He did his research, scared his drug dealers and listened to his informants and yet now, at the exact moment he needs all that work to coalesce into progress, it falls flat.
That shipment that is supposed to be at Dock 183n is gone.
And he doesn't have the faintest idea where it is.
As always, he partially blames himself for the failure...he should've been more sure that the information he was given was verifiable, should've checked more into the docking schedules and workers and the other nasty variables.
But then reality shakes him up.
He scares the shit out of people. The Bat scares the shit out of people.
When people are scared, they don't lie.
No, he muses (irritation is still there but it's slowly fading), this wasn't a matter of being duped. It was more of an issue where someone covered their bases and had a feeling the Bat would be coming.
Bruce would like to think that all criminals (regardless of age, occupation and brainpower) are cowardly, superstitious and dumb, but he knows that he's a Gothamite.
And Gothamites aren't stupid.
Usually.
"Any luck?" Barbara asks in his ear.
He digs his hands into the brick of the roof, pulling back the urge to throw himself down from the building and wreck havoc on the dock below before replying.
"No."
"Bad info?"
He shakes his head. "No. They just covered their tracks."
"They knew you were coming." It's not a question, but a statement.
"Yes."
A grunt of understanding comes from her, and Bruce suddenly wishes that Dick and him were on speaking terms, Barbara's legs were intact and that Tim wasn't busy with school.
They understood this, understood when something went wrong or someone thought a step ahead. Frustration and failure were never out of the question, and yet they continued to get back on their feet.
Except not with him. They are a part of the Batclan, but the family has fractured, splintering into different lives and separated from the city that brought them together in the first place. "To each their own" rings more true now than it did a decade ago, and Bruce suddenly feels a lot older.
"Do you want me to look up anything?" Barb asks.
He pauses, thinking.
"How many cameras are on the N docking stations?"
He hears the light tapping of keys in the background.
"Three."
"In working condition?"
She types faster now, and Bruce knows she's grinning. The girl may have lost her legs, but her spirit is far from dead.
"Oh, yeah."
"Location?"
"Gee, B," Barbara suddenly says, teasing, "you actually sound mildly interested."
He ignores the truth that he is. "Location?"
She mutters something (he hears "grumpy old geezer") but seconds later clears her throat. "East side, left of warehouse N20; southwest corner of Harper and 120th facing west; west side of warehouse N21 and, last but not least, lamp-post 57 residing right over Dock 183n."
"Facing west?"
She replies with mild irritation: "Where else?"
The news has heartened him considerably, and like the great shadow he is, the Bat rises from his perch above N21 and starts moving.
"And they're working?"He asks this again to be sure, because something just doesn't ring right with him.
More irritation from the Oracle, all-seeing and all-knowing. "Yes."
A jump from the warehouse to the roof of an abandoned three-story. He rolls, gets to his feet and starts moving towards the next building in the never ending hop-scotch from rooftop to rooftop.
"Can we get a view on lamp-post 57?"
She snorts. "Already done."
"And?"
The pause from Barbara's side of the line is much longer than previously. When she finally answers, he's already halfway back to the dock where he had started.
"Your last cargo left at 11:49 AM."
He had been told that the ship would be leaving at 3:00.
"Name of ship?"
Barbara sounds mildly rushed, but she keeps calm. "Gimme a minute, B..."
Three minutes later she's back.
"We have two choices: the Medusa and the Osprey."
Another jump, but as the Bat lands, he suddenly stops.
"Two choices?"
She coughs. "Well, the electronic roster had four ships docked this morning; one left at 8:15 AM for Chicago, the other went south for Detroit at 1:50 PM. The Medusa was recently decommissioned–turbine problems–and was just waiting to be towed off."
"And the Osprey?"
Beat. "Not much. I'm looking through the other piers and it seems that this bird is new."
"How new?"
"Two-weeks new."
Certainly suspicious, but he's not buying it. These bastards duped him once; they sure as hell could dupe him again.
The Bat starts moving again.
"When was the Medusa decomp'd?" he asks.
"One month, five days, six hours, twenty-nine minutes ago." Barbara replies.
"Any other reasons besides a turbine?"
She clucks once, obviously thinking, and in the background Bruce can hear the low drumming of her fingers on the edge of the keyboard. The quiet thrum of her scrolling makes itself heard.
Barbara hmms for a moment. "Umm...there are a few things. It's an old ship, the hull was apparently badly damaged when the crew tried to do some ice-busting in the winter, and apparently she had some leaking problems...which lead to a really bad rust problem."
"Do we have a captain?"
Suddenly the typing slows, and Barbara seems more frustrated than anything else at the turn of events. Her answer, brief as it may be, speaks volumes.
"Nope."
Even he's slightly incredulous. "None?"
"None." she responds. "I'm seeing funds transferred, the ship delivered and requesting boat-heaven, and then nothing. There is no said captain or owner on this roster."
"And the Osprey?"
Evaluating all possible angles won't kill him, though sometimes the Clan begs to disagree with him.
Pause. "I'll look up on it."
Bruce–contrary to popular belief–doesn't know women all that well. However, he's been around this one since she was a teenager and understands when Barbara Gordon needs some 'alone' time. She gave him the information he needed for the time being, he can handle it on his own, and the highest priority on Barbara's list right now is probably answering the phone call from her father.
So be it. The Bat is on his own again.
They give their usual good-byes--curt, brief and to the point--and then the line goes dead.
Bruce looks around.
And then realizes that he's back where he started, hidden in the shadows above Dock 183n with the thinnest of leads to keep him going.
So he tries to go back to where this problem started in the first place.
Two ships were supposed to be docked tonight.
Both are gone.
He has to admire the audacity of his opponent--the quick-thinking decision to send out decoys, allowing misinformation to trickle through the Narrows–but then Bruce remembers: smart his enemy may be, he has created a drug certain to ruin society from the bottom up.
He is a murderer and a thief, and must be treated as such.
But where do you start?
The logical Bat–the one not pissed off by failure–would go back to video cameras, informants and workers and start tracing the steps. If at first you don't succeed, try, try again.
Bruce is still logical, but he's pissed off, and that substantially changes how he's going to go about finding information. No patient back-tracking. No surprise visits to informants.
No waiting. This drug isn't staying still, and neither will he.
The Bat will get the facts he needs, but not by started back on block one.
No, there are more...quick ways of getting the job done. Simple, effective and gracefully efficient.
It's a shame that the smuck warily crossing out into the open of the Dock 183n didn't know that. Body held in a pseudo-crouch, head constantly swivelling and feet cautious, he only came to Bruce's focus when the shuffle of shitty sneakers made itself heard.
Now, however, he is most certainly the center of attention.
And not in a good way.
Bruce tells himself that maybe it's just a drunk, but then the Bat raises an eyebrow at him and snorts.
No one is found out in the piers near the Narrows after midnight.
And right now it's 2:37 AM.
It takes him all but five seconds to launch himself from the roof, shoot the grapple with the barely audible cough and swing downwards. The man below hearts that dry, silencer-like expulsion but by the time he spins around, hand in pocket the Bat screams gun) it's too late.
He finds himself bulldozed by a 240-pound monster, pulled back from the saving grace of the pier light and suddenly at the edge of the dock.
The Bat keeps his prey narrowly on the edge of the wood, forcing him to toe a narrow line between falling twelve feet into the freezing cold, merciless Gotham River or falling into the terrifying clutches of the Bat and then speaks.
"Where"– he puts particular emphasis on that word because it is the only reason he's still here --"is it?"
Eyes are wide, pulse is erratic and breathing is heavy...the Prey writhes wildly for no more than five seconds before he realizes the gravity of his situation.
And freezes.
"W-w-where's what?"
He's scared. Obviously. But if there's anything that speaks volumes, it's the fact that this guy didn't start shrieking the second he found himself flying. It's the fact that his fear is just resting beneath the surface.
The Bat evaluates.
Decoy, straggler, or bait. He can only be one of those three.
Osprey or Medusa, there can only be one of two.
Bruce gambles.
"Medusa," he snarls, "where is she?!?"
Prey swallows and considers his options.
And chooses the wrong one.
"I don't know what you're talking abo–"
He's heard it before, he knows the drill. The grip he had on the front of the man's jacket and the gentle shove over the Gotham (Exhibit A: this is what will happen if you don't talk) aren't going to work.
The Bat stares into the terrified eyes of the Prey and then shrugs, pushing on the man's chest just enough to make the man lose equilibrium...
And then letting go.
It's the scream that rips itself from the man's lips that is far more genuine than any of his words in the past two minutes were, and it's why–as the Prey starts falling, falling, falling– the man suddenly finds himself dangling from his feet only a meter above the Gotham River.
He is scared shitless now.
And he will talk.
Bruce waits for a minute, letting the man dangle by the rope and swing slowly to and fro before he peers over the edge of the dock.
"Medusa," he says, voice harsh. "I want to know."
Prey wildly tries to glance up from his upside-down position, causing the rope to buck and wind lazily.
"New York!" he shouts. "Please, for the love of God–"
"Where?" the Bat repeats the question, much to the chagrin of Bruce.
"New York City!" the Prey screams, legs wiggling madly in the rope. "She left for New York City!"
"And the cargo?"
Prey starts sobbing.
"Oh, Jesus–"
Bruce lets some slack on the rope. The one meter that the Prey had above the Gotham has shrinks to about half. Another scream from the dangling smuck.
"The cargo?"
"We're carrying Sight," the man says, voice hoarse. "Enough for, for–" he pauses for a moment, obviously trying to think, "–for the industry near Hudson. It's pre-production."
Shit. Pre-production. A new fleet of addicts under the influence of Sight. And in the first-stop city for cargo from Europe.
Bad. Very bad.
"Who's in charge at Hudson?"
Prey tries to look up. Bruce warns the Bat that he's pushing it–this man can't handle being upside down that long and not go unconscious–before looking back down.
"What?"
"Who's in charge at Hudson?"
"I–I don't know anything."
"Nothing?"
He shakes his head.
"Nothing. I was supposed to be the–"
"Straggler," the Bat finishes for him. "I know."
The Prey looks up one last time at the shadow before him before the world fades to oblivion.
The Bat pulls him up to the dock. He rolls up the rope, takes a step back and readjusts the grapple, aiming back towards the warehouse from which he had flown.
Two taps onto the transmitter. The scrambler hisses, clicks, and then it's Alfred–not Barbara–that's on the line.
"Yes, Master Bruce?" his voice is older, more weary but the dry humor that has kept the man afloat through most of his life is still there.
"I'm going to New York, Alfred."
"Very well, sir."
They both hang up. The Bat readjusts the grapple yet again and fires.
Aim, shoot, jump.
He repeats the process all the way back to the car.
A/N: Gee, can you tell which character I'm more comfortable with? I'm new to the Spiderman realm, and this thus makes me characterization of Peter Parker a little bit...stiff. I'll get the hang of it soon, it'll just take time. For all those who continue to read: thank you. The critiques of Spawn Guy, P'tfami and Shonobi-Aquamarine were especially helpful.
Enjoy. :)