Detective John Blake shifted on the heels of his feet, scratching at the heavy, brown denim jacket he'd decided to wear. With a grimace, he silently slipped a sawbuck to his partner, Bullock; the hefty man gave a sneerish sort of grin at the younger man and chuckled. "Told ya it was Greathorn and not Wood."

John couldn't believe he'd lost a bet on the layout of his hometown to the new blood. At least they'd found the place. He looked at the name hanging over the building: Sandoval's. Something about the name seemed odd to him; jakey, in a way. But he supposed that was just idle musing and pushed it aside. He waved Harvey after him as he stepped up to the door. Bullock stomped his half-smoked butt under his heel, crushing out the last burning embers as he whistled at the reconstructed entrance.

"Man," he marveled in that strange half-drawl. "I can't believe the place was a smoking crater a month ago. You Gotham folks clean up fast, don't ya?"

John frowned, lamenting his pick of partners, and adjusted the way his jacket hung over his shoulders. "People died here, Detective. Show a little respect."

"Hey, the dead're the dead." Harvey grumbled, fumbling in his pocket for a stick of gum. When tobacco was denied him, he went for minty freshness. He popped no less than three pink strips into his mouth, stuffing the pack back into his coat after offering his partner a few—an offer that was refused. "And for the record, I am showing respect. Respect to what's gotta be the most diligent construction workers on the East Coast."

A heat prickled behind John's ears, but a good officer was patient. Harvey hadn't done anything illegal—yet. Being an ass didn't warrant retribution, no matter how much he'd savor that moment. The ride around town had been a learning experience for the young Detective, that much was sure. Harvey had been no less than ecstatic to share the tales of his own work back in his town. Homicides, suicides, more drugs than you could shake a needle at—Bullock's own words. Blake had nearly choked when he said it. He simply didn't share the man's sense of humor.

The sight that met them was something to behold. The restaurant was every bit the shining beacon it had once been, before Scarface's men had gotten to it. Blake had never been directly affiliated with the case, but he'd been on hand to do cleanup work. Followed Gordon straight into Sandoval's when they'd came onto the scene. Dead civilians left and right, and a troop of made men, crumpled and broken in disgusting shambles of broken bones on the floor. That was the first time that Blake had ever actually seen him. The Batman, that is. Standing in the midst of it all, proud and powerful.

Even as a table sat where the mysterious protector of Gotham had once stood, John could still envision him there. It was so strange to think of him. In a city where the idea of good was just a fairy tale, they'd found it in the form of a monster. He supposed, thematically, it was appropriate. But monstrous though the man seemed, Blake had found himself entranced by the stories—the legends, perhaps. A single individual waging a war on crime, bringing terror to the worst men in the city just by the mention of his name.

So why had he disappeared? Criminals whispered dread rumors that the Bat had died, killed in a single cruel trick by Scarface. That didn't feel right, though. John was no child. But Batman wouldn't die that easily. He wasn't sure why he knew, or how, but he did. He was out there, waiting for something. Maybe it was for the city to prove itself. If Gotham was to have a hero, shouldn't it be worthy of one?

If that was the case, John would be worthy.

He could've gone on that tangent all day—he fell into it more often than he liked. But he was snapped out of it by a young, well-dressed man slipping past a table. His lip was clean-shaven, unlike the reports, but that mussy black hair and his pallor gave him away instantly: Remil Sionis, nephew of Roman Sionis and target for interrogation on the identity of "Wilson".

Before John could speak aloud, a jab to his ribs from his partner's elbow alerted him that, yes, Bullock had spotted him too. The both of them descended down the steps, their flashed badges deterring a hostess coming their way. Their target stopped at a table, leaning over to chat up a few guests. The customer's confusion at the approaching officers snapped him out of this, however, and he turned to face them with a hint of surprise.

"Um, hey!" he said, giving a short wave of his hand. His eyes held a note of surprise, and something deeper: fear. John wasn't surprised. Innocent or guilty, any relative of a crime lord's going to sweat when the cops come a-knocking. He kept up the charm surprisingly well, though. "Sorry, but I'm not setting tables today—I'm sure one of our hostesses would be happy to seat you though!"

Harvey rolled his neck, popping it several times as he smirked. "Don't try the casual act on us, kid. Why don't you step out back with us? We need to talk."

John's eyebrows raised up in shock, and he launched a jolting glare at Harvey. "Chrissakes, don't scare the poor kid!"

He turned back to Remil, who indeed seemed more than a little unnerved at this point, and pressed forward and down with both hands, in a gesture to try and tell him to calm down. He pulled his badge out and showed the young waiter. "Forgive my partner; my name's Detective John Blake, and this is Detective Harvey Bullock. We have a few questions we need to ask her, hopefully in a more private area."

Remil stood still for a moment, looking a bit like a deer caught in headlights as he slowly chewed his lip. But, after a moment, he nodded and gave a casual point back towards the kitchen. "There's an alley out back. I'm due for a smoke break anyway."

"A little young for smoking, aren't you?" Harvey asked, hypocritically chomping down on another cig as preparation for their foray outside. Remil just scoffed, almost bitterly at the notion.

"Hardly," he told them, pushing the door through to the kitchen. "even so, I don't smoke; but if I get an extra break for saying I do, well, the greater good and all."

The kitchen was nothing like the poised, ritzy environment just outside. A rabid, fast-moving hive of panicked cooks moving from dish to dish, shouting orders an ingredient names back and forth as they crafted their cuisine with a furious pace. Remil weaved his way through them all as if he knew precisely where they would be, even before they did. John managed to shuffle through well enough, but Harvey was something akin to a freight train, shoving men aside with nothing more than his unintentional girth and force. They reached a back door after a few turns through the hectic scene, and stepped out into a quiet alley. A few men in white kitchen uniforms were crouched in the alley beside a dumpster, smoke from their cigarettes rising into the air and hanging several feet above them, in a miasma of sloth. With a wave, Remil dismissed them back into the restaurant. They stepped into the dark alley, Remil leaning against the wall where the buildings fully choked off the path. Harvey stood next to the dumpster, lighting his cigarette at last. John stood close to Remil, watching him subtly shuffling away from Detective Bullock. Not inexcusable behavior, considering who he was retreating from.

"Okay, so you've got me alone." Remil told them, flashing a plastic smile. "What do you want?"

"Well for starters," Harvey grumbled, but John cut him off with a chop of his hand through the air.

"Ignore my partner for now." John said with a noted bite in his tone. "Let's start off simple, tell us about yourself."

Remil kicked his heel off the pavement, staring at the pebbles he scattered thoughtlessly as Blake tried to ignore the surly stare he was getting from his fellow detective.

"Don't know what to tell you." Remil admitted, shrugging his shoulders as he slumped a bit, his back to the wall propping him up as he went further and further toward the ground. "At least, I don't know what wouldn't be in your reports. I grew up in Dakota, came to Gotham a year back for my granddad's funeral. I wound up staying. I'm just a normal guy, more or less. I like to read, sunsets, the usual sort of thing."

Harvey leaned forward a bit, letting out a particularly hefty puff of smoke. The embers of his cigarette flared a bit, and Remil's eye twitched at the vivid sight in the dark alley; little sunlight joined them back here, and the red flickers were a sight to behold. The butt was caught between two chubby fingers, and shaken through the air to let the ash fall off.

"You're skirting the topic." The heavy-set detective noted. "There's an elephant in the living room and it's time we took notice; your uncle's one hell of a nasty man—"

Remil held up a hand to cut off the accusations. He didn't look the policemen in the eye, staring at the ground as he quietly admitted, "I know exactly the kind of man my uncle is. Heartless, sadistic… evil, maybe. But I'm not defined by my blood, or my face. I've worked hard to make myself a person independent of his shadow."

"Oh, right, clearly." Harvey chuckled. "So you've clearly cut off every last tie with the man, is that what you're having me believe?"

"What he's trying to say is," John said, trying to butt in; but he was stopped when Harvey detached himself from the wall, striding over with a face beet red from the growing rage.

"No, I will say what I'm tryin' to say!" he bellowed, jamming a sausage of a finger into John's face. The detective did not flinch, but neither did Harvey, leaning in and letting out a torrent of spittle, hot air, and growing frustration. "What kinda hot-shot slum copper do you think gets to treat me like I'm not even on this damn case?!"

John's brow furrowed, and he opened his mouth to protest, but Harvey's louder voice won out.

"Oh yeah, that's right! Betcha didn't think I actually read the files on you backwaters, did ya?! I know all about you, Blake! You grew up with these crooks, down in the little crooks and cracks where civilization couldn't find ya! You sympathize with these low-lifes, don't you?"

The finger became an open palm, shoving John's face into the wall as Harvey howled ever further. "STOP. DEFENDING HIM! We are here for information, not for a goddamned talk show! We don't need his life story, we need information—"

John's imminent retaliation was stopped by a pair of surprisingly strong hands, one settled on Bullock and the other on Blake, pushing them apart with a single shove. Remil Sionis stood between them, glaring at them both.

"If this is the kind of work the Gotham Police do, then I think I'm starting to understand why men like my uncle rule this city!"

The harsh, scolding tone carried an emotional weight, even a sense of maturity and authority that neither John nor Harvey expected. Feeling shamed, they stepped away from each other. With a calmer tone, Remil looked to Harvey. "You don't need to be so hostile, Detective Bullock. Roman is my uncle, but I hold no love for the horrible things he's done to his city."

John saw an expression, almost imperceptible. But he recognized it all the same. There was a good man there, but he was scared, and Blake could guess why. Someone precious to him. Risking their involvement is something a man like that couldn't fathom. But still…

"In that case, we need you to help us, Remil." John told him. "Your uncle isn't the only out there causing havoc. We're trying to catch one now, but he's eluded us. We're hoping Roman might have learned something about him."

"His last name's Wilson." Harvey explained, slowly taking another drag from his cigarette to calm his nerves. "Targets lucrative, high-tech jobs. Think you might be close enough to your uncle to… ask a few questions on our behalf?"

Remil closed his eyes, taking in a deep breath, seemingly to calm his own nerves. When he exhaled, something about him seemed different. He looked… try as he might, Blake couldn't describe the nature of the change. But it was in his eyes, he knew that much. Something had changed in his eyes.

"I think I can do better than that, officers." Remil told them with a smile. "My uncle is a very loose-tongued man, and he's let go of some very sensitive information in my presence."

His face darkened, and with a subtle hint of pleading to his features and his voice added, "But… Detectives, before I can part with this information, please…"

"Whoever it is," John assured him. "you have my word that we'll protect them with our lives."

A wave of relief struck Sionis, whose lips drew into a gracious smile. "Thank you, Detective Blake. That means very much to me. Now, this Wilson… I'm afraid I don't know his name either, but I know a bit about his past. He's a very checkered man; he's been all over the world, working primarily in Europe and Africa. He's built himself a reputation as a mercenary, a man who will commit any crime for the right amount of money. Roman doesn't know why he's going into organized crime now, and neither do I, but he's playing for keeps. He doesn't seem to keep any men past a single job, systematically 'removing' them after each successful heist. He does seem to be receiving very unusual shipments at the wharfs though; as best as I understood, it coming from overseas."

"Wharfs..." John repeated, stroking his chin. An image came to his mind, and his eyes lit up in a shining moment of clarity. Harvey looked at him, confused.

"What'samatter, you got something out of that?"

"He's been playing us, Bullock." John declared. "Playing us this whole time, like fools. He ran us ragged around the wharfs until there was nowhere left to search. We gave up, but, I get it now—that's when he moved in! He's been down there at the docks the whole time!"

"Ya sure?" Harvey asked, a tinge of surprise and maybe a bit of hope in his voice.

"Definitely!" John confirmed, fishing his cell phone out of his pocket. He paused to turn Remil's way, shaking his hand vigorously.

"Thank you for your cooperation, Mr. Sionis—call if you need anything."

"Heh, I suppose I might." The well-dressed boy replied, flashing a friendly smile before turning back towards the restaurant. "Good luck bringing down this guy, both of you!"

He walked back inside, a raised hand his only departing gesture. John gave a silent wish of luck to the boy, and whatever someone he was trying to protect before dialing Commissioner Gordon. The phone only rang once before Jim picked up on the other line, letting off a rattled greeting.

"Commissioner?" John asked. "Commissioner, is everything all right? Did you find Detective Montoya?"

"…Yeah." Jim replied, letting out what had to be his third disoriented sigh of relief. He was sitting on the street corner, Detective Montoya sitting to his left and Victor on her left. "We found her exiting an apartment building; she had to check on her grandparents, but she's fine. What's better, she's picked up a hell of a tip: orphan buddies told her about a man called 'Cargo Wilson' recruiting thugs down in Crime Alley; an old theater that got condemned. We're heading there right now, so meet up with us there."

"B-but, sir, I—"

Click

Gordon had hung up on him. John understood the thought process; so glad to see his subordinate safe, he didn't dare question whatever he was told. So glad to be given a light at the end of this maddening tunnel, he'd sprint towards it without checking if it was an exit, or an oncoming train.

The call had been on speaker phone, for Harvey's benefit. He shared a look with the hefty detective, who by his expression shared his fears.

"Trap?"

"Trap."

The pair took off into the restaurant at a sprint, dashing through everything in their path in a mad race to the car. Gordon was closer to Crime Alley by a significant margin; they'd have to double-time it while they still had a chance.