"Hey, Alfred," Dick murmurs, creeping over the rooftop of one of the apartment buildings in the Narrows, "did B happen to mention what he's up to that he needs me and Oracle to cover for him?"
The comms crackle slightly; the echo of an exhalation. "Master Richard," Alfred says, sounding long-suffering, "your attempts to find out information Master Bruce is choosing to not reveal to you are rudimentary at best, and blunt at worst."
"He's right," Barbara's voice comes through, sounding amused.
Dick scowls. "I'm wounded ," he says. "I can't believe you're agreeing with him."
There's the sound of rustling fabric—a shrug, Dick thinks—and then Barbara says, "Alright, you should see them in the next alleyway."
Dick doesn't reply; keeping his steps light, and traversing to the edge of the rooftop, before nimbly climbing down the wall and onto one of the fire escapes, crouching as he observes the three people huddled together, whispering, in the alley below.
They're not whispering very quietly, so Dick doesn't have to get any closer to make out what they're saying. Balancing lightly so as not to make the aged metal creak, he listens to what they're saying.
"—boss took care of him," the woman says. "He started screaming something about clowns before we knocked him out, though."
"That's not a common one," one of the men comments. "Usually with Gotham-born folk, the fear of clowns is sort of dampened from constant exposure."
"Wonder what made it his main fear," the other man says, ponderously.
The woman shakes her head. "It doesn't matter," she says. "Did you bring the chemicals, or not?—better say yes, or the boss might try out his newest gas on you for delaying his plan."
The two men shudder, before one of them nods. "Follow me," he says, and leads the other two towards the mouth of the alleyway.
Dick climbs down the fire exit, slipping after them, sticking to the shadows. His comms have gone silent, no longer the soft crackle of static—Alfred and Barbara have muted themselves so that Dick isn't distracted.
They come out of the alleyway and make their way towards a small, deep red minivan, painted darker by the shadows from the looming, tooth-like apartment buildings. The man unlocks the car, retrieving a box from within, and makes to hand it over to the woman.
Dick darts forward; in a flash, knocking the man to the ground and grabbing the box before sprinting towards the closest stairwell. Shots ring after him, but protected by the darkness of the mostly street-lamp free Narrows, they all go wide.
He makes it to the roof of the building, darting behind the shed and out of line of sight of the three before he stops, listening to make sure that they're not following after him. In the distance, he can hear a slew of colourful profanities, but they don't seem to be getting any closer.
Opening the bag, he scans the contents, before speaking. "Looks like you were right about Scarecrow getting someone to steal chemicals from Wayne Enterprises," he says.
"Sometimes, I hate being right," Barbara groans. "At least tell me that you recovered all of it."
Grimly, he replies, "'fraid not—there's only three of the five missing compounds. And it looks like they're not even the main ones—just the ones that would make his fear toxin faster acting."
"Damnit," the other exhales. "Alright, you return that to WE, and I'll take a stab at finding Scarecrow's hideouts—hopefully, he's keeping the other two at one of them, and hasn't used them yet."
Snapping the box shut, Dick nods, despite knowing Barbara can't see it. "Roger that."
Getting into the R&D building of Wayne Enterprises is a piece of cake—though that's more to do with knowing the lay-out and the codes than anything. He leaves the box on Lucius Fox's desk, before locking the door behind him, and slipping out the window in the hallway and onto the window ledge of the neighbouring building, before scaling it and settling on the roof to wait for Barbara to get back to him.
Finally, his earpiece crackles, and Barbara's voice comes through. "Okay," she says, "I've located two of his hidey-holes."
"Lay it on me."
A soft huff comes through the connection; bemusement. "Easy, tiger, you haven't even heard where they are," she teases.
Dick shrugs; the motion fluid, and interlocks his fingers over the base of his neck. "I'm sure I can handle it," he retorts.
"Alright. First one's off Ninth, in the basement of the building next to the ice-cream shop. Second's on Pinewood, third story of building 204."
"Got it," Dick confirms. "I'll head over to Ninth first, since that's closer. Any idea what the security is like?"
"I pulled some CCTV—looks like there's two guards, and they rotate out every ten hours," Barbara reports. "I managed to get images of the current ones' faces when they switched a bit ago, and ran them in the database—one's a petty criminal, nothing big time, but the other's done time for assault and battery, so you might want to handle him first."
"Right," Dick says, leaping from one rooftop to the next. "I'll check in once I get there."
Thankfully, both of them go down pretty easily—there's a moment where Dick barely escapes a knife to the kidney, saved only by the reinforcements on the abdomen, but there'll definitely be some bruising from it. After tying to two up and leaving them propped up against the wall, Dick announces, "All clear."
"Great, take a look around and—"
Whatever she was going to say is cut off as Dick finds himself knocked to the floor by an unexpected third person. He manages to roll into the impact, lessening it somewhat, but his head throbs lightly.
The heavy thus of footsteps alerts him to the other's next move, and he just has time to doge to the side, the other's fist whistling past his head less than an inch away.
Twisting, Dick manages to get in a solid kick, sending the man stumbling back and tripping. With an angry shout, he goes down, and Dick quickly closes the distance, knocking him out before he has the chance to try and get in another hit.
"—wing, are you okay?"
Dick blinks as he registers the sound—Barbara's clearly been talking longer than he'd realised. He must have blocked her voice out in the heat of the fight. "Yeah, I'm—I'm fine," he says. "Got a little banged up, but nothing I can't handle. Now, where's the darn light switch..."
He manages to find it, and light floods the basement. Instantly, his gaze is drawn to the place where the goon tripped—not, as he previously assumed, over his own feet, but rather, over a slumped figure with a crooked nose, dirt-scuffed cheeks, and red-tinted black hair with a streak of white.
He looks oddly familiar, and when Dick closes the distance between them, he realises why—he's a spitting image of Jason, albeit with a streak of white in his hair.
Just then, he shifts; eyes cracking open, wild and alert in the way that's typical of post-fear toxin victims. He opens his mouth, a croak coming out.
Dick takes a step back instinctively, shoulders stiff. "Hey, O?" he says, "I've run into something I need to deal with—I'm going offline for a bit." Without waiting for a response, he shuts off his comms.
The Jason lookalike is staring at him; eyes wide, now; and Dick realises he probably looks somewhat menacing. Forcing his stance to relax, he slowly approaches the other, hands raised. "I'm just going to undo your restraints," he says, speaking slowly. "Then we're going to get out of here."
There's a long silence; and then the other nods incrementally. Dick kneels, cutting through the zip-ties, and then steps back, offering the other a hand.
The teen narrows his eyes; seemingly considering something, before he takes it, pulling himself to his feet.
Fifteen minutes later, they find themselves in a pancake house—for want of a better location, Dick decided that it would do the double duty of a somewhat secluded place—it's four in the morning, so there's no other patrons—and solve his peckishness. The other hasn't made any protest so far, just watched Dick warily—which, he supposes, is pretty fair.
"What can I do you two gentlemen for?" the chipper voice of the waitress cuts through the Top 40 that's playing in the background.
"One spinach omelette and two buttermilk pancakes," Dick orders.
"Blueberry," the other says; speaking for the first time since Dick got him out of the basement.
"Sorry, a buttermilk and a blueberry," Dick corrects. "Anything else?"
He shakes his head.
The waitress jots the information down before flashing them a smile. "I'll be back with them in a jiff," she promises.
"So," Dick says, after a moment passes, "who, exactly, are you?"
A small smile twists at the other's lips. "Never one for subtlety," he says. "I think you know who I am."
"Cryptic. I hate it."
That prompts a wheezing laugh. "You haven't changed," he observes. "I'm Jason."
"Jason's dead," Dick says, sharply. "I don't know what you're playing at—"
"Water, gentlemen?" the waitress interrupts. Dick purses his lips, but nods, watching the water fill the glasses, ice clinking against the rims, before she bustles off.
"I don't know what you're playing at," he says, again, lowly, "but it's not funny."
The other takes a sip of his water. His nails, Dick notices, are dark with dirt caught beneath, the tips of his fingers browned. "It's be a hell of a lot nicer if I was playing a joke," the other says. "But I dug myself out of a grave in Gotham Cemetery, so no, I'm not. Kind of pissed B didn't bury me with the rest of the family, but whatever." His teeth glint as he smiles.
Dick frowns. "That's not true," he says. "He did bury you— Jason in the Wayne cemetery." He can't help the bitterness that creeps in—despite having made up with Bruce, the fact that the man didn't tell him about Jason's death, or his funeral, until much after the fact stings.
The other huffs. "I dunno, have you considered that he lied to you?" he asks; tone biting. "It's not like he hasn't done that before to us—"
The sound of footsteps silenced him. "Here you are," the waitress says, cheerily, setting the plates down before them. "Anything else I can get for you?"
The other opens his mouth.
"No, thanks," Dick says, cutting him off; flashing his best smile. The waitress frowns, flashing the teen a concerned look, before retreating. "And that's not the same."
The other scoffs. "Sure," he says; cutting his pancakes a little more vigorously than necessary, and spearing a piece. "Listen, you don't have to believe me—just take me back to the manor and you can do a DNA test or something."
Dick purses his lips. "Fine," he says. "But if you're lying, I'll—"
"What, kill me—again?" The other scoffs. "Listen, Wonderboy, you'll have to come up with something a bit more creative if you want to scare me."
Dick scowls. "Well, you've got his bitchiness down to pat," he says. "If nothing else, you're doing a good imitation."
"Thanks for the glowing review," the other says, rolling his eyes, and proceeds to drown his pancakes in maple syrup.