Author's Note: The second of four-part acts is arguably the most difficult to write. You must create the various situations neccessary to drive the story arc forward but cannot rush the development. This is where things catch fire...
Conditions 2
It is eight forty-five A.M. I have been scrutinizing the terrorist group responsible for the previous evening's attack. The CDF or Communist Defence Force, are a group who find their origin in 1960s China. With political uprising and social reforms sweeping the western hemisphere, a break-away faction within China's communist party decided to take it upon themselves to stop such changes occurring in the East. At first, they operated exclusively in Asia, using simple homemade explosives to destroy or damage property of rebellious nationals. Later, in the 1970s, they began targeting individuals utilizing the same methods. It was not until the late 1980s that the CDF graduated to extremist levels of terrorism. Suicide bombers became the group's tactic of choice and such attacks became prevalent in the continent for almost five years.
The group then switched their focus from Asia to Europe and then North America. The first record of a CDF attack taking place in the United States was in 2002 in Florida. The death toll was twenty-three. Since then, there have been a subsequent seven attacks on American soil, including the situation last night. Fortunately, only the first attack in Florida was successful. All proceeding attempts to disrupt the country have been foiled. They have publicly stated they will never admit defeat.
News reports on last night's events have been glowing in their appraisal of Gordon's handling of the situation. It is a sign the media is beginning to finally side with GCPD and bodes well for the future. The chances of the CDF staging another attack in Gotham are slim. It is therefore now time to focus back on the Al-Qaeda cell selling trade secrets to Gotham scum. I will require Jim's assistance in breaking this case. I will require access to secure files pertaining to criminal elements capable of orchestrating such a critical deal. Typically Al-Qaeda does not give away such information to non-faction members without some kind of trade. I am certain such a trade will require a great amount of funds; these men are, after all, the subject-matter experts on IEDs. Even without Gordon's assistance, I can begin to compose credible theories and a list of possible suspects.
It is ten thirty-five A.M. I have been exercising in the gymnasium for forty-one minutes. Today is chest and back. I complete my final set of stiff-legged dead lifts with four-hundred and five pounds for eight repetitions. The weight is well within tolerance and I have not been overly taxed by my efforts. It has been a good maintenance session. As I exit the gymnasium floor, I am conscious of the fact that during the entire forty-five minutes my mind was wholly on the weight being lifted. It is rare I am not splitting my concentration when conducting menial tasks. I find myself somewhat pleased.
It is eleven minutes past midday. The boy has been asleep for almost nine hours. It is time to wake him. Alfred has suggested I be the one to do so; apparently the old man has grown annoyed with trying to rouse a stubborn adolescent every day. I carefully enter Dick's room. It is in a remarkably tidy condition. It appears he has grown out of throwing his clothes on the floor, along with everything else. As I cross the room, my foot is caught on something. It is the boy's pyjamas, both his shirt and pants. I pick them up and find both items to be damp. Given that weather recently is not favourable, I surmise that he has not been sleeping well. I put the pyjamas in his laundry basket and open his curtains. He does not even stir.
I watch him sleep for a time. Dick's skin is littered with scars. Many of them are a product of his bludgeoning by Harvey Dent. Thankfully, the most severe are hidden by his hair. He will never lose them. Looking back on the traumas he has experienced and lived through it is a wonder he sleeps at all. I draw close to his bedside. I speak softly.
"Dick? Dick, it's time to wake up now."
Oddly, the boy stirs almost immediately. He lethargically opens his eyes and looks at me. He frowns. "Bruce?" His voice is thick with sleep, but he manages to force himself to a sitting position regardless. "What time is it?"
"It's nearly twenty past twelve."
"I thought I told you to wake me at one."
"I think you need more than three hours to preen for your date."
The boy smirks. "Yeah well, I still have to get there too. I think the cinema's twenty minutes away in the car. Think Alfie knows where The Majestic Theatre is?" Dick is constantly rubbing his eyes as he says this. He is trying to wake himself up properly.
"I am sure he can find it for you. Dick, are you sleeping okay?" As soon as I speak, the boy knows why I am asking. He stops rubbing his face. There is a brief silence.
"I just got hot in bed. Alfie leaves the heating on too high in my room on a night and I wake up sweating." It is a good explanation, but entirely untrue. The boy has come to me before with sleeping problems. I understand he is embarrassed about being weak in front of me, but it is not necessary to lie. I will not scold him or ridicule him. He is still only fourteen. I sit down on the bed and put a hand on his shoulder. Dick makes no move against it. He is fond of such contact nowadays.
"Dick, I want you to enjoy your weekend. If something is troubling you, you can speak to me. And if you do not wish to speak to me, you can always speak to Alfred. Understand?" I squeeze his shoulder. He frowns before adopting a guilty expression.
"The dreams are back. The ones where I'm getting buried alive by Judge Watkins and Two-Face. The, uh, really scary ones. But I didn't wake up screaming like last time." He adds the last sentence after a pause and with some urgency. He does not want to talk to Leslie about them again. Last time he hated it. If it were possible I would take him to a professional psychiatrist, but it is out of the question. I cannot risk the boy disclosing our secrets. I nod my head.
"Well that's a good sign. Would you like me to call Dr. Thompkins and arrange a meeting?" Dick's reaction to look away in disgust is self-explanatory. I remove my hand from his shoulder. "Alright, I won't. Tonight Alfred will give you something to help you sleep. Perhaps it will prove an effective temporary measure." I get up to leave. As I am about to open the door, the boy calls to me.
"Bruce?"
"Yes?"
"Mind throwing me my underwear? It's in the top drawer on your left?"
My response of hitting him in the face with freshly-laundered boxers is somewhat childish, but we both smile. Then I leave.
It is five thirty-five in the afternoon. The last five hours have been productive on many levels. I have liaised with Gordon on both cases. My usual practice does not include talking with Jim in daylight hours, but I believe these situations can be resolved without a great degree of trouble. Gordon has interrogated the CDF terror suspects and already turned them over to higher authorities for specific questioning. It appears, at least to both Gordon and the CIA, that this particular terrorist cell are sole operators on the East Coast and therefore invaluable in locating further cells in the United States. I admit, I too am having difficulty uncovering any links between this CDF group and notable criminals in Gotham; it seems they selected the city at random for such a violent demonstration and were not targeting any specific individuals in either the finance or corporate industries.
With reference to the Al-Qaeda cell, government agencies have already seized the intelligence Dick and I gathered for translation and analysis. Jim sounded disheartened by this. I know how he feels. This is HIS city; if some degenerates want to cause trouble for each other with terrorist help in HIS city, the man has a right to know. I would want to know if I were in his position. It is therefore fortunate I have a copy of all the intelligence gathered and have produced my own translation using state-of-the-art software. I informed Jim I would supply him my own intelligence findings later tonight. He thanked me. At present I am putting finishing touches to the aforementioned report.
The translation and my own knowledge of how the group operates has yielded an intriguing possibility. During the conversation they make persistent referrals to their buyers, individuals they call 'Congo men'. It is not unreasonable to assume that they are talking about Erik Vander, a South-African diamond smuggler who is hiding in Gotham under false papers. I am aware of this only because he has already been arrested for petty theft. The charges were dropped, but both his mug shot and driving license details were recorded and entered in the GCPD database. I have held back in bringing such information to Jim's attention for my own reasons. Vander, or Harold Steadman as he is calling himself, is making connections with the city's biggest players. Although a diamond smuggler by trade, he is attempting to expand his field of expertise to all manner of tradable goods. By doing this, he is unwittingly bringing more attention to his new associates as well as himself. I am waiting until I can confirm Vander's participation in the negotiations and what his intentions are.
The final stages of negotiations are supposed to be taking place tomorrow night at eight-thirty P.M. They will probably change this time and the meeting place to avoid intervention. I am certain Gordon can assist me in establishing the time and place. They are, after all, only so many places in the city that such unscrupulous men can go and have such an illegal meeting and Jim knows them all. I will arrange to meet him tonight at police headquarters.
"Master Bruce?"
Alfred's presence is something of a surprise; the old man only went out grocery shopping forty minutes ago. Given his usual trend, he should not have arrived back at home for at least a further thirty minutes.
"Yes Alfred? Have you finished shopping already?"
"No, Master Bruce. I was called away."
"Called away to what exactly?"
"To collect Master Dick from the cinema."
"I was under the impression they were having dinner afterwards."
"Yes Sir, so was Master Dick."
"Alfred, should I be concerned? What has happened precisely? "
"Ms. Decker has…ended her courtship with the young master. He is taking it rather hard."
"I see. Advice old friend?"
"He is unwilling to discuss the details of what transpired with me, but perhaps he will talk to you."
"And what has prompted this sudden faith in my parenting abilities?"
"It is neither sudden or faith, Sir. You have proven your parenting skills to be excellent. And your bond with that boy is beyond any and all expectations I had when he came to stay with us. You are always seeking new challenges to test yourself with; try this one."
I find the boy in the gymnasium, sweating out his frustrations on the uneven bars. He is still dressed in his street clothes, despite their total lack of suitability, and is breathing heavily, a worrying sign. I am concerned he is pushing himself too hard. I do not wait for him to notice my presence.
"Dick, come down here."
Dick responds by forcing himself into a straddle planche on the highest bar. He looks at me in a way that clearly communicates my presence is not welcome. "I don't want to talk about it Bruce. Just leave me alone." His voice is full of suppressed anger and has a sharp, venomous edge to it I find distasteful. The boy's adolescence is still proving difficult to navigate.
"Don't make me chase you, Dick. In those clothes, I could force you to the ground inside of forty-two seconds. Please come down and talk to me." My threat is a very real possibility, however forty-two seconds is being generous to my abilities; the boy is lightning fast in any attire.
"Bruce, I just had my heart ripped out. My chest feels like some fat guy stamped on it and I don't want to talk about it." Dick practically snaps back, pushing his body into a handstand with little effort. I am getting the distinct impression the boy will not negotiate on my terms. I must try an alternative tact.
"You can stay up there if you want. We can talk from here."
Dick does not like this observation. He flips off the bars and grasps the rings immediately behind him. He then climbs up to even higher ground, settling at the ceiling brackets the rings are attached to. "I am NOT talking to you, Bruce. Give me some damn space!"
"Dick, I do not want you brooding in the dark like me. Don't you remember earlier? You can talk to me about anything."
"Go away now."
He is not giving me any ground to work with. I admit to a growing frustration and sense of futility in my attempts. I try one last angle.
"Did you pay for the tickets or the popcorn?"
"Neither, she dumped me before we even got inside. Some freakin' gesture that was." Dick says, sneering at what must still be a very fresh and painful memory for him. Regardless, I have made something of a breakthrough. I push on.
"Did she give you a reason?"
The boy hooks one leg round the cable he is dangling from before turning himself upside-down. He shrugs his shoulders. "She gave me the most lame-ass excuse I've ever heard in my whole life. Get this, she says I'm just not right for her. I'm not right for her? Three months and she realizes she's made a mistake? How stupid does she think I am?"
"So why did she really finish with you?"
"The exact same reason women finish with you. I'm never around when she wants me to be and I cut away suddenly without any explanation. She obviously thought I was too weird for her. My charm only gets me so far."
Dick is more upset than annoyed with himself. That much is readily apparent to me. He believes his duties as Robin have sabotaged his relationship. He thinks he brought this heartbreak on himself. It is strange to see the boy so negative. In recent months, he has adopted a firmly positive outlook on the world and refused to become angry, upset or irritated regardless of the situation. This attitude was commendable, but impossible to maintain.
"I see. Do you think you're weird?" I ask, unsure of where I believe this conversation is going. I consider Dick to be the best example of an American teenager. I do not, nor have I ever found him to be weird, odd or uncomfortable to be around. I am therefore curious as to what the boy's opinion is of himself.
"Sometimes I do. Sometimes…I feel I'm not…normal." Dick responds, now in the process of shinning down the cable holding the rings.
"What makes you think that?"
"Have you seen me lately?" The boy says as he performs a backwards somersault and lands directly at my feet. "You see that? I didn't do that. Your training makes me do that. I couldn't do half this crazy acrobatic stuff in the circus. You made me into a freak and that's why she finished with me." It would appear Dick has found something to focus all his anger and frustration on. Amazingly, it has finally turned out to be me. I had anticipated teenage rebellion much earlier than this given the boy's outspoken character. I am somewhat relieved I have been unscathed up to this point.
"Am I to take it that we are no longer friends in that case, Dick?" Throughout the whole conversation, my voice has remained calm. The boy's has fluctuated wildly between anger, bitterness, disgust, scorn, depression and disappointment. At present, he is highly sensitive. That is why I have not offered any hint of emotion for him to throw back in my face. Dick is trying to goad me into fitting the part of the villain he has decided I am. To him, I am the saboteur. Alfred was correct, this is a challenge.
The boy, a mess of sweat-drenched hair and damp clothes, shakes his head. "We were never friends. You ruined my life." He says the second sentence with such spite and resentment that I cannot help but wonder if he really believes what he is saying. I conclude he does not. He is simply heartbroken and wanting to blame anybody but himself. I am convinced that, with time, he will move on. I do not touch him even though I want to. "I will see you later, Dick. Perhaps you'll feel differently on the matter then." Dick's reply of rolling his eyes and exiting the room are not encouraging signs. He will move on. I go back to work.
It is eight forty-six P.M. I am at GCPD headquarters discussing possible meeting locations with Jim. Robin has decided not to make an appearance tonight. While I am disheartened by his absence, I am certain it is the best course of action for him at this moment.
"Considering surveillance on The Narrows has gotten tighter since Fognini's downfall, I doubt they'll be dumb enough to hold the meeting there." Jim says to discount yet another potential lead. Using a city ordinance map, we have discounted over two dozen possible sites for the exchange. Considering the fact we only began with forty viable locations, our progress has been swift. We have only been working together on the problem for thirty-two minutes. New intelligence from bugged gang hangouts has informed us the meeting has been postponed until ten-thirty this evening. We have sufficient time to mobilize a taskforce and shut down this major trip hazard for Gotham's safety. It is a gift.
"Thoughts on Joey's Bar on Decker Street, Upper-East Side?" I offer. Gordon considers my proposal.
"It has the necessary structure and access to the freeways to make it good for a fast getaway should trouble kick off. And its owners have family ties to Daniel Unum, the man mentioned in your transcripts of the conversation." He still does not look convinced by his own appraisal of the venue. He shakes his head. "The place is too small. Terrorists would never meet in somewhere without breathing space. If things get ugly, they've got no room to move." I concur. We move on.
"The Palisades, 232 River Street, Gotham Heights." I say. Jim nods for the first time.
"Building's been under surveillance for a while. And it has been recently refurbished. The transcript did mention the fact the meeting place had been 'upgraded' to suit their needs. I think they serve Muslim kosher meals there now. And the restaurant is owned by Jack Andrews, Unum's main money-laundering creep."
"Do they have a backroom?"
Jim knows I do not mean a backroom for stock or staff. When we say backroom, we mean safe house. Gordon nods. "Yeah. Steadman was using it about a month ago when we first raided the place for counterfeit currency. We came up empty, everybody walked. We can't get a warrant now."
"Does Steadman know that?"
"I'm pretty certain he'll have figured it out by now."
Faced with only a further three possible places to search, I decide to concentrate my efforts on The Palisades. Gordon can easily dispatch a couple of cars to each of the other locations as a precaution, but I am certain Andrews is the man I need to check-in on. "I will radio you if I uncover anything. How fast can you get an armed unit to that location?"
"Worse comes to worst? Eight minutes."
"That will be more than adequate."
"Just be careful. In spite of all your information, we're still only speculating on Steadman's involvement in this thing. If it turns out he's not driving this meet forward, we'll need to re-think."
"Understood. I'll keep you posted."
It is nine fifty-five P.M. I have been at The Palisades for almost an hour. Thermal imaging and listening devices have picked up enough corroborating evidence to support my hunch the meet is happening here. Steadman has arrived on scene and must therefore be involved in some way. I relay all this to Gordon. I am finding the boy's absence difficult. I miss him. Regardless of my personal feelings, my focus must remain on the current situation. I engineer a way inside using a loose window pane on the second floor and stay out of sight.
It is closing on ten thirty P.M. Thermals reveal the arrival of three more individuals to the restaurant area beneath my position. They will soon be moving to the backroom. Steadman is already there, waiting. He has an elevated heart rate. There is potential for disaster; all participants in this meeting are carrying firearms. I leave my position and head downstairs to the first floor. I am now directly above the backroom. I begin cutting a hole in the floor for access purposes. I am mindful of lighting fixtures and electrical wiring. What happens in the next few seconds had not been anticipated. I am struck from behind with a heavy and blunt object. The force with which it is swung is sufficient to knock me to the ground. Despite the strength and shock absorption capabilities of my cowl, I am still struggling to remain conscious. As I attempt to get up from the floor I am struck again. Then I black out…