn promise you to be keepin'. If me ears hear about me work or me mackies down at Police HQ, I'll be cuttin' your balls off one at'a time. Then, let ya bleed a'bit, I'll dump yer' ass down t'sewers and let an' old friend a'mine tear the flesh from y'bones. Am I to be makin' me self straight and honest?"

"Who says the Irish can't make peace? I can live with that."

Smile returning in force, Someone bolts from his chair and declares with arms wide open. "That's to be t'spirit, Mackie! Now, let's go an' have ourselves a'damn good time, aye?"

"It might've been two in the afternoon when I went into the Mad Irish Pub but it felt like eleven when I left. That crazy, demented, "strange" Irishman paid my tab without any complaint. I would've been more surprised had I not stumbled my way out of the door and down the street, unaware I wasn't in Jump City but rather in a city that doesn't sleep. I was expecting to see a quiet, almost lifeless street when in fact it's the opposite of what I received. There were still people all over the place, mostly around the pub, and none of them looked pleased to see a stumbling drunk in a trench coat walk by, humming "Whiskey in the Jar"

I can only speak about this in reflection after I woke up in the morning, most of the night's events a distant memory. Thanks to months of "roughing it" as Raven would put it, I apparently managed to scrounge together a shelter of boxes and a tarp in an alley not far from the pub. I've been called the "Vagrant Vigilante" a few times by Question, that night I certainly earned it.

That's not important though, not at this junction. What's important is I found my first contact in getting to that murdering bastard, even if it means working with a potentially psychotic Irishman who could potentially castrate me for thinking I'm English.

A/N2: Gar certainly could be a hobo if he wanted to, or even a wino for that matter. Still, if getting Irish cooperation involves getting shithammered with someone "strange", then that's what he's gonna do. So far I've heard that "A Titan in Gotham" story isn't the world's best; that's fair to say. It's been done before, right? Then again, most times they go to Gotham they improve or get stronger, motivated, right? Tell me, whoever said anything "good" was gonna happen to Gar? Last time I checked, nothing good has really happened to him in this story, has it (at least in the long run?)

Trivia:
- Someone, the louder, drunker version of the author of this story. Also on "72nd Street", a reference to the number in me name.
- Reference to Whiskey in the Jar by the Dubliners, muttered by Gar near the end.
- Hibernophilia is the obsession with everything Irish.

A/N3: To any readers from Ireland or those formerly from, please excuse this dumb American's butchering of a good language from home and the awful sterotyping. We're not a race of drunks, criminals, and eccentrics but it seems to be what we're plenty damn good at doing.