[center][img]https://i.imgur.com/sg3M1Yo.png[/img][/center] [b]Dutch Hill 3:51 PM[/b] Alfred Pennyworth stepped lightly down the basement steps with a mug of coffee in his hands. It wasn’t a particularly long descent down into the bowels of the brownstone, maybe a dozen steps, but the hot coffee was incentive for him to watch each step. The building was set up to house multiple families on each floor, and the basement was no different. It had been used that way in the years before Alfred and Phillip bought the house, but the two of them had turned it into a single family home. When Bruce turned thirteen he’d moved into the basement, partially Alfred’s idea, to give him a semi-autonomous space away from the two older men. They were just using it for storage before that, and Alfred was sure that Bruce could make better use of it then they ever good. The former royal marine Alfred had called it Bruce’s safe harbor. But the boy had a different name for it. He called it “the cave.” And Alfred had been right about Bruce utilizing the space. The basement was now the nerve center of Bruce’s ongoing war. Large monitors with digital, real-time maps of Gotham covered three of the four walls. The fourth wall had an actual paper map of the city and the subway system that ran underneath the streets. Two metal work tables were islands in the middle of the room. Bruce’s suit was laid on one table and neatly folded, the utility belt he wore stretched out beside it. The other island held an assortment of gadgets and devices, some weapons while others served defensive and surveillance purposes. There was the little drone shaped like a bat. A black motorcycle had been propped against the tables as well. Bruce was seated in front of a desk that had been pushed up against the wall with the paper map. He had stripped down the black compression shirt and pants he always wore underneath the suit. On the desk in front of him were two computer monitors. On one monitor was a digital copy of a report with an ATF watermark on it. On the other monitor was a mugshot of a very familiar face. “Ms. Kyle again,” Alfred said as he passed the coffee cup to Bruce. “I assume some valuable jewel has gone missing.” “Not this time,” said Bruce. “It seems that since last we saw her, Selina has shifted into a new line of work. Recovery instead of theft.” “So now she’s hired to steal back stolen things,” Alfred said with a chuckle. “And what precious commodity will her sticky fingers try to ensnare?” “Information,” Bruce said as he clicked away from the mugshot and pulled up a surveillance photo of a fat man smoking a cigar. “Someone out there is crazy enough to blackmail Rupert Thorne. And he’s hired her to find out who it is and to recover the blackmail.” “Is it wrong that I’m actually rooting for the blackmailer?" Alfred asked with a raised eyebrow. "And also may I ask what part the bat will play in all of this?” “I’m giving her a long leash on this one, but watching close enough so that I can swoop in for the evidence when the time is right.” “How very third-wave feminist of you,” said Alfred. Bruce stifled a laugh as he took a sip from his coffee cup. Alfred always liked to see him smile. It reminded him of how young Bruce actually was. Only thirty years old and not that far removed from the sad little boy Phillip had brought home all those years ago. “While that situation develops, I’m turning my focus towards Gordon’s tip.” He sat his cup down beside the keyboard and brought up another mugshot. This one showed a surly, long haired man with an iron cross tattoo on his cheek and a tattoo around his throat that read “Make America White Again.” The corner of the photo stamped the picture as having been taken at Belle Reve Federal Penitentiary. “Arthur Blackwood,” said Bruce. “President of the Gotham Chapter of the Crusaders Motorcycle Club and a registered metahuman. Blackwood and the club are on just about every law enforcement radar. ATF, FBI, some organization known as ARGUS that monitors metahuman activity. The three agencies have an ongoing investigation into the club. Operation: Templar. They’re in the process of trying to get surveillance and search warrants on Blackwood and his club.” “And you know this how?” “The ATF agent in charge of the operation uses ‘password123’ as his password for everything.” Alfred watched as Bruce scrolled through pictures of guns that had been recovered as Gotham crime scenes. Automatic weapons, high-powered handguns, grenades. Even a few rocket launchers. It was equipment that belonged on a battlefield and nowhere near a drug dealer's reach. “The Crusaders are running guns into the city for Jefferson Skeevers and his men. Gordon thinks that Skeevers is going to try to take over drug markets in the Finger Homes.” “That’s Falcone territory,” Alfred said with a look towards one of the maps on the monitors. The city block sized housing project had been painted grey on the map, marking it as Italian mafia turf. “Or Maroni territory. Whichever mobster is at the helm these days.” “If Skeevers goes into the Finger with those kinds of weapons--” “I can only imagine,” said Alfred. “What are you going to do?” Bruce turned back to the computer. “The ATF need more probable cause to raid the Crusaders clubhouse. According to their surveillance, Blackwood and a few of the bikers are coming back into town tonight after a run out west. Based on the conjecture, they’re going to be packing heavy equipment.” Alfred’s eyes fell on the bike. “Tonight I’m going to give the authorities all the probable cause they need,” said Bruce. --- [b]Financial District 4:23 PM[/b] To Selina, Fred Stickley lived up to his surname. His suit was very baggy on his pencil-thin frame. An equally thin mustache ran across his upper lip and his thinning hair was styled in a way that tried to hide the inevitable baldness that was coming for him, but only ended up drawing more attention to it. Stickley held Selina’s business card in his hands. He looked it over with a curious glance before motioning her to follow him down the hallway. “While it is highly irregular for me to discuss the business of Heed, McElroy, & Standler, Mr. Thorne’s name does open a lot of doors.” She followed Stickley down the halls. For a non-descript downtown investment firm, the building was richly decorated with plush carpets and the mahogany walls had tasteful art mounted on them, art that Selin'as trained eye knew had to be worth at least six figures to the right fence. With the basic corporate security in charge of protecting the building, it would only take her less than fifteen minutes to get in and out with all the paintings. She added the office to her mental list of jobs she could pull if she ever needed fast cash. “So,” Stickley said once they were in his corner office. He took his seat behind the desk while Selina sat down across from him. “What is it that I can help you, and by extension, Mr. Thorne with?” “You’re money launderers, right?” Selina asked with no preamble. Stickley’s face turned red so quickly that Selina was worried the man had had a stroke. “I don’t-- I--- How dare you--” “Thorne said as much without saying it,” she said, raising a hand. “The decor here is too upscale for you to be just a regular hedgefund office. You court high-end clientele, or at least people who think they are. Despite the flash you show behind the door, you're not publicly known the way the bigger firms are. The small footprint is a selling point to people who appreciate you being quiet. Plus there’s the fact that Rupert Thorne is one of your clients. If you do business with a man like that, then there’s no telling who else you do business with.” “I will not sit here and take this kind of slander,” Stickley shouted. “I don’t care what you do, Mr. Stickley," she said with a sigh. "I’ve got a job to do. And a client who is paying me a lot of money to help him. I just want to know how Thorne is getting blackmailed over his financial records. Records that your firm only has access to, recoards you're responsible for safekeeping.” Stickley moaned and rubbed his temples. He shook his head before reaching into the drawer of his desk and pulling out a bottle of scotch and two glasses. He poured both glasses full to the brim. “No thanks,” said Selina. “I wasn’t offering,” Stickley said as he downed one glass, then the other. “What I say to you does not leave this room,” he said after a scotch-soaked burp. "This firm has built its business and its reputation on anonymity and discretion. Our clients come to us for that.” Selina spread her hands. “I understand. I travel in similar circles, I get it.” He sighed and rubbed his eyes. “Two weeks ago our database was hacked by someone. Information on all our clients, their accounts, and where their money comes from and where it goes, was all taken. So far none of it has been siphoned off by the hacker. But the letters aren’t unique. Mr. Thorne isn’t the first to be blackmailed. There are a lot of people out there, Ms. Kyle, very powerful, very rich, and very angry. It's been a disaster for the firm, but so far we've done a good job keeping a lid on it. Everyone thinks that they're the only ones." Selina leaned forward. “Tell me about the other letters, Mr. Stickley-- Fred.” He shrugged. “I can’t. I don’t know any information in regards to the blackmail attempts, just that they’re occurring. I can show you the email I received after the hack.” A few moments later, she was looking down at Stickley’s phone. The email had been sent from a dummy account, but the message was written in that same ugly green font. [center][color=32CD32]??? The rich and powerful rule us all. The rich and powerful will fall. The rich and powerful have had their fun. The rich and powerful’s time is done. The rich and powerful have had their say. The rich and powerful will pay. Riddle Me This: How Do You Spell Candy With Two Letters? ???[/color][/center] Selina looked up from the phone. She passed it back to Stickley before she stood. “Thank you for your time.” “What are you going to do now,” he asked sheepishly. “I have an idea. And I have a friend who can help.” --- [b]Unincorporated Gotham 9:30 PM[/b] A small fleet of motorcycles roared down the expressway. They formed a diamond shape as they took up three lanes of traffic. In the center of the diamond was a cargo van. At the tip of the diamond rode Blackwood. They were now in the home stretch after a thirty hour ride from Houston. They only stopped for gas and bathroom breaks, eating in between gassing and pissing. The longer they delayed their return, the greater the chance there was for something to go sideways on the trip back home. And there was no way in hell Blackwood was going to risk something going wrong. The cargo van was loaded down with the finest weapons on the black market. Some of the last weapons Stark Industries had produced before they shut it all down. As much as Blackwood had paid for the guns, he knew Skeevers would pay ten times as much for them. Some of the club didn’t like doing business with him, but Blackwood told them to fuck off. This was America, after all. Skeevers money spent as good as anyone else's. As much as he obsessed over race, green was his favorite color. The way he saw it was that if he could make money and help a few niggers wipe each other out, well that was a win-win for him. Blackwood held his hand out and signaled the other bikers to slow. They were finally back home in Billyland. The name had been derisively given to this part of Unincorporated Gotham, the place where the people from Kentucky, Tennessee, and West Virginia had migrated to in search of jobs after World War II. With its trailer parks and white trash, Billyland clung tightly to its reputation as a place that no upstanding Gothamite ever ventured to. Something passed overhead and caused Blackwood to look up. A small object flew in the sky above the convoy and matched its speed. It took him a few moments, but then he figured out just what it was. A drone. Painted jet black and… in the shape of a bat. “Oh, fuck,” said Blackwood. He heard a roar from behind. The sound of yelling was loud enough to be heard over the engine of his bike. Gunshots rang out, the squeal of tires, and then the crunch of metal. Blackwood looked back and saw Little Walter's bike sliding towards the concrete median of the expressway, Little Walter clinging to it as it slid. Blackwood looked forward again and kept one hand on the handlebars while the other reached down and pulled a shotgun from the holster mounted on the side of his chopper. He looked back over his shoulder and saw another bike barreling down on him. [img]https://i.imgur.com/bDCGtXK.jpg[/img] “Fuck!” he screamed as he opened fire with the shotgun.