Franks, Fists, and Felons

[The Spirit]

They say that when the food of a city dies, the heart of that city dies with it. As a boy, I could remember a hot dog vendor on virtually every corner, each with their own theme and shtick, their colorful umbrellas, and their lines of regulars at lunch time. From eleven o'clock to one, every weekday, the working men and women, pencil pushers and keyboard crunchers, secretaries and executives alike, would all pour out of their offices and high-rises like termites from a colony to feast upon pork or beef-based delicacies nestled between steamed, split buns.

Toppings defined cultures, and rival stands would compete, pitting flavor against flavor, method against method, as they pitched culinary gladiatorial combat with each other from opposite ends of crosswalks. Chopped white onion battled against sauerkraut, the pickle war raged between wedges or relish, while tomatoes, peppers, garlic and green onions fought to be heard. Even the simple face-off of ketchup versus mustard divided office pools to their unique vendors, while the lesser war of sausage versus frank played out, hidden beneath a camouflage of fixins, beguiling the tastebuds of connoisseurs regardless of their topping preference.

But then came the burger invasion. Middle America crept in, with their beef patties and their slices of cheese, their simple lettuce and the gall to apply mayonnaise to a meat-based lunch food. Burgers were simple, tasteless, mass-produced, and assembled by know-nothing teenagers with more pimples than brain cells. No craft, no art, but one by one, the hot dog vendors vanished, fading into the folds of time as Big Bellys and Lexburgers opened up in storefronts that used to house independent businesses. The chains moved in, using their meat-driven muscle to squeeze the life out of the honest frank man, until the simple cart with its signature umbrella became but a thing of the past. Those office drones who once dined upon artisan franks gave up their individuality to shovel fast food schlock down their gullets, only to then complain about getting fat and needing a gym membership. You don't need to hit the treadmill after a proper hot dog, folks; it's the lifeblood of nutrition, itself.

So I walk down the grimy streets, filthy with the discarded promise Gotham once held, and Big Belly wrappers. My brown Oxfords stick to the pavement momentarily, ripping away from it with each following step like the protest of velcro, a dark sheen of soot, chewed gum, sick, and God knows what else darkening the cracked sidewalk on Third Avenue. I can still see the footprint of Lawson's franks on the corner, that telltale scar etched forever into the city's history by the brake spike of his lopsided cart. A glance down the alley reveals nothing of interes; I'm still too far uptown for the petty thugs to have to cling to such footholds, though you'd never know it from all the closed and boarded shop windows. Across the street, the sickly neon glow of a Big Belly pours out onto the sidewalk like a cancer, sucking the life from those foolish enough to pass by its doors. I stick to the other side, valuing my soul. When you've been in the grave, once, you begin to value such things even more, for some odd reason.

These days, though, folks don't seem to value much of anything. The shining tower on a hill that Gotham had once been had fallen to crime and jealousy, to wickedness and hardened hearts, to scum and villainy. What good people were left knew to stay off the streets after dark, or to stay out of the Narrows in general, but I had my reasons for going there, even under the cloudy skies of night.

Bojack's Franks.

Nothing in the world could cap an evening like a hot, kosher Czech frank on a split toasted onion bun, loaded with a garlic dill pickle wedge, fresh-cut white onions, deli mustard and a dash of black sesame seeds, and in all of Gotham, there remained only one stand to get one: Bojack's Franks.

Old Bojack had held down the corner of Wesson and Third since the days of Moses, it was said, and from the lines in the old man's face, I believed it. His cart seemed something left over from the Industrial Revolution, his umbrella could have sheltered Cleopatra, but his food... oh his food was surely a gift worthy of the gods of Olympus, themselves. I could see Zeus pushing Hera and her ambrosia away for a single bite of a Bojack frank.

The trek from uptown to the Narrows didn't take long, as evil has a way of creeping up on you before you realize it, and I pulled my blue trenchcoat tigher, fighting the reeking wind that fled from an alley even the rats avoided. Rats. I remember when they were what you worried about most in the seediest parts of the Narrows, but these days it seemed to be Crows. Crows were plentiful, but not too smart, I'd found, and most were pathetic fighters. Too much Street Fighter and Grand Theft Auto, not enough discipline. Oh, but for the worthwhile brawlers and boxers of yesteryear; those could try my talents in the ring, where I fancied myself to possess a PHD in the sweet science. But they were all on films, these days, in black and white celluloid which seemed to age as badly as Gotham itself.

"The works," I say to old Bojack, and the ancient Czech jew's face lights up in a smile which shifted the craggy continents of his face.

"You got it, Spirit," he answers. His tip jar is looking light, this evening, so I push in a pair of twenties.

"Notice any bird migrations, today?" I ask. It's a clever way of masking what I really mean, implying the Crows, and their movements. Or at least I thought it was clever, but Bojack didn't as I had to explain it to him the first time that I'd asked that question, thus nullifying any effect of either subterfuge or jocularity I'd attempted. I only repeated it as sometimes dead things can come back to life.

Bojack's gnarled hands worked like the steely claws of a steam shovel, operating mechanically as he never broke eye contact. "A bit," he says. "Few vans down at the old paint warehouse. One or two holed up in the radio shop across the way, likely lookouts. Hungry boys, tonight, but lousy tippers."

"I saw. Hope I made up for it. They give you any trouble?"

At that, Bojack stopped, an avalanche of wrinkles falling down his face as his glared at me from under those wild, bushy eyebrows. "Son, no one gives old Bojack trouble. Some have tried, but I'm still here. This city will crumble before I give up my corner."

To this, I lay a gloved hand over my heart and bow in apology, "Bojack, I believe it. And as long as you're still here, there's hope for the stomachs of Gotham."

He hands me my frank, wrapped in that silvery paper, and I toss another twenty into his tip jar.

"I wouldn't go down there, tonight, Spirit," he warns. "Don't want to see you ruin another suit. You're not the Batman, you know."

I've already unwrapped my frank, shoving a mouthful of heaven into my face, and I speak around it. "Exshactly. Don't need no gimmicks, I got these fists."

"And they have guns, Denny."

I twitch as he uses my real name. For a moment it sounds strange upon my ears, as I haven't gone by that name since I woke up in my coffin five years ago. Since then I've been The Spirit; a crimefighter in suit, tie and a mask, working hand in hand with the GCPD. When you're living on borrowed time, you realize what's important, after all. Forcing down that mouthful sooner than I would have preferred, I clear my throat.

"In that case, I'll check them for permits. Thanks for the dinner, Bojack. See you 'round."

He doesn't bid me good night; Bojack never says goodbye to anyone, it makes them feel like they never left, and need more. At least that's what he told me. Sounded good, so I went with it.

A quarter pound of frank, with all the fixins, blessed my tastebuds for two blocks as I headed straight for the old paint warehouse. If the Crows were setting up shop, well, I wanted to see what they were selling.

[Connor Kent]

Connor wasn’t allowed inside when a deal was going down, so he patrolled the perimeter with the rest of the grunts. It wouldn’t take long, he figured. The Chinatown boys turned up in, of all things, a takeout van emblazoned with red dragons and bright golden characters. In the Narrows, it was about as subtle as a balaclava in a bank. Turk and his friends would be itching to get rid of them as soon as possible and, as he pictured them, shaking sweaty hands over cratefuls of red hot goods, he couldn’t help but smirk. In their twisted pursuit to be seen as legitimate businessmen, the most prominent members of the Crows had taken to wearing black suits, black ties, and white shirts. They looked smart, in a Reservoir Dogs kind of way - he saw that movie recently, at Mo’s request - offset only by the glossy black beaks protruding from the ubiquitous trademark masks. While Connor, on the other hand, and the others, had to make do with their regular duds, which, he suspected, was part of the reason why they had been banished outside, into the cold night - anything to maintain the illusion.

It was with considerable reluctance he was allowed to tag along in the first place. He was relatively new to the gang, and something of an unknown quantity. There were things hidden from him, and the guys went to no trouble to disguise that fact. The message was clear: he was not trusted, not fully, not yet. But that would change. His presence at the Birdhouse was instead the product of a recent incident involving a certain ass-kicking redhead. It was Mo who discovered the blog and brought it to the attention of the others; the Quick Stop had been compromised and, while Owlish scouted for a new base of operations, Connor had been reduced to living out of the van. Though a decent night’s sleep had become the stuff of legend, he couldn’t resent the Oracle for his sudden displacement, because, without her, he might never have found out about the drugs.

He no longer had any illusions about what he was involved in, and about the kinds of deals taking place inside the old warehouse.

Where the rest of the Narrows diminished before falling into the harbor, the Birdhouse, as it was affectionately called, stood defiant, a last stand against inexorable decline. It was found on a stretch of lonely road, soldiered by flickering lamps and derelict shops that snarled like a row of broken teeth. The main body of the warehouse was three storeys tall, and about as long as a football field, but, over the course of its long life, it had grown: extensions sprouted like tumors, transforming the building into a massive heaving monstrosity that drew long rasping breaths whenever the wind picked up.

From inside, there came the rumble of a car engine. Connor looked to the windows, where the glare of headlamps danced on broken glass. The Chinatown boys were leaving. Finally. He watched the obnoxious little van as it turned onto the road and shrank into the distance. Then, instead of entering the warehouse, he doubled back, following the lines in the fractured walls to where they met an office extension. He pressed himself up against the bricks and listened. It was an hour until the next pick-up, and he had it, from Turk, that the brains behind the masks were gathering to discuss other business. It was this ‘other business’ that interested Connor most. However, even with his advanced hearing, beyond the wall, the voices were but a shapeless murmur. It was no good. He had to get inside.

[The Spirit]

My eyes follow that van. I've seen it, and others like it around, and all I can think of is violence, and crispy sweet and sour pork, over a bed of fluffy white rice, and covered in a glaze of sickly-sweet red sauce. If I hadn't just eaten a quarter pound of nirvana, I know my stomach would be dragging me back to Chinatown, where I'd curse my cheap chopsticks for not breaking down the middle correctly. They never did. I'm certain its some sort of Chinese practical joke.

What wasn't a joke, though, was Triad operation in my city, or that I should have sprang that extra two bucks for a bottle of Fawcett City Fizz - the perfect companion for a Bojack frank. Or, maybe not. As much as I love root beer, the thought of a sudden, roaring belch while trying to keep my cover wasn't an appealing one, especially after what happened the last time I did that. Instead, I figure it's time I look into getting myself a new radio.

A lookout can be a strange thing, and the quality of said lookout depends entirely upon the professionalism of the gang they work for. Triad lookouts are the best. Alert, logical, trustworthy; they know their position is one of honor and trust. But your average street gang? Lookout is a punishment. When you've bungled something, or can't be trusted with part of the actual operation, a typical street gang will put you on lookout thinking that's best for everyone involved. You can't mess up what they're doing, and they get to feel more important, doing the work themselves. From my experience, the Crows did not share the same philosophy on lookouts as the Triads, and that was lucky for me. Meant I got to bust a few heads before really getting the party started.

The front door to the old radio shop would be locked, naturally, and the bars on the windows added to a sense of security to those inside, so I bypass them entirely and slip around back. Immediately I can tell that the shop is a front, as the dumpster isn't pulled right up next to the back door. Any merchant in this area wouldn't want to take one more step in that alley than they have to, so if the Crows were walking freely, it meant that they felt they owned the place. The back door itself is old, likely as old as the building. Rusting steel with at least three coats of paint showing through its bruised and battered surface, it stands as the only thing between me and the lookouts themselves. Well, that, and the pair of locks on the door. Old locks, at that. The Crows are either overconfident, or operating on a budget. I suspect a bit of both.

A pair of lockpicks makes short work of the old door locks, and quietly at that. Few drops of oil on the hinges, and I'm silently inside. Inside, though, is anything but silence. There's a game on, tonight. Gotham Knights vs. the Star City Sentinels, and they've got the game turned up loud. Definitely not Triad-grade lookouts, these two.
In the light of a television screen, I can see them both, watching the away game with rapt attention. I could be doing jumping jacks outside the front window, and they wouldn't have a clue. And even if they did, the few empty beer bottles I spot means they wouldn't mount much of an organized resistance. I do so love drunk idiots, they make my job so much easier. Looks to be a bad game, though. The Knights QB is in shambles, 3 for 18 on passes, according to the overly-loud announcer, and these two boys don't look too happy as he puts up an interception.

Their howls of derision allow me to sneak up behind their chairs, and I grin. "They really should have put in Macklinson, at the half," I say with a sigh.

"No kidding, DeBrees has been-" The first of the two lookouts begins to agree with me before he realizes I shouldn't be there, then the games begin. Both fellows leap to their feet, one of them stumbling over his folding chair as it falls backwards. Perfect.

Before he knows it's coming, I level the stumbling lookout with a right cross, and he goes down like a sack of potatoes. The old kind of sack, the burlap ones, not the new plastic bags. Burlap potato sacks fall with a glorious sort of tumble and crumple. Plastic ones just sort of bounce and bend sickly. Ruined a whole afternoon, once, to be honest.

The second fellow, he's more alert, but I can still smell the beer on his breath. He takes a wild swing at me, and it goes wide as I sidestep. Fellows today don't have any form, and he telegraphs his next two punches before I see him reaching into his jacket for a gun. I have to give this one credit, to be honest. Too many thugs and low-lives think that the front of their pants is the best place for a handgun, but I know that's just a good way to shoot yourself in more than your foot. As the Knights collapse beneath a Sentinel onslaught for a Star City touchdown, I see the pistol emerge. What a noob, I think to myself, using one of those words the hip kids these day like so much. I'm expecting a Beretta, or a Glock, or even a 1911, something useful and practical, you know? But into the light comes the heavy, awkward, and totally unmanageable frame of a Desert Eagle. The .50 cal, no less. Clearly this young man has been watching too many movies.

As he attempts to lift the four pound brick of a handgun up to fire, I'm on him. A left hook to the wrist sends his gun to the floor, while a right jab finds his nose. As the replay of the touchdown begins, I can see the stream of blood pouring down from his nostrils and over his lips and chin like an Andrew W.K. album cover. Time to party.

He's already reeling from his first-ever broken nose, so I go in to finish the job. Left and right to the face, then a left to the gut to wind him doubles him over. An uppercut finishes the job as the television transitions from the game to a snickers commercial. I didn't used to be able to take down thugs in only a few punches, but that was before I had lead powder in the knuckles of my gloves. His fall is less graceful, crashing down over his chair. Neither had the time to sound any kind of alarm, and I make sure they won't be able to, either. A few electrical cords from their shop supply work handily to bind the two fellows up - and together - before I lash them to the john in the what has to be the second least hygienic bathroom I've ever been in, in a radio shop.

Returning to the main room of the shop, the TV is still on, and I have to fight the urge to sit and watch the last quarter of the game. Tempting as it is, I give it a pass, as I know the Knights have no chance of winning, by this point, so instead I just take up that massive Desert Eagle handgun and tuck it into the built-in holster under the left arm of my trenchcoat. It's like cramming a Cadillac into a garage built for a Beetle, but I make it fit. Don't intend to use it, but perhaps the GCPD can run it for ballistics, after my sneak and peek is over. Speaking of which, now that the coast was clear, I head back over to the paint warehouse.

My brown Oxfords make little noise as I creep through the shadows. Here and there I spot a possible lookout, but they're either smoking those new electronic vape things, or busy looking the other way. I recall gangsters being far more attentive, from the films of my youth. When I make it to one of the grimy, brick walls, I flatten against it. I need to get inside, need to see what was going down, and what new product was about to hit the streets. If I could feed that information to the Commissioner, I'd stay on the GCPD's good side. Maybe snap a few pictures, while I was at it. Creeping along, I stuck to the shadows until at last I spotted a door. The looks looked newer that those on the radio shop, but perhaps only by a decade or so. Lockpicks make short work of it, in any case, and I feel the latch turn under my hand.

[Connor Kent]

Behind the warehouse, there was a window as high as Connor’s knee. It was easy to miss, what with the small jungle of billowing weeds that groped at the walls and knotted themselves against the glass. He trampled the weeds and crouched to probe the edges of the window; the wood was soft, like cardboard, and gave up the fight without so much as a groan. With the window open, he scrambled inside, and found himself in a basement. Presently, he was stood on what he assumed was some sort of desk - it was too dark to tell, and the only light was threaded in through the windows on murky wisps of grey - he closed the window behind him and dropped down.

On the floorboards overhead, there were footsteps. There were voices too, but, as he strained to listen, he found the only thing he could really hear was the sound of own breath, amplified inside his mask. The mask was ripped off in an instant and discarded onto the desk. That was much better. Through the shadows, he followed the creaking of the floorboards and the dull thud of feet, navigating a convoluted maze of boxes and veiled furniture. A stark flash of light painted everything white for just a heartbeat, and then darkness, again. But the image had been burned into the back of Connor’s eyes, and he swept through the rest of the basement with ease. And, as he reached the stairs, sure enough, there was a low rumble of thunder. Just another night in glorious Gotham.

A chorus of scraping chairs sounded the start of the meeting upstairs. Though there was nothing distinguishable from the drone of voices, he was able to identify Turk’s deep and authoritative notes. What was he involved in that was so important that it had to kept secret from the rest of his drug-dealing buddies? Curiosity urged Connor up the stairs and through the door; a slither, at first, but it seemed the dusty hall was empty. It made sense: why have a secret meeting at all if you allowed the grunts to eavesdrop outside? Safe in the knowledge that he was alone, Connor advanced on light feet in search of a neighbouring office.

[Batgirl]

Oh, Babs is going to kill me. Straight up murder me. I am actually a dead woman.

Stephanie had made some very specific promises regarding the new Batgirl suit, and her vigilante actions in general. Barbara Gordon, the Oracle and all round badass thanks to her police commissioner father, had agreed to train Stephanie to be a better vigilante, to teach her more than high school gymnastics and how to fight from the streets, in exchange for forgoing her Spoiler identity and becoming Gotham's newest vigilante; the Batgirl. However, she had also agreed to only go out and do this under Oracle's supervision, and only when Oracle said that she was ready. And right now, she was deemed Not Ready. With capitals.

But crime didn't wait, right? Batman didn't just chill at home while people were out on the streets dying and getting robbed because he thought he wasn't ready. And didn't managing to steal the Batgirl suit without alerting Oracle prove that she was ready? Besides, she'd been doing her Spoiler thing for a while, and while, yes, okay, she only handled the small robberies and things in her league, she had at least done some good. She knew what she was doing. And now she'd tasted the Batgirl suit and its tech, there was no way she was going back to her home made cape and mask.

So maybe Oracle had envisioned the debut of Batgirl as a hi-tech affair, with all the backing of one of the city's greatest hackers, surveillance networks, advanced information and more, and instead it was Stephanie feeling very much like a naughty school girl and trying not to scuff the suit so she'd never find out, but it didn't matter. Batgirl was out of her cage now, and determined to see what she could achieve.

She'd spotted the triad van leaving the warehouse like so many others, and knew it was an official sign of Something Big Going Down. For a moment, her stomach knotted. Was she really ready for this? Oracle believed that Stephanie could be up there with the real city vigilantes. Not just a nobody in a mask helping out small crimes, but that she had real potential. But Stephanie usually found if she was outnumbered, she was lucky to walk away. She wasn't Batman. Not yet. And that self doubt began to creep in to her mind. Maybe this was too big for her. Maybe Oracle had a point...

She glanced down at the symbol on her chest. The bat. Unofficial, of course. She doubted Batman would be thrilled. But... she was wearing the bat. She had a symbol to live up too. Running away wasn't an option. Something was happening and she had to investigate what. Besides, stealth was something she was actually pretty good at. Any girl, especially a physically small one like Steph, learned how to hide well when you spent a lot of time in the Narrows. And when your father was a supervillain. It came in handy then too.

From her vantage point, and with the advanced vision lenses that had dropped down over her eyes while scanning (this suit rocked), she spotted a figure making his way in through a low basement window, and she smiled. This was getting more interesting. Now she was curious. Something was going on even odder than she expected, and well, Oracle was meant to be the mistress of information, right? So technically, Stephanie owed it to her to find out what was going on...

Decision made, Stephanie grappled down from her vantage point, and made her way over to the narrow window, that had been closed. She forced it open, and slipped silently inside, landing softly in the darkness, thankful that her small frame had made that so easy, even if the Batgirl suit was surprisingly not ideal for such an action with its cape and more restrictive heavy protective material, compared to her light homemade Spoiler outfit. She began to follow the person in question safely, silently, and actually for Stephanie, skilfully, pausing only to pick up the discarded mask.

He's a Crow. Why's a Crow spying on the Crows?

She followed, careful on the floorboards, heavy protective boots still muffled thanks to the need for stealth; the suit really was well made. She followed the figure, who appeared to be searching for his own place to eavesdrop. He was going to be a problem, but he was clearly here to spy too. An undercover cop maybe? Steph's choices were drop him quickly, or try to work with him. Both not great.

She decided to try the latter first, and go for the former if he resisted. He didn't look like much. She suspected she could take him down easily, especially with some of the things Oracle had taught her lately. She snuck up behind him and tapped him on the shoulder, placing a finger over her lips to 'shh' him.
"Guess we're both not meant to be here, so you keep quiet, I keep quiet, and we both get what we want, right?" She whispered, trying to offer him a winning smile.

[Connor Kent]

His first instinct was to attack; at the surprise touch, he wheeled around, fist raised, ready to silence his ambusher. But he hesitated. It wasn’t the wry smile, or the words, or the fact that he’d just been shushed by a girl about a quarter of his size that stayed his hand, but rather, the horror show of a sight that greeted him in the gloom. What the hell was she wearing!? Against his will, he felt the disbelief seep into his muscles, pulling his face into what was in all likelihood an unflattering combination of raised eyebrows, narrowed eyes, and a mouth that had no idea what to say. What did you say to something like that?

“O… kay.” Apparently. The word limped over his lips, crippled with uncertainty. Whoever this girl was, whatever she wanted, she wanted it quietly. That was the most important thing that resonated beyond the surprise appearance, beyond the ridiculous outfit. Hell, the Clown Prince of Gotham himself was welcome to tag along, too, as long as he agreed to keep a lid on it. So, with his back reattached to the wall, he continued his advance, only to pause briefly and regard this… Batgirl… once more:

“You’re not going to start any trouble, right?”

[Batgirl]

Alright, Steph didn't know what you called that facial expression on the Crow's face, but it wasn't a good one, she knew that. She also knew that he was a bit larger than she'd originally thought, both in stature and musculature, and she was suddenly aware that no matter how impressive her Batgirl costume, her petite stature made her anything but threatening. Not that Steph wasn't used to being smaller than everybody else she had to deal with, just, well, when there were only two of you in close proximity in a dangerous situation, it was the type of thing that went through your mind.

"Do I look like the trouble causing type?" Steph asked sweetly, although she couldn't quite keep the sarcasm from her voice. Yeah, of course Batgirl wasn't going to cause any trouble. But for now, it would be a good idea to agree with the Crow-who-might-not-be-a-Crow so she could spy in peace. If things went, well, bad, then she'd interfere and she supposed she hadn't technically said she wasn't going to start trouble, so she still wasn't a liar, right?

"And don't give me that look. I saw your mask back there. You're not exactly a 'dress normal' type either." She added, because she saw his look at her Batgirl outfit, and the fact that despite the fact he should obviously think she looked awesome, he was a little bit stunned and confused by it all.

[The Spirit]

The warehouse is quiet as a bar's bathroom on a Sunday morning, or at least my particular doorway opens up into a room that is such. No coat racks, no lunch bags, no backpacks or sling bags: this clearly isn't an entrance which was used very often by the Crows. Good for me, but also bad. Now I could raid their lunch bags to see if there was a spare bottle of Fawcett City Fizz, around. I'll have to stop by Bojack's again on the way back, that settles it.

Your average hero would simply barrel on into the next room, and complain about it being dark. This is why I'm not average. You don't stay alive in this gig for five years with no powers if you're average. I wait there for about five minutes, letting my eyes adjust from the streetlights outside to the dim light of the warehouse's interior, until I can see full detail. Adjusting your eyes from dark to light is far easier than going from light to dark, after all, and I paid attention in my science classes. I paid special attention in them when it involved blowing things up, but that's neither here nor there, and about average for a teenage boy.

The door to the next room is inviting, until something dawns on me. The Desert Eagle I picked up from the thug, while ridiculous, might come in useful in a pinch, here, so I'd better make sure it's actually loaded. I can't tell you how many thugs I've come across that simply waved around an empty pistol. With ammunition being so readily available and decently-priced, these days, there's no excuse to not even go down to your nearest Lex-Mart and pick some up. Thankfully, this fellow seems to have done so. Eight rounds of the completely overkill .50 caliber load for this boat anchor of a handgun. Like a teenager tucking a condom in his wallet, I put the gun away and pray I won't need it, but I get the feeling it'll be making an appearance again before the night is through.

That sorted, it's off on an urban exploring adventure as I slip through the second door and into the warehouse proper. What appeared as a haphazard mess of expansion upon unplanned expansion from the outside revealed itself to be a labyrinthine mess on the inside, and I could still smell the old paint fumes. Smells like... home improvement. And frustration. I shake off the cobwebs of kitchen decoration nightmares to clear my head for the task at hand, my heart tell me I was making too many mental references to body parts, but that was just a gut feeling. I'm on the ground floor to the warehouse, and while I know it's got a basement, all the action is going to go down, here. Why move product up or down stairs if you don't have to, after all? Waste of time and effort, and with the Crows pulling its members from the street, I doubted any of them wanted to do more work than they absolutely had to. The laziness of crime is a glorious thing, at times.

The same laziness appears to translate directly to the poor quality of the overhead lighting. At least half the bulbs and tubes in here seem to be burnt out, but the effort of locating a ladder, and sending someone down to the hardware store in a birdie mask seems to be beyond this lot. Or maybe they did send someone, but he just pocketed the cash and wandered off. In either case, OSHA would find this place in serious violation of workplace lighting standards, and deal a hefty fine, or at least I like to think so as I snap a few pictures on my little pocket camera. It's got a Bat-symbol on the shutter button, so I presume ol' Batty lost it at some point. All I know is that it's got a stunning resolution, and it's shutter is more silent than a fart in a crowded elevator. Already I can see stacks of boxes, and bags of what I presume to be narcotics, all laid out on tables to be sorted. I need a closer look though, and there's only one way to get it: I have to get closer.

To get closer means to risk being spotted, and despite my domino mask, I'm fairly certain the Crows will know I'm not one of their own, so it's either thin their numbers, or get a disguise. As I round a corner, the opportunity arises for me to do both. A smaller man in a Crow mask halts mid-step as he sees me. I'm expecting him to cry out, or sound some kind of alarm, but instead he reaches for a pistol at his hip. Bad move. Before he can draw it, I close the twenty foot gap between us, and lay him out with a hard right cross. Mask or not, he's out like a light, and I catch him as he falls, letting him down easier than I've been at the end of a few date nights. Mask acquired, I take a moment to check out his gun, hoping it's better than the fanboy special I've already picked up. It's a subcompact .25. Worthless. I let him keep it, and glance about for a place to stash the body. Heaven knows if or when he'll come to, so I can't leave him here, but the sight of a doorway and a flight of stairs gives me a way out. Tugging the crow mask on over my own, I realize two things. One, visibility isn't too bad, and two, my breath reeks of onions, mustard, and sausage. I can feel myself getting hungry, again, and I don't need the help of some two-bit palm reader to know that a return trip to Bojack's cart is definitely in my near future.

Time to put sleeping beauty to bed, though, and I haul him down the wooden steps, thankful he wasn't one of those fat, basement-dwelling nerd thugs that have become so popular lately. Round the corner at the foot of the stairs, I place him face down, rather crumpled. No time to tie him up, and nowhere better to hide him, it's the best I can do. Should one of his compatriots stumble across him, they can presume he took a tumble down the steps. Of course, kids these days would probably also laugh and draw dicks on his face in permanent marker, but I'm above that. And I don't have a marker on me.

Ready to head back upstairs, I pause. There's noise up there. Voices. Apparently my unconscious new friend, here, had friends of his own; friends who would now be looking for him. And, from the sudden introduction of a piercing beam of light down into the stairwell, they also appeared to be friends gifted with the benefit of a flashlight. The last place I want to be caught was in the basement, for reasons made obvious in Inglorious Basterds, and so I make a dash for it. My footsteps would easily be covered by the tromping sound of elephants coming down the creaky wooden steps behind me. Dashing around crates, barrels, and all manner of debris, I spot another stairwell at the far end of the basement. At least I was right about one thing: the Crows have been too lazy to store any of their goods, down here; everything's still got the Mephisto Paint logos on it.

My feet take the stairs three at a time, clearing the lower level just before the light hits it. No clue where I'm going to end up, but anywhere's better than here. Hand on the doorknob, I twist, and burst out into a hallway beyond. Dearie me, I seem to have found the offices. Door closed and a wooden chair wedging it shut beneath the knob, I feel reasonably secure I can't be followed. It works in the comics, right?

[Connor Kent]

So the pointy-eared one was remarking upon his fashion choices, now? If she only knew his reasons for wearing that stupid bird mask in the first place. And Connor was about to tell her, too, just as Humphrey Bogart stormed into the corridor. He watched, dumbstruck, as the masked man closed the door behind him and, with a flourish of trenchcoat, wedged a chair under the handle. Was that his mask he was wearing? He was definitely not one of the guys - his behaviour, alone, betrayed as much. A glance of renewed disbelief was sent the girl’s way, to see if she was having as much difficulty as he was believing his eyes, which was ridiculous, because she was wearing a damn cape!

From the wall, Connor peeled himself, and considered the latest in a series of bizarre arrivals. The usual flood of who’s, what’s, and why’s threatened to drown his reason, but above all that, kept afloat by the pervasive dread of discovery, was one important question:

“Hey, you,” he hissed, “Were you followed?”

[Batgirl]

Okay, Steph was happy handling the one who seemed to be a traitor, but when another Crow entered the room, she realised that things were getting worse. He was in a mask, so clearly one of the men, and unlike Connor, she didn't spot that his behaviour was in any odd. Had she had Oracle in her ear (like Babs had always intended) perhaps she would have pointed out the fact that he was clearly not one of the Crows, since he was blocking the door and not dressed like a typical thug, but since she wasn't, Steph didn't work that out and knew she had to act fast.

"No, I wasn't." She hissed back, assuming he was talking to her. "But don't worry, I've got this." And with that, she moved forward rapidly, grabbed the intruder's head from behind, and moved to slam it in to the wall as he was positioning the chair. Her plan was to knock him unconscious before he could alert anybody.

That was the plan.

[The Spirit]

I hear voices. Perfect. I escape one set of thugs only to run into whispering ones. It has been my experience that someone who whispers is inherently more dangerous than someone who shouts. In fact, I'd say that -

I didn't get the chance to finish that thought, as I felt a hand on the back of my head, and saw the door drawing close at quite a rapid speed. B'THUNK! It takes me a moment to piece together the series of events which just occurred, and sort out where I currently stood in the process. One, I had entered a room where I wasn't alone. Two, whoever was in there with me apparently didn't like Crows, either. Three, at least one of them had taken a self-defense course. Four, my face was meant to connect with the door, but my eyes remained two inches from it, my head unable to move. And, five, either this mask is stronger than expected, of these doors definitely aren't oak.

"Owwwww..." I groan in a most undignified way, prepared to slump to the floor when I realize I'm stuck. Not just stuck, but literally pinned to the door. Whoever had shoved me had done so with enough force to jam the beak into the door like a spike. If it wasn't me in this position, I suppose I'd have found it quite comical, as this sort of thing generally only happens in cartoons. But it is me. It's always me, and if whoever it was had hit me once, they were certain to try again when they realized I wasn't out cold. Tugging back, I snap the strings of the mask and wrench away, one hand on my hat, the other wheeling back in a fist to grab the arm of whoever it was who'd shoved me, pin it, and slam them into the wall.

It was only then that I saw the pointy bits on top of their head, and the realization washed over me like a bucket of Gatorade on a coach after an NFL game: I'd just caught the Batman!

[Connor Kent]

When the girl answered the question, his brow knitted in confusion. By the time he looked at her, she was on the move. In retrospect, perhaps he would be able to appreciate just how impressive it was to see someone her size manhandle the imposter Crow, but at the time, all Connor could do was hold his hands up, as if he could cast some sort of mind-altering spell to derail her present destructive course of action. Upon impact, the beak was buried into the door with a woodpecker thrum. Frozen, a deer in headlights, Connor listened for the scrape of seats and the thunder of feet - but it never came. Whatever “other business” was being discussed, it had to be downright riveting.

His moment of reverie was broken by a startling crunch. Now the masked man, who, unmasked, remained a masked man, had driven the costumed girl into a wall. If this was allowed to go on, the whole damn warehouse would descend on them in no time. With a tic of annoyance, he advanced to snuff out the flame of stupidity before it became an inferno. One hand on each of the ostentatious pair, he drove them apart without fuss, and positioned himself between them.

“Stop it, both of you. Do you want to get yourselves killed?” The words skittered over his teeth like steam. “He’s not a Crow. She’s not a Crow. I’m not a Crow.”

Finally, they were released, and both found themselves on the receiving end of a good scowling. Connor was not impressed: his espionage was being sabotaged. Time was running out, and, if he was to make any progress, there could be no more violent outbursts. It was cards on the table time:

“So,” he said to them both, “Who are you and what the hell are you doing here?”

[The Spirit]

I feel myself pulled away with considerable force, but knowing I'm not out of the woods, yet, I keep my voice down. First things first, I straighten my hat, coat and tie. Just because there's danger doesn't mean a fella can't look his best, right? And, despite all this, I can still beat Batman to the punch.

"I'm The Spirit, maybe you've heard of me?" I whisper with confidence and a smile. The good smile, not the one for cameras. "Got a tip the Crows were starting up something big. Came to check it out. Looks like Batman did, too, but that doesn't explain you, kid."

Only then do I look over, and notice that Batman is shorter than I had imagined. And had long, blonde hair. And a perky pair of breasts. I start to get the sneaking suspicion that this isn't actually Batman at all.

[Batgirl]

"Ohf!" Steph swallowed her grunt as she was thrown in to the wall, dislodging Generic Landscape #3 that was hanging there in the process. Despite the suited man having one of her arms locked up, she caught the falling picture with the other before it could shatter on the ground. She might have been in a fight, but she was darned if she was going to make a noise while doing it. Of course, she also had to not laugh at the whole mask incident either, which was also tricky.

But before anything else could happen, they were separated by the other guy. With far more force than Steph expected. He was larger than her, but who wasn't? But he had strength like he was made of steel, and for a moment, Steph was very glad she wasn't fighting him.

Then the Spirit introduced himself.
"Ohhhh, right. You're that guy on the celery!" She smiled, remembering him. Although quite why a celery mascot was helping them here she didn't know. "Also, that's Batgirl. If the whole... hair... make-up... breasts... thing didn't give it away..." She added, before pausing. "Wait, you don't know the Big B do you? Do me a favour, kinda, don't mention this whole... 'Batgirl' thing... to him? It's a bit unofficial." She quickly explained, in case this masked guy knew him.

[Connor Kent]

Once the masked guy was done talking, Connor felt he had at least a tenuous grasp of what he was about, coupling his talk of receiving a tip with the apparent dress sense of a man who’d seen too many old noir films. Then, in a handful of words, the girl completely threw him for a loop. But she wasn’t done there: she was, as he’d predicted, some sort of Batgirl, who made a point of mentioning her more feminine features, including her breasts. Connor glanced on instinct, but quickly averted his eyes with the manner of someone who’d been tricked. She went on to talk about Batman, with a casual sort of mall rat patter that was at odds with her very rough and ready ice-breaking technique. That she bore the bat crest in an unofficial capacity should’ve come as no surprise, but, as far as Connor was concerned, the only thing official about a man or a woman who dressed like a bat was that they needed to be institutionalised.

He tore his incredulous gaze away from the Batgirl, and considered the one who called himself the Spirit. A half-step away afforded him a good look, from bottom to top, and, from the sum of all his parts, the only thing Connor could think to ask of this man was:

“You sell celery?”

[The Spirit]

Curiouser and curiouser is a phrase I might have used if I were British. As it stood, I imagined things were just plain weird. Crows, a Batgirl, and some teenage boy, all holed up in the same rotting warehouse, which only meant my night was about to get so much worse since I likely interrupted some sort of dare-based makeout session. At least one of them recognized me.

"I don't sell it," I clarified. "They just license my image for a reasonable fee." There, not the first time I've had to say that, and likely won't be the last, but at least my name and image are tied to a healthy, fresh, and nutritious foodstuff than Batman's cavity-inspiring and diabetes-inducing sugary toaster pastries. Though it is neat how the Bat-Signal appears on the side when you toast them, I have to admit. All you can do with celery is turn its veins blue, if you leave a stalk in a cup of water with blue food coloring, overnight, which is pretty neat, I suppose. It's a fun science experiment for the whole family!

But, getting back to the task at hand, I now had two likely horny teenagers to deal with, which certainly wasn't going to make my job any easier. "Now you know who I am, I ought to ask who you are, and what you're doing here. If you've come looking for a spot to make out, I can assure you that while I understand, this is a particularly dangerous place to be doing that. Also, it's a school night."

[Batgirl]

"Really?" Steph asked sceptically, hands on her hips, cocked to the side slightly. "Really?" She repeated, totally sceptical of the Spirit's new assumption. "I tell you I'm Batgirl, I'm in a den of thieves in a hi-tech crime fighting suit, and you think I'm here to make out with the guy who looks like he should be on the cover of Car Thief Monthly?" She jabbed a thumb in his general direction. "Uh, no offence." She added in Connor's direction. "No wonder the best thing you could get sponsored on was celery..." She added with a sigh. "And how do you know I'm a teenager anyway?" She added defensively, even if doing so was a dead give away.

"I'm here because I saw a triad van leaving this place, and these guys are the Crows, and now they're having a super important meeting. And that means that something big is happening. It's okay. The Triad were probably before your time, gramps." She said to the Spirit. "I don't think they had them in the 19th Century." Okay, that was petty, but he deserved it for the make out comment.

"As for him..." She pointed at Connor. "He abandoned a Crow mask before coming here. Means either he is one, and wants to know what the bosses are up to, or he's undercover spying on them, and couldn't make it in to the big meeting, so is also spying on them." She determined. "What?" She asked innocently afterwards. "I'm Batgirl. I'm a detective too, y'know?" She told them, even if it was mostly a lie. Stephanie wasn't a particularly good detective at all, but now she wore the symbol, she knew she had to start.

[The Spirit]

"The Triads have been around for hundreds of years, when they formed as the Heaven and Earth Society, and have survived even the harshest crackdowns," I correct this Batgirl. Finally, the History Channel is coming in good for something! Still, she talks a lot, so I look over to the young man, hoping he'll make some semblance of sense in this pastiche of bungling we seem to find ourselves all stuck in.

[Connor Kent]

From one to the other, and back again, he looked. Once he was certain they were done talking, he introduced himself with a slight lift of the chin, “Connor.”

In the company of Batgirl and the Spirit, the normality of his name clanged like a cartoon anvil on his foot. Though an absence of an alias might seem somewhat unprofessional, given his present activities, he fired his name like a flare at the masked strangers, to illuminate the absurdity of their life choices. And, as if it wasn’t enough that they had silly names and Halloween costumes, they both spoke like they were lifted from the pages of some comic book. A moment passed, and they had discussed celery, making out, and the Triads. When the Spirit finished an impromptu, and totally irrelevant, history lesson, purely for the sake of refuting Batgirl’s sass, Connor discovered something about each of them:

While the Spirit had to have the last word, Batgirl, it seemed, made a grab for every word.

“I’m undercover,” he said, with a nod of confirmation at Batgirl, who correctly deduced the truth behind his actions in the first place, “I write a blog that investigates crime in Gotham.”

The lie came easily, because the truth was a whole novel’s worth of weird, and he was in no mood to tell stories. He retreated a step and glanced down the dusty corridor.

“And I don’t have time for this. Let’s go.”

[Batgirl]

"What was that? Sorry, you bored me to sleep." Steph quipped back to the Spirit as he tried to correct her over history and Triads and whatever, that really wasn't the point. He was like a Babs 2.0 it seemed, and she already had enough know-it-all helpers in her life. Plus she was really enjoying winding up the old fuddy duddy and seeing what would happen.

Of course, Connor introduced himself next, to which Steph thought very little, until his lie about the blog. Curiosity piqued, after all, Oracle had her blog, she decided to ask the obvious question.
"Yeah? What's the blog called? I've got a friend who writes a similar one." She said simply, but curiously. And he claimed he didn't have time for, well, whatever was going on here. To that, Steph smiled. "Sounds like you need a Bat Gadget or two. Check this out." She beamed an enthusiastic smile, obviously excited to use her new tech, removing from her belt a tiny bat shaped device. "It's a super sensitive microphone. If we stick it to the outside wall of their meeting room, it'll pick up everything." She smiled, as she turned it in her hand.

Suddenly, her smile vanished.
"Uh, that is... uh... there should be a button on this thing somewhere... I just gotta.... uh...." She paused. "...I have no idea how to turn this thing on." She admitted. That was why Babs did the tech stuff! It was probably linked back to Oracle's HQ, where she'd activate it remotely or something. Some kind of super high tech-

"Oh wait, got it!" She said cheerfully as she accidently clicked down the centre of the bat logo and a tiny blue light came on.

[The Spirit]

Undercover reporter. How many times had I used that lie? None. Doesn't work when you're wearing a mask, and it sure wasn't working for me, now. But since the kid hadn't raised the alarm, and didn't appear afraid of one of Bats' vampirelings, I was willing to grant him a slide, in order to figure the truth out later. Tennagers are rubbish at keeping secrets. I know, I used to be one.

Then Batgirl keeps talking. And talking. And talking and talking and talking, before she starts fiddling with some new Q-gadget or the like. Personally I'm on the Amazo side of the mobile phone platform; Q-OS is too restrictive, I feel, and the accessories are all overpriced. Whatever it is, it's clear she has no idea what she's doing, and it's time for the adult to handle things.

My blue-gloved finger reaches in and carefully depresses the button, clicking the device back off. "If you don't know how to use it, you don't know the many ways it could go wrong," I whisper. "Let's put that away, shall we? Let's go with tried and true."

I've got her distracted with the device, so it's easy enough to reach behind myself and snag an old, dusty mug off of the small table behind me. Popping it up into my hand, I leave the youngsters guessing as I sidle silently over toward where I can hear muffled voices. Sneaky peeks into an adjoining office revealed it to be empty, and so I placed the mug cup-side to the wall, and pressed my ear against the base. It was a trick likely older than Bojack, but it hadn't failed me yet. If they're smart, the two kids will follow my lead. But they're teenagers, nobody ever said they came in "smart."

[Connor Kent]

"Yeah? What's the blog called? I've got a friend who writes a similar one."

"Gotham Crime Blog."

Connor didn't afford the World's Perkiest Detective a second glance as he answered. It was a verbal shrug. Whoever said a lie needed to be complicated anyway? Besides, she was already playing with some cute little Batgirl device that was actually shaped like a bat. He shook his head, and turned away, wearing an incredulous grin. One step was as far as he got before the Spirit swooped into play and resumed his uncommon double-act with the mini vigilante. By the time he was listening to the bottom of a glass, Connor found himself wondering how this Spirit guy ever managed to get dressed in the morning.

"Hey, genius," he said, arms folded, "That's the wrong room."

Without another word, he turned, and vanished around a corner.

[Batgirl]

Steph snatched back her listening device, and glanced at the Spirit with her best 'I knew that' look on her face when Connor told her they were listening to the wrong room.
"My device would pick up their voices anyway." She said proudly, giving his stupid glass one final triumphant look, before hurrying after Connor.

"So, Gotham Crime Blog sounds more like a blog written by, y'know, a crime enthusiast. Like, if I made 'Steph's Shoe Blog', you'd assume it was 'cause I was passionate about shoes, right? Not because I wanted to stop all shoes." She went on, because shutting up was a foreign concept to Steph. "Uh, I mean, if my name was 'Steph' that is. Which it totally isn't." She added quickly, realising what she just said. "That was just an example." She added in the typically over-guilty way of talking too much to cover a lie. Not that doing so was any different from Steph normally.

"So, what room is it then? Care to point it out? Then my gadget can do the listening and we can leave the cups on the table where they belong." She asked, still triumphant over how much better her bat mic was compared to the Spirit just lifting up a glass.

[Barbara Gordon]

"Steph." Barbara's voice spoke quietly in Batgirl's ear. "Did you steal the suit and run out to the Narrows even though I said you weren't ready yet and you weren't allowed to do anything without me?"

[The Spirit]

Of course it was the wrong room; it was a practical demonstration of an old-school sleuthing technique. Not like I'd show them how to do it on the correct room, right off; this pair clearly needed practice. Too quick with the glass and you tap the wall, alerting whoever was on the other side. Practice makes perfect. Practice practice practice. It's practically a four-letter word to teenagers, these days.

Something else I've practiced is never being the target, among a group. If these two wanted to go ahead, sure, I'd let them, just meant that if we encounter some no-goodnik with a piece, they take a bullet before me. Youth before beauty, and all that, blah blah blah.

At last the black-haired kid stops, indicating to the correct room, and I flip my glass over in my hand. It's a deft catch, like I'd expect anything else. Placing it to the wall, I listen for real, this time. Little miss vampire can use all her fancy toys: a good, old-fashioned highball will never run out of batteries when you need it most.