"Sir!"

Philip reluctantly clicked his pen shut and looked up from his paperwork. There was a group of three men approaching him, the ones he'd assigned to transporting the most recent munitions shipment. They were supposed to have driven away half an hour ago.

"What are you still doing here?" Philip demanded, rising from his seat.

"We had a stowaway," Harrison, the primary driver, grunted, "snuck into the back of the truck when we were loading."

"So shoot him and dump the body off a cliff," Philip snapped. "We don't need you ruining your timetables just because-"

"Sir!" Harrison interrupted. Philip glared at him, and the man quailed slightly but pressed on. "Sir, it's a kid."

Philip froze. He knew he was on very thin ice already. He'd worked for human traffickers, organized a gang of much less discerning drug dealers. Boss had only let Philip into the gang in the first place because he was so good at his job and so willing to follow the Boss's rules. If Boss suspected Philip had even accidentally hurt a kid, he'd get a bullet through his skull before he could blink.

"We're not sure what to do with him," Harrison continued hesitantly. "He was taking pictures, got our faces good before we realized what was going on."

"Next time," Philip said, voice sharp as knives, "don't let the stowaway get your picture."

"Sorry, sir," Harrison muttered. "What, uh, what should we do with the kid?"

Philip hesitated for a moment, then snapped, "Bring him here. I'll deal with him. You three need to go do your deliveries!"

"Yes, sir," Harrison says hurriedly, waving at one of the loaders who had drifted away from the conversation. The loader nodded quickly and vanished back through the door. Philip tapped his fingers on his desk, slowly sinking back into his chair.

The man returned a moment later, escorting a teenager by a heavy hand on their shoulder. Philip leaned forward, inspecting the kid. He had slicked-back black hair and an unnecessary number of piercings, and it was clear that the term 'kid' only barely applied. He was definitely only a teenager, but starting to push the limit. He looked like a typical teenage hoodlum, down to the lackadaisical posture and sunglasses indoors.

"We done now?" the teenager snapped, "Gonna get your fat hands off me and give me back my camera?"

"No," Philip said simply. "I need to know who you're working for."

"I ain't workin' for anyone spe-ci-fic," the teen scoffed, yanking himself free from the grip on his shoulder and slumping down into the seat across from Philip, "I sell my pics to the highest bidder."

"To what end?" While addressing the teenager, Philip made eye contact with the men standing behind him, dismissing them back to their deliveries. One of them deposited a box on Philip's desk, then waved a lazy salute and turned away.

"I'unno." The teenager shrugged, eyeing the box with sharp eyes. "Whatever they wanna do with 'em. Evidence of who's working for who, who's runnin' what, where they're runnin' it to, whatever." He shrugged again, waving a hand in a dismissive gesture. "Not my people, not my problem."

"Well, you've managed to very successfully make it my problem," Philip informed him coldly, pulling one flap of the box open. A well-loved black camera sat in a nest of broken packing peanuts inside. "And I already had enough problems."

"Oh yeah? Whatcha gonna do about it?" the informant spread his hands wide, "You're workin' for Red, you can't touch me."

"Physically, no, there is little I can do to you," Philip agreed, mentally cursing the teenager out. Of course an underground informant would recognize Red Hood's organization, and any teenager on the street would know about the protections Hood offered them.

"However," Philip continued, and even through the sunglasses he could see the teenager's attention lock onto him, "you are an informant by trade. There is no informant without some sort of system, a web of connections that make their information valuable. Cut the web, the informant becomes ignorant, their knowledge disconnected. A disconnected informant is worse than useless, because they know too much and do no good. I won't have to touch you, and in the end, you may end up useful one last time to point out to my Boss who is killing minors."

The teenager leaned back in his chair, face paling and confidence shaken. "You can't do that."

"I assure you I'm entirely capable. I have more connections, more money, and more sway in those circles than you. The Red Hood's protection doesn't make you invulnerable."

"That's-"

"Now," Philip interrupted, cutting the teenager off, "On the other hand, if you cooperate with me, I may even be convinced to give you back your camera."

"…fine." The teenager said stiffly. "What do you want?"

"First, your name," Philip said, whipping his phone out.

"Worm," the informant said immediately.

"Legal name," Philip clarified, raising his eyes to level the teen with a flat look.

"Alvin Draper," the teenager spat with a matching glower.

"Do you prefer Alvin or Worm for business?" Philip asked, already suspecting the answer. He shot a text off to Eugene, telling him to look up records for one Alvin Draper and any rumors of the informant Worm.

The teen scoffed. "Only Family calls me Alvin."

"Worm, then," Philip agreed, not at all phased by the codename, "We can't have sensitive information getting out about our operation here. It's bad for business and bad for our reputation if everyone knows what's going on behind closed doors."

"What does that have to do with me?" Worm demanded. "I can promise not to shell out the pics I've snapped, but there ain't much else I do here."

"I know better than to trust unaffiliated informants to not share information," Philip said flatly. "So, here's my offer to you."

Worm leaned in slightly, a line of tension growing between his shoulders.

"I will pay you for exclusive rights to all information you have gained on the Red Hood's Merry Men in the last three months, as well as the location of this base. You won't sell it to anyone else, you won't talk to your informant contacts about it, you won't even tell your friends. In addition, you won't be going information gathering for three days after this. No taking pictures, no sneaking into places, not even asking questions."

Worm sat back in his chair, mulling it over. His arms crossed and he chewed on his lip. "…fine. I agree."

"Great," Philip said. "I'll get you in contact with our information specialist."

"What about my camera?" Worm demanded.

Philip arched an eyebrow at him. "You get that back in three days."

"And my payment?"

"You'll get your camera back in three days."

Worm snarled at Philip, fury burning in his eyes, but Philip had seen that camera. It was well-used, but very high quality, something he'd only expect from a professional reporter, something expensive. Worth way more than three months of info on one gang and three days of non-work.

Just as Worm opened his mouth to say something, the catwalk door at the roof of the factory swung open with a distinctive metallic warble.

The door leading to the catwalks had been installed as part of converting the abandoned factory into the gang's headquarters. There was no external ladder or fire escape leading to the door. There was only one person who ever used it.

Worm glanced up at the door, brows furrowed with confusion. A moment later they shot up, and Worm gaped as Boss vaulted over the railing and dropped down to the floor of the factory.

"What are you thinking?" Worm snapped, shooting out of his chair.

Philip opened his mouth to warn Worm away – Boss didn't take kindly to unnecessary corrections – but Boss interrupted him.

"Al," Boss said, his helmet modulator stripping all tone from the word. "What are you doing here?"

"Trying to get my camera back," Worm snipped, "after your guys nabbed me."

Instead of going directly into one of his infamous 'how dare you lay a single finger on a minor' rages, Boss snorted, crossing his arms over his chest and tipping his helmet at Worm. "And what did you do to provoke them?"

"I was just doing my job," Worm sniffed, "Investigating a shipment of smuggled weapons."

"My smuggled weapons." The lenses on Boss's helmet glowed dangerously under the shop lights, and even with that dangerous edge aimed at someone else, Philip felt a chill run down his spine.

"Well, maybe if you bothered to tell us what you were doing, we wouldn't keep interrupting your operations!" Worm snapped.

Boss was still for a beat, posture unreadable. "Come with me."

Worm yelped as Boss's hand closed on his wrist, dragging him away from the open factory floor and, Philip realized, the operations that had slowed down to eavesdrop on the conversation. Boss stopped in front of the door to his office, punching in the code with more force than was necessary and yanking the door open. The two vanished into the room, and a moment later, the blinds snapped shut.

Philip sighed, bracing his elbows on the table and pressing his palms to his eyes. His hands were shaking. Alone in the office, the kid could tell Boss anything. And Boss would unequivocally believe him. He was a kid, after all. Teenager, sure, but Boss always, always took the minor's side. Depending on whether Worm realized this and what all he said, Philip might live. At this point, it was useless to try to wriggle out of it. Anyone who tried to run or hide from Boss's vengeance only ended up worse for it.

Despite himself, Philip couldn't help but strain his ears, trying to figure out what Boss and Worm were talking about. There was a bit of shouting at one point, two voices tangling with each other, but Philip couldn't pick up any actual words. After a handful of minutes that felt like hours, the door swung open.

"Philip," Boss called, "Come here." There was a line of restrained rage in his frame, something Philip knew from experience wouldn't be restrained for long.

With a deep breath and a prayer to a god he hadn't intoned since the last time he met Batman face to face, Philip stood. He crossed the room and slipped through the door, standing at attention against the wall, his hands clasped behind his back to hide the violent trembling. It was pathetic to go to your execution a sniveling coward.

Boss was leaning casually against his desk, his helmet and domino and Worm's sunglasses sitting on the desk next to him. Worm was backwards in one of the guest chairs, chin resting on his arms, which were crossed over the back of the chair.

"What's wrong with you?" Worm asked, cutting off Boss before he could speak.

"What?" Philip managed.

"What's wrong with you?" Worm repeated. "You're all…" he sat up straight and freed a hand from the chair to wave vaguely at Philip. "shaky."

Had Worm not realized the sway he had with Boss? But he was an Alley kid. Stupid kids in the Alley didn't last long, and Worm had already pulled the 'you can't hurt a minor' card. It wasn't a big leap to get from there to realizing he could lynch Philip himself with a word or two to the Red Hood.

"I don't believe that's any of your business," Philip told him blandly. It was Boss's business, if Boss cared to ask, but he hadn't yet, so Philip didn't feel the need to share.

"Use your brain for once, Alvin," Boss snapped, anger redirecting at the kid. It wouldn't stay there for long, but it gave Philip a chance to catch his breath and draw his wits around him, steadying the shaking in his hands.

"Fine, fine, whatever." Worm dropped his chin back onto his arms with an emphatic roll of his eyes.

Boss turned away from Worm again and Philip found himself pinned in place by glittering green eyes.

"Alvin told me what you said to him." Marble would have been more expressive than Boss's face.

"Yes, sir," Philip said, struggling for the same sort of neutrality.

"You threatened to eliminate his livelihood and put him at substantial risk for the information he already had." When he said it like that, it made it sound so much worse than it had in Philip's head.

"Yes, sir." Lying would only make his situation worse.

"You refused to return his property to him until he spent three days without any sort of income."

"Yes, sir." Philip was definitely going to die today. He hadn't actually done anything to the kid, so hopefully, Boss would make it quick.

"Good job."

Philip's brain bluescreened.

A tiny smirk quirked the edges of Boss's lips. "I asked Alvin to get caught taking pictures where he shouldn't be –" Boss's eyes flickered briefly to Worm "– which he's always been very good at –" and back to Philip, "– to see how you'd respond without my direct presence acting as a threat."

"It was a test?" Philip managed, his heartbeat pounding in his ears.

"Yes," Boss said. "And you passed."

All the terrified tension flooded out of Philip's body, and he collapsed boneless into the nearest chair. He was sure his face was pale, and his fingers trembled with the adrenaline crash.

Worm let out an impressed whistle. "That was a pretty great poker face, man."

"Just out of curiosity, do you think I just picked a handful of random losers off the street to be my executives?" Boss asked Worm snippily.

"Hey man, 'good at running a gang' and 'great poker face' don't nec-es-sarily overlap. I figured you'd value competency most."

"You would think that."

"Are you sayin' you don't value competency?"

"Well, you're here."

Worm squawked, affronted, and sat upright in his chair.

"Are you two related?"

Glittering green and icy blue eyes turned to him, and Philip found himself pinned down by not one, but two predators. Identically sharp, calculating eyes brimming with calm surety and an unfathomable depth of knowledge. No teenager should look like that. No one younger than forty should have that much deadly focused experience, but here was a teenager who looked like he had seen more in the last two years than Philip had in his entire life.

"Brothers," Worm said finally.

"Another one," Philip said faintly.

"Another one?" Worm turned back to Boss and Philip found he could breathe again without calculating blue eyes peering into his soul.

"I got Rob to help me with that meeting with Napier."

Worm whistled lowly. "What dirt'd you have to dig up for that?"

"That would be telling," Boss smirked, then turned to Philip. "You're good to go now," he said, "I just wanted to make sure you didn't give yourself a heart attack. I'll send you a full performance review later."

"Yes sir." Philip gladly excused himself from the room, leaving what was quickly shaping up to be a legendary battle of wits. Philip would never understand people with siblings.