Gotham Arise #4
The Torch part 4: The Lost Boys
Characters: Barbara Gordon, Jason Todd, Cassandra Cain
Rating: T
Fandom: preboot DCU with a twist
With Bruce Wayne dead, it's up to the ones who once stood in his shadow to take up his torch.
Issue #0: Prologue | Issue #1 | Issue #2 | Issue #3
No matter where you are in Gotham, you're never far from a bad part of town. The patrol car carrying Dick to Gotham Central Police station passed through the Zucco gang's old territory. Stephanie, following the camera trail of the kidnappers' van on her motorbike, passed two drug trade hotspots she knew about and another three she didn't. Even Alfred was less than a mile from a certain corner on Crime Alley when he pulled over on his way back to Wayne Tower after a phone call from Barbara to catch his breath.
For Barbara and Cassandra, the drive from Gotham City Park to the Narrows took less than ten minutes. Now Barbara's green SUV was driving down a dingy street lined with teetering, rickety tenements.
The best architects describe buildings not with measurements and materials, but with emotions. Angry buildings, inviting buildings, obdurate buildings. Cruel buildings.
I used to think that was a load of crap.
Then I lost the use of my legs.
Now, Barbara thought, as she parked the car in front of a narrow brownstone with steep front steps she had to admit that it was starting to make sense.
It's not hard to see a badly designed building as cruel when you can't even walk up the damn front steps.
"We're in the worst part of town," said Cassandra, without affect.
Barbara opened the car door and extended the ramp. "Stay in the car, Cass." She pushed herself down the ramp and her wheels hit the sidewalk with a skidding sound. "I'm going in alone."
A series of muffled thumps echoed through the comm channel. It was Dick, tapping on his earpiece in Morse code because he couldn't talk in front of the police officers: Where are you?
"Getting some answers, Dick. Cass, keep an eye on Stephanie." Barbara switched off her comm piece and removed it from her ear.
Cassandra, in the front seat, nodded at her and sat back.
Barbara was relieved. Any of the others—Dick, mostly—would have insisted they accompany her, help her up the stairs, stand by her like a guard dog. But Barbara didn't need that.
I can be cruel, too.
She pressed a button on her wheelchair arm and the air in her tires began to deflate as the wheels elongated into treads. Another tap and the engine kicked in, moving her up the steps with a muffled whine.
The front door was locked with a simple bolt. Barbara bashed it open with the blunt end of her escrima stick, and rolled inside.
The front hall was dark and dusty. It looked like no one had been inside for months. At the back was a crooked, winding staircase, far too narrow for her wheelchair.
Cruel, obdurate buildings.
Barbara looked up. The stairs formed a square as they spiraled upward, so Barbara could see the other landings. From the side of her wheelchair she withdrew a grapple gun, and fired it upward.
The grappling hook buried itself into the plaster ceiling with a shower of greyish paint. Barbara tugged on it. It didn't budge. So she wound her end of the line under her arms, clipped the line back onto itself and pressed a button. The wire went taught, then began to pull her upward, burning her skin as it slid beneath her arms. Her teeth gritted, Barbara reached below her to grab her wheelchair and fold it up as the line continued to ascend, pulling her up to the top floor.
Once she was hanging level with the top building, Barbara began to swing her wheelchair back and forth until her whole body was swinging, her legs dangling beneath her. On the next swing she unclipped the grappling cord and swung over the railing onto the top floor.
She landed in a heap, the wheelchair on top of her legs. Barbara hauled it off her, opened it up, and pulled herself back into it.
There was only one door on this landing, a narrow moldy-looking entrance without numbers or distinguishing marks. It seemed fragile on first glance, but Barbara could see the steel beneath the chipped paint, as well as the telltale lumps in the plaster wall that hid a security system.
Barbara rolled up to it and rapped on the door.
"Jason! Are you going to let me in or do I have open this door myself?"
There were a series of rapid clicks, then the door swung open and Jason Todd stood in the doorway. He was wearing cargo pants, a thin, tight tee shirt, and no shoes or socks. He smirked as his blue-green eyes leered at her through the white-streaked black hair falling across his forehead.
"Geez, Barbie, you could have called. I barely had time to get dressed."
"Or undressed, as the case may be," said Barbara dryly.
Jason grinned as he stepped away from the door. "Please, come in."
Barbara maneuvered her wheelchair just inside the door, but didn't go any further. Jason's apartment was small and sparse. A mattress lay on the floor in one corner, a backpack brimming with guns and another with body armor beside it. Along the opposite wall was a kitchen counter on which a laptop, a satellite router and three external hard drives were piled dangerously close to a protein shake, an open beer bottle, and a glass of water. Jason's red armored helmet lay on a rickety chair next to the barred window, a medkit on the floor beside it and a knife buried in the wall above it. Other than that the apartment was empty.
"I need information, Jason," said Barbara.
Jason's eyes widened in mock surprise. "What would a little old street rat like me know that the mighty Oracle, Mistress of the Internets, does not?"
"You hear things, Hood. Whispers. Cash payoffs. Things that never make it to a computer. So tell me—what's the analogue world saying about Wayne Enterprises these days?"
Jason leaned back against the kitchen counter and crossed his arms over his chest. "I know William Earle didn't like stepping down as acting chairman of W.E. after Bruce was exonerated in the Vesper Fairchild* murder. And I know he's been frequenting some pretty scuzzy bars of late, buying drinks for some even scuzzier people." Jason bared his teeth in a sharp smile. "Maybe you'll find our little brothers in his basement."
"How did you know?" said Barbara quickly.
Jason bared his teeth in a grin. "I've got 'Wayne Family Fuckery' on my Google News alerts."
"Don't we all."
"Gotham Gazette broke the story twenty minutes ago. But maybe I knew about it before even Ms. Vale did. That's why you're really here, isn't it?"
Barbara raised her eyebrows. "Did you?"
"You tell me."
They stared at each other, Jason's face mocking, Barbara's steely and cold.
"Is that all you've got?" Barbara said finally.
Jason shrugged, still grinning. "On Wayne Enterprises? You kidding? Martin Hoopler in accounting is addicted to smack. Jane Petrovna in shipping used to run with a gang called the Black Feathers. Danica Zhao is the only board member with a spotless record. If you piled up W.E.'s collective shit it'd be taller than Wayne Tower, and I know it all. But why should I help you? I got no love for the replacement or the demon's son. Plus that one's an al Ghul, too, and I got a weird history with them—"
"I've helped you in the past," Barbara interrupted coolly. "Maybe you'd want to return the favor."
Jason snorted. "Yeah, buying me fake IDs so you could track my movements, putting me up in hotels full of your spy toys. Some help."
"You still took some of it."
"Yeah, I did. How does it feel to be aiding and abetting a murderer, Barbie?"
"You don't kill nearly as often as you want us to think, Jason."
"Aw, you're right. You've seen right through my tough guy exterior to the hurting little baby bird underneath. Save me, Batmom, save me."
"I don't have time for this," Barbara snapped.
"Too busy dealing with Wayne family fuckery like always, huh?"
"No. I'm dealing with Gotham fuckery. I don't have time for the Waynes'. Or yours." She turned her wheelchair around. "I'll be back if I need you."
She was out the door when she heard it:
"Hey."
Barbara looked over her shoulder. Jason was still leaning against the dingy kitchen counter, but he was no longer grinning. His bare hands gripped the counter on either side of his hips.
"Is it true?" Jason's voice was low and growling, but soft. He raised his eyes to meet hers. "Is he really...dead?"
"...Looks that way."
Jason bowed his head. When he looked up again his face had changed once more—his mouth was tight, his brows contracted over burning eyes.
"You should go now."
Barbara didn't move. "Jason—"
"Get. Out."
She left.
...
"Your tracing program worked," said Cassandra when Barbara rolled back down the front steps and opened her car door. "Stephanie followed the van to an underground parking garage."
"In Gotham?"
"Yes. Beneath Wayne Tower."
Barbara narrowed her eyes. "Interesting." She leaned forward and started the car. Cassandra was peering out the window, up at the top story window. When Barbara followed her gaze, all she saw was a dark shape moving out of the frame. Barbara put the car in gear. "Has she found the van yet?"
"Haven't heard. Her radio signal cut out when she went in."
"Understandable."
Cassandra gave Barbara a penetrating stare. "I don't understand," she said finally. "Are the kidnappers from Wayne Enterprises, and overconfident, or are they someone else, and trying to frame a Wayne Enterprises employee?"
"Excellent question, Cass. Now I'm thinking we should head to the Bunker instead of the Cave. What about you?"
"That seems—sensible," said Cassandra. She fell silent, her head bobbing as the car drove over the poorly paved street. "...Why did we stop to see Jason?"
"He got back to Gotham two weeks ago. Seemed a little too convenient."
"You think he's involved with Tim and Damian's kidnapping?"
"Not anymore." Barbara's hands tightened on the wheel. "He's up to something, though."
Cassandra frowned thoughtfully. "He knows you know, now. You tipped your hand."
"Even if Jason's not involved with the kidnapping it seems like too good an opportunity for him to pass up. But now that I've smoked him out he'll be too busy finding a new hidey-hole to mess with us."
Cassandra nodded slowly. "You didn't just eliminate him as a suspect...you eliminated him from the game entirely."
Barbara shot her an approving smile. "You're getting the hang of this detective stuff."
Cassandra smiled—but before she could reply a sudden burst of static blasted out of the car radio, then cut to the sound of an explosion and a high-pitched scream.
"Stephanie!" shouted Barbara as Cassandra cried "Batgirl!"
"Oh crap!" Stephanie's voice blurted from the radio over the sound of crumbling rock. "Oh God! Bomb—blew a hole through the wall. Cement wall. Oh my God,—" she was cut off by a loud, painful cough.
"Stephanie!" said Barbara firmly. "Are you hurt?"
"The car," Stephanie groaned. "Tim and Dami—"
A sudden sharp groan, the voice much deeper than Stephanie's, filled the comm and then fell silent.
"Dick," said Barbara. "Dick, hold on, we haven't confirmed anything yet. Batgirl, can you—"
Stephanie's hacking cough again filled the line. "I'll find them. I—I can't see anything yet—but I'll find them, Dick, I'll find them."
…
In the police station, Dick hadn't moved. He was barely even breathing. But the knuckles of the hand curled around his glass of water were white, and the surface of the water trembled slightly as he squeezed.
"Mr. Grayson? You didn't answer my question."
With an effort, Dick looked up. "I'm sorry, Inspector," he said, his voice even. "What did you say?"
Inspector Harvey Bullock scowled down at him.
"I said, Mr. Grayson, if Damian Wayne and Tim Drake-Wayne are as important to you as you claim, why are the gas canisters used in their kidnapping covered with your fingerprints?
…
*Vesper Fairchild's murder took place in Bruce Wayne: Murderer? and Bruce Wayne: Fugitive, a storyline that ran through the Batman series and related books in 2002.