Punching people in the face is wonderful stress relief. Alfred should try it sometime.
Man With Gun 1 makes a noise of surprise and pain and falls backward, gun flying up to hit him in the face because it's held to his body by a strap - big gun. Semi-automatic. Not a gun he wants to see turned on the GCPD.
Bruce ducks under the entirely predictable blow Man With Gun 2 is swinging at his unprotected back, straightens and breaks the arm that's flying past him. Gun 2 screams, dropping his sawed-off. Bruce cuts through that noise by getting the man by the windpipe and ramming him into the nearest wall. It's dark, but Gun 2's widening eyes are visible in the gloom.
The GCPD is filling the floor below with bellows for compliance and the occasional expletive, but nobody's fired a weapon yet.
"Hi," he husks, which is evidently not what Gun 2 was expecting judging by the audible click! as the man shuts his mouth and stares. Batman generally communicates with his type via roar or growl, or the ever-popular kick in the face. Bruce squelches a momentary desire to clap the man on a shoulder just to see what his expression will be. Instead he squeezes a little harder, shoves him into the wall again, and then lifts him a few inches off the floor by the shelf of his jaw. "You're going to tell me where your boss is."
"Urghnghrnnnn! Ffrrrrrrchhh yurrrgh!"
Too tight a choke hold, apparently, though he's fairly sure he got the gist of that declaration anyway.
He lets Gun 2 drop, waits long enough for the man to get his balance back and to start to think about making a run for it, then shoves him out the window he broke on his way in fifteen minutes ago. The scream Gun 2 utters is much higher this time, rabbitlike and dopplered as he flips backward over the sill into the night. The line Bruce loops around the man's disappearing right foot goes taut in exactly two seconds, which ought to be enough time for anyone to think about what faceplanting into concrete from eleven stories up would do to their day.
When he reels Gun 2 back up the man is gibbering.
"Run that by me again," Bruce says pleasantly, using the rasp lightly enough that the tone comes through.
"I dunno who, he just texts me, man, I just go where I'm told! Ah fuck, that hurts…"
"Name."
"Don't got one! Goddammit I didn't ask for references! He pays, I do!"
"You're going to have to do better than that." He lets the line out a little, hears a howl just this side of sane: he picked someone with a heights phobia, maybe. Lucky. He stomps on a niggling worry about how far he's willing to take this, glances back to make sure that Gun 1 is still unconscious and that the GCPD haven't made their way upstairs to the attic quite yet. This would be an awkward time to get shot.
"Hush! Hush!" Gun 2 wails, which stops Bruce in his tracks until he realizes that's the name he was asking for. Jesus, why do the bad guys all have to have weird names now? What's wrong with Bob, or Carl?
This is probably a stupid question, considering what he goes by of an evening.
He pulls the man up, holds him against the sill by one leg. The noise downstairs is rising and receding in waves, so someone's probably found the lab set up in the apartment on the northern wall.
"Where can I find him?"
The leg in his grip thrashes. He loosens his fingers just enough, hears another muffled howl. "God," Gun 2 gasps. "Please not like this, please. Bring me back in and shoot me, man- please. Not this."
Definitely a phobia. Bruce stuffs down a welter of shame, reminds himself this guy was hidden up here waiting to blow holes in every police officer that was unlucky enough to be first through. He taps a finger impatiently on a tibia.
"Cicero and Fifth," Gun 2 says wearily. There's a tremor running through him in waves, making it harder to keep a grip on his shin. "Sometimes he's there.
He must weigh 180: pulling him back inside is not easily done. Bruce sets the man on the floor, where he pants like a marathon runner in the home stretch and cradles his broken arm, looking both menacing and pitiful at the same time. The gun is beside him; he doesn't even glance at it.
"You're gonna kill me?"
Bruce picks the shotgun up and jacks three rounds out, then empties the magazine. "Not today."
Having the criminal underworld convinced the Bat's a cop killer has had unexpected perks, namely a whole new level of fear, but it still make his gorge rise every goddamned time he gets this question. He has just barely enough time to knock the man out and then GCPD is banging the door in, and he's crouched in the roof beams fifteen feet up.
"Clear!" a uniform barks, swinging his sidearm is every direction, stiff-armed and practically bouncing with excitement. First raid, maybe. He has the look of someone who has seen this done on TV a hundred times, and is providing himself a mental soundtrack to go with the moment.
He's also glossing right over the fact that there are two men on the floor in various states of got-the-crap-beaten-out-of-them, a cache of hand grenades, and a lot of big guns.
The moment that fact reaches him is clear: his gun sags and his jaw drops. "Uh… shit. Shit. Sir! Got some bad guys up here!"
"That your version of a technical term, Officer?"
Stephens looks a good ten years younger in swat gear, and he carries his rifle like he knows what to do with it. The kid shoots him a come-save-me look from under his helmet and points. "They're, uh…"
"Yeah, I see that." Stephens comes closer, sidling on the uneven floor, rifle up and ready. He nudges the M-16 carefully away, and the rookie picks it up. Nudges the sawed-off away. Eyes the small case of grenades, and winces.
"Rook, I want you to hang that semi-automatic weapon over your shoulder, then come pick up this case and take it down to Stiegers. Tell her the building's clear, we'll need a couple stretchers in the attic, but no rush: the lab comes first. Can you do that?"
"Yes sir!" The kid hangs the gun on himself awkwardly. It's only when he gets closer that he realizes the case he's going to be carrying holds hand grenades. Even in the gloom of the attic it's possible to see the blood fall out of his face.
"Don't drop that," Stephens says dryly.
"No sir," the kid says, in a much smaller voice. He tip-toes out. Stephens picks up the sawed-off, checks to see it's empty, and looks up at almost the right spot.
"We tracked the last batch of stolen oxy to this address and two others in the Narrows," he says, low and conversational. "There's a new task force forming to handle the drug labs. The one that was set up to bring Dent's murderer to justice has been put on standby while we deal with it. Mayor's not too thrilled about that, what I hear. Says GCPD's priorities aren't appropriate."
Bruce shifts, wondering if he's actually visible this far back in the shadows of the roof structures, or if Stephens just guesses well. The detective nudges Man With Gun 1 idly with a booted foot. "Saved us a firefight, I see. You're going to ruin your bad rep if you keep this up."
"Priorities," Bruce rasps, and Stephens huffs a quiet reply that doesn't sound like disagreement.
Bruce debates: he doesn't know Stephens well, has only read his file, never worked with him. His superiors marked him as a solid officer long before the GCPD was cleaned up, in the way that used to happen back when most of the cops in power were dirty: his evaluations were consistently poor, full of remarks about not being a team player. Warnings for a hot temper. His career has been a long, slow arc: he'll probably retire a detective, and he shows no inclination to be anything else.
Gordon trusts him.
"I have a name," Bruce says, wondering if he's going to regret it, if he's bringing Gordon's people in too soon, if he's risking what little he's gained. He hates this. Working alone was so much easier. These tiny acts of faith, however measured, make something in his stomach twist. "Hush."
Stephens frowns up into the rafters, one eyebrow rising. "That's a name?"
"Apparently."
"Guess there's a theme going around."
Hearing his own earlier thought echoed back at him is both amusing and unsettling. Bruce stands, balancing on the thickest of the beams and hoping it can take his weight across its length, because crashing to the floor in front of Stephens probably wouldn't inspire much confidence. "He may be the one organizing the drug ring," he tosses over his shoulder, heading for a skylight. "I'll leave word when I have more. The one on your right may know more than I've gotten."
Stephens spares a glance at the figure huddled at his feet and smiles a grim smile. "I'll have a chat with him when he wakes up, then."
The hot temper comments on his evaluations may have some truth to them. Invisible in the dark, Bruce allows himself a small, matching smile before pulling himself out through the skylight, into a light snowfall.
