He dropped into the city, plummeting toward the streets. His cape flared, catching the wind. The grapple gun snapped up. He swung wide around a building, thumbed the release, the cable retracted, and he launched skyward. Then gravity took hold. He fell again. Fired.
A click buzzed in his ear. Then a cackle.
"I see you've already dug into Jason Todd."
"Only public information," he replied, voice tight.
"I don't believe IRS records are public," said Alfred. Light tapping echoed on keys. "Works in port maintenance for Schreck Logistics. Not very glamorous, I must say. Graduated high school last year. Parents deceased and worked at—oh dear—Daggett Industries."
"They were part of the asbestos tort in the seventies." His boots hit a ledge. "Daggett's plaster was laced with it."
"If my memory serves, Mister Roland Daggett knew as early as '65 but paid off the right officials."
He fired again. The line anchored. He leaned back and dropped.
Alfred continued. "The family got a modest settlement. Covered the bills. But the father died in '72. The mother—last year. Both from complications."
Rain lashed his back as he rappelled down.
"After graduation it seems Mr. Todd started work at the docks. Smart lad. If he stays, he'll make union. Of course, Carmine's got his hooks in there. Still—not bad for a kid straight out of school. Pays well enough that he can reside in the nicer parts of the Upper East Side."
Todd's apartment was sixty-five stories up. He stopped at the living room window. He jimmied the latch until it opened, then pushed past plastic curtains.
The apartment was spare. No photos. No decor. Just a couch, a modest TV, a square table. A place of necessity, not life. It all felt…familiar.
He moved toward the countertop overlooking the sink, where a corded phone was mounted on the narrow strip of wall above it. Mail was fanned out across the laminate surface: Schreck Logistics pay stubs, twelve-hour shifts, five days a week. A stack of bills, none overdue.
The bedroom was the same: queen bed, two nightstands, closet. Nothing else.
He checked under the bed. Clear. Then the closet: basic tees, jeans. On the floor, grappling mitts, free weights, a worn black canvas bookbag.
He unzipped it.
Inside: night vision goggles, a detailed Gotham map. Red lines crisscrossed the surface. He recognized the pattern.
"He's mapping the sewer tunnels," he muttered, noting the large X's marking specific areas long Elm.
"A hobby you both enjoy," Alfred said.
In a side pocket were several long blades. Pointed ears. Sharp wings. Knockoffs of his own. He placed them back in the bag, and tucked it back in place. The top shelf had two folded towels and a cardboard file box.
He pulled it down and opened it. A thick file sat inside.
Missing persons reports. The backs scribbled with notes. Behind them, neatly written pages: names, dates, venues.
05/25/1980. Inferno Club. The Jackal – white male, average build, punk red hair. Deals at pop-up raves. Supplier: Maroni.
04/01/1980. Deluge Bar, Little Saigon. Cambodian girl, black hair, five foot-two, goes by Nims. Missing friend: Thida Yim. Seventeen, black cropped hair, petite. Last seen on a Saturday. Father filed report with Saigon police (no English).
04/06/1980. Blitz Club, Crime Alley. White male goes by Void. Knew a girl, Sara (real name not known). Vietnamese, Mohawk hair, worked at a record store off Miller Avenue. No official report. Lived with brother.
Then a line near the bottom:
Chiarello Hotel. Korean male goes by Razor. Said his ex was being stalked—aggressive, obsessive male Hispanic or Filipino (mid twenties). Last seen two weeks ago.
"He's investigating them."
"Come again?"
"He was following a lead. That's why he was at the hotel."
"So as I suspected—a fellow crime-fighter."
"Why would he get involved?"
"Must one always need a reason to care?"
"There's always a catalyst."
The front doorknob jiggled.
Todd entered in a gray jumper. His keys and wallet hit the counter. He unbuttoned the top half and let it hang at his waist. A white tank clung to his chest. He yawned, dragging himself to the bedroom. The closet was shut. He stepped into the bathroom.
He flicked on the light, turned on the faucet and splashed water onto his face.
Then darkness.
He froze, hunched over the sink.
In the mirror, white glowing eyes.
"Shit," he breathed. It was all he managed before he was slammed forward.
His cheek hit laminate. His left arm pinned between his chest and the sink. His right arm twisted up behind him. Fingers crushed into his wrist. Pressure surged through his elbow and into the shoulder socket.
"Don't break my arm," he gasped. "I'll talk—just don't—"
The grip tightened.
Water continued to run.
"Why did you run?"
"I figured you were looking for me."
The arm bent. He grunted in pain.
"Why?"
"F-Ferguson," he hissed. "Because of Ferguson."
"What about him?"
"I called it in. I saw the cops who dumped him. Just let me talk, alright?"
The grip released.
Todd collapsed, cradling his arm like it had been torn and reattached. He looked up, defeated.
"I can't make a statement. If the cops know it was me, they'll kill me. It has to be enough that they found Ferguson."
"Why were you in the Hills?"
"I wasn't. I was heading to Saint Luke's. Saw a brand new black Diplomat—government plates. Only the worst cops get the new cars. Got curious so I followed. I saw what they did."
"And the girl on Elm?"
"I went to the Cathedral after the call. Checked in with some people. On the way out, I cut through an alley. I saw her—she was screaming. I tried to help, but…I was too late."
Darkness wrapped the space around them. The faucet still running. Todd squinted like it might help him see better. They always squinted in the dark.
"Why are you looking into missing girls?"
Todd rubbed his arm and stayed on the floor.
"I worked with a girl named Trinh, she went missing. She was part of the office staff. One day, she just didn't show. No one cared enough to file a report."
"Her family?"
"Her mom died. She had no one else."
Everyone had a reason. This was his.
"She mentioned a club—Inferno. Invited me once. Not really my scene. But she was close with a girl named Jamie who worked at record store. I found her in Little Saigon. Jamie said they went to the Inferno, then Trinh went home with some guy. I started asking questions. One lead became two. Then it just…kept going."
When Todd looked up again, he was alone.
Rain swept across the rooftop. His cape flared slightly as he stood, waiting. The thick folder split open in his hands; pages dampened quickly as he skimmed them. He snapped it shut. It was detailed, careful, meticulous. And that bothered him.
Alfred's voice crackled softly in his ear. "I'm here."
Overhead, the jet hovered in silence, shrouded by cloud and downpour. He fired the grapple. It caught with a mechanical click, and the winch hauled him upward into the dark belly of the aircraft.
Inside, Alfred sat at the controls, backlit by dim console light.
"Well?" he asked.
He dropped the file into the seat behind him. "It's detailed. We'll cross-reference with what we've got. Contacts, times, names—How far?"
"Entering Uptown now."
Alfred glanced over. "And what about our young amateur vigilante?"
"What about him?"
"He's proven useful."
"And?"
"Must I spell it out?"
He knew what Alfred meant. The answer had already formed long before the question.
"Did you page her?"
"As requested, Master Wayne."
He almost flinched at the title. His hand found the release. The door hissed open.
"Allies, Master Wayne," Alfred called as he stepped into the storm, "are not liabilities. They are necessities in war."
He dropped into the night.
The freefall cleared his mind.
Rain lashed his face. The city flared below like a live wire. He fired.
The grapple screamed. The line caught. Just before he vanished into the city, Alfred's words stirred in his mind. Unwelcome and familiar. He pushed them aside, but couldn't shake the feeling.