Detectives on the case
As Jason hopped back on his bike, Dick called out from behind him. “All right, child labor laws successfully ignored. Now what?"
"Row kids next," Jason calls back before he turns his bike back on with a roar. It's an effective way of ending an argument before it can start.
Evidently, the bike trick works because Dick doesn't say shit back (though, if he did Jason wouldn't hear without a comms link). The two of them race back through the streets toward the heart of Crime Alley. It isn't until they stop at the stoop of a familiar building that Dick pipes up to ask, "Isn't it a school day?"
Jason immediately slumps. "Yes, yes it is." He adds on an emphatic, "Fuck." Because of course the kid wouldn't be home, just his luck.
"Well," Dick lets out a frustrated chuckle. "I guess we could go back to good old fashioned detective work?" Jason doesn't even wait before he kicks his bike back into motion. He knows where this is going — namely where the two of them are going, if Dick means what he thinks he means.
Leslie's clinic is only a few minutes away at that point, and the route there takes them past so many of the usual pain points of the Alley that it has Jason itching. So much of his week has gone to shit, so much. He doesn't need a wild goose chase on top of that when every shadow reminds him of a different problem on his list. By the time they reach the clinic, his anxious energy has him ratcheted so tight that it takes all of his self control not to bust the door down. Thankfully, Dick gets to the handle before he does.
Dick clears his throat a little before he calls out through the mostly empty clinic. "Doc? You here?" A little girl in the waiting room shoots her… mother(?) a concerned look before she gets preemptively shushed. Dick sees the exchange and goes to take off the helmet but Jason smacks him on the arm before he can.
"You're recognizable, you loon." It's almost like the idiot forgets he's a semi-celebrity while in the confines of Gotham. "We're staying low today, remember?"
"And you're dramatic. We're here all the time," Dick scoffs, wrenching the helmet off before Jason can get another word in edgewise.
Not for a lack of trying, though. His protest of, "That's not the point" — gets cut off when Dick moves away at the the appearance of Doc Thompkins. She lights up when she sees them — at least as much as Doc is likely to light up about anything, he thinks. She motions them to follow as she walks right back out the doors she had come through. The clinic isn't small, but it certainly isn't large. Any idea of privacy that moving to the backroom offers is mostly just a blind hope and a prayer.
Naturally, because of that, Doc is forced to keep her voice down somewhat as she asks, "Do you have something?"
Jason just shakes his head slightly, barely perceptible in the massive motorcycle helmet but his frustrated grunt probably covers for it. "Nothing so far, but we've cast a net," Dick explains a little more helpfully. "We're here to hopefully trace his steps. Can you show me anything? Point a direction?" While Dick tries to get what Jason knows will likely be nothing from the good doctor, Jason shoots a text to Harper.
Blue-Brat
He sees it gets read, a little thumbs up sent in response but that's all.
"Straight out the back like I told the other idiot already. There's nothing here he left behind or anything like that. I can't help you anymore than I could have over the phone," Thompkins huffs as she explains the situation to Dick.
The man holds his hands up and winces. "It's alright, I figured, but it was worth asking." He grabs Jason by the sleeve of his leather jacket and pulls him to the back door. The handle is dented, bent even, in a way it hadn't been when he left the night before. Where the latch nestles in the frame the metal has buckled and chipped in some spots. "Geez, doc. How long has this needed fixed?" Dick looks concerned, but none the wiser to how recent the damage is.
Jason isn't sure if the doc somehow knows the wool is over Dick's eyes or simply has the same feeling Jason had this morning. Either way, her response is coy and doesn't give away the secret Jason has been weirdly intent on keeping. "Who knows. Might be how the boy slipped out so easy even as flustered as he was. If I had a mechanic or two spare seconds to rub together then, who knows, maybe I'd have a working door. Instead, I've got two nagging boys standing here with their heads up their own asses." The message was clear, shooing both of the men out the back door and into the alleyway.
It wasn't much for them to find the odd drop or footprint of blood in the alley and the following trail down the sidewalk. If they had waited, the snow to come might have covered it or washed it away. He and Dick follow it through Crime Alley for as long as they could, but eventually the trail stops cold. "No more blood. Either he stopped the bleeding or something else did," Dick comments, staring at the sidewalk as if it would cave to interrogation.
"Thank you, captain obvious. That concrete ready to spill its guts yet?"
"Har-har."
Jason grimaces under the helmet. "Ew. Don't ever make those sounds again."
Dick grins, something with a manic hint to it that lets Jason know he's made a mistake by complaining. Thankfully, all Dick says for now is, "Well, unless you have any more leads from your child slaves, we'll just have to keep heading this direction. We're racing time, it's best to try and catch up as quickly as possible." Boy Blunder scampers off without waiting for a response, helmet hefted under his arm as he jogs back to their bikes. Jason was a bit more sedate as he actually went to check his phone.
Ben had actually texted him — a rare occurrence for the tiny blonde idiot who normally preferred to call despite the shit-ass quality. It was just a short message mentioning who he had heard back from but the fact that they all came up empty was all that really mattered. Dick snorts at his 'constipated' look when he reaches the bikes (not that he had any fuckin' right to say that, Jason was still wearing a helmet for fuck's sake). "Kids not find anything?"
Jason flips him the bird and starts his bike.
"What?! I'm genuinely asking here, asshole!"
They search the nearest clinics, shelters, food pantries and the like. The closest may be a few streets over, a stretch for anyone in that condition but it was a safe bet for a kid on the mend.
"Do you think the guy has a place to go?" Dick asks as they walk out of the only other clinic in a mile radius.
Jason grunted. "No clue."
"Helpful."
Jason lets the door close onto Dick behind him as they leave the children's shelter (a building that gives Jason hives for a multitude of reasons he doesn't have time to think about).
"But really, did he seem like a street kid? I know we don't have a name and I'm guessing Doc never found an ID, but what's the chance the kid has a home and we're chasing smoke?" Dick throws the door open so fast Jason has to dodge to keep it from smacking him in the ass.
He glares, lost under the helmet but he knows the look is felt. "How the fuck should I know. You agreed to look, didn't you?"
The two men sprint out of an old squat that used to be a street kid favorite. Dick shouts over their pounding boots. "Yeah, yeah! Like I said already, the whole situation is suspicious as hell, but we have nothing to work with!" He throws a look over his shoulder. "And since when are there so many rats?!"
"Fuck if I know!" Jason is not getting Gotham rat diseases, that much he does know. When they finally reach their bikes, neither one really panting but still slightly frazzled, Jason feels a buzzing in his pocket.
Blue-Brat
"The Rows are home," Jason announces to Dick, who is of course already peering over his shoulder. An elbow to the ribs later, and the two of them are cruising back through Crime Alley for the umpteenth time that day. The back and forth through the streets and alleyways has made it feel almost like he was a rat in a maze looking for a piece of cheese that didn't even exist. Or, more simply put, it made Jason feel super fucking annoyed.
Jason knocks on the shitty apartment door in a rundown building as instructed, tapping his foot and cursing under his breath. Over half of the day wasted, lost to looking through the same cursed streets he prowls every night for someone who will probably turn up as a corpse by morning. Another useless, monumental waste of time and another mark for Jason's stupid anger and hatred getting the best of him. Always the best of him and always at the cost of someone else. Another kid's corpse at his feet —
His spiraling is cut off by the door aggressively slamming open. Harper stands in the doorway, a passive look on her face as she holds the door open. "Welcome ladies. Make yourselves at home." Harper abandons the door to walk back inside. The open doorway reveals Cullen waving from the beat-up couch. Harper settles down next to her brother, throwing what looks to be homework further across the table as if it personally offended her. "So, what do you need?" She asks, no prelude.
"Intel," Jason responds, short.
Harper scoffs and both Dick and Cullen perk up like a couple of toddlers watching Sunday cartoons. "Don't you have people for that? What do you need me for?"
"Kids have good info."
"'Kids'?"
"Yeah, kids. And no one else in the Alley is as trustworthy."
The last comment seems enough to satisfy her for now. "Alright. What's up?" Harper throws her feet up on the low coffee table, the leather of the combat boots protesting.
Jason shucks his helmet for the first time in far too long (Dick absolutely has the right idea taking it off every given chance, but at this point Jason feels nearly naked without one even if he wasn't trying to stubbornly prove a point). "A kid… went missing. Trying to see if you know the current hot spots. We hit up all the official type places, but you get more outta the kids than we ever will."
"Another kid?" Harper was sitting up straighter, even if just slightly. Her posture was quickly mirrored by the two men while Cullen seemed to sink into the couch, acting as if he wasn't listening to their conversation at all as he read a textbook.
"Another?" Dick asked. His face was pinched, concern obvious. Jason was sure his concern showed too, but how just well it showed past the rising anger was another question.
Another. Meaning Jason had missed something happening in the Alley. Something was going on and it had completely passed him by. Roman Sionis, murders, Replacement, roof kid. So much had been distracting him. Too much. He failed the Alley because he got probably distracted punching some idiot's face in. He failed the kids because of it.
The grimy walls of the apartment had an even grungier green look to them now.
Harper went on, ignoring the mounting tension in the air like the pro she was. "It hasn't been much, but enough to start to notice. Some regulars at the shelter disappeared, couple kids who always wound up at the clinic stopped coming, things like that. Didn't really put it all together until Betty — Boyg, the blonde with the weird friend and the beanie — she came in and cursed about half of her friends gone like -" Harper snapped her fingers. "Betty's always been dramatic but I've been trying to keep an eye, see if there's anything to see."
Jason leaned forward, ruffling the girl's already messy purple hair without thinking. "Good thinking. Do you know where Betty and her friends usually go?"
Harper bat his hand away like a fussy cat, but nothing more. "First off, fuck you. Second, yeah. They stay closer the reservoir now Ivy's chilled but not too close. One of them's got a shop or something, about halfway between that new shelter and Robinson, right around the red light. They stick to around there or the park, I think."
It was loose, but Jason could work with that. Judging by the set of his shoulders, so could Dick. "Up for a field trip?"
Harper grinned, asking, "Got your gear?"
Peter had done his best to sleep through his restless dreams, did what he could to stay comfortable on the concrete floor, and tried to get over the fact that this was the first real nap he'd taken in over a year. All in all, he did his best to actually sleep the pain away.
What he can't sleep through is the screaming match from earlier coming back for a second round.
The same voices are there again, louder and more aggressive than before. Even Jayne is getting heated, apparently, but Peter has enough faith in the old man that he thinks he could just roll over and go back to sleep and let them sort themselves out.
Unfortunately, he's still Peter Parker and that means he has to look into it at least a little. Just in case.
Peter slinks over to the unit's roller door, his tee shirt bundled under his arm and food safely returned to the hoodie's pocket. Before he can roll the door up, he pulls the hood back over his head for at least the barest sense of anonymity. Peter doesn't rush either way, he has a blind faith in Jayne and his apparent capability with a shotgun. Not to mention the underlying and yet overwhelming fear of drawing their attention. There's no need to rush to protect someone who's in a relatively controlled situation anyway. Right?
This is where Peter would be wrong, not for the first time. The yelling is suddenly accompanied by the sound of the shotgun firing. Echoes of the shot bounce between the stone and metal of the building building like an amp at a warehouse party. When a man's scream follows, he's far from reassured.
Both noises make him jump, disturbing his ribs and his now extra sore hip all at once. Peter had just barely been under the half open metal door when he jolts from the pain. The shock has him nearly dropping it on himself. He dodges, hacking up a lung as quietly as physically possible (which isn't very). Though, it doesn't really matter at this point how quiet he is considering the way the door screeched down its rails before it slammed into the ground behind him. Ignoring his own revealed position, he shoves himself to his feet in his rush to go check on the situation.
Peter reaches the corner of the hall that leads to the main area, rounding it just to find it empty. He pushes himself along the wall, supporting his aching ribs with one arm and a bundle of cloth while the other hand braces him against the concrete. When they're not down the first hall he tries, he rushes as fast as he's able to check the next. The pervasive feeling that he's running out of time creeps up and down his spine as he drags his feet across smooth concrete.
He peers around another corner and sees the heavy-set, angry young man from earlier on the ground clutching his leg. Jayne stands further down the hall facing Peter but doesn't seem to spot him, instead looking with a single minded focus at the woman.
“You gorram kids better get the hell out, or you'll both be down some mighty important bits,” Jayne says, leering at the two others in the hall.
The woman bristles, frizzy red hair only adding to her frazzled look. Her slow reach for the gun in the back of her waistband is too obvious and has Jayne point his own gun at her with renewed focus.
It takes everything in Peter to not rush forward to secure the two threats exactly the way he's used to. The only thing keeping him in place is the fact that, as he is, he's more of a liability than a help. One strong breeze could probably knock him over. Someone with a gun or even a well placed hit to his ribs? He'd be down a lung and out of any options to help the older man.
Faith resting solely on Jayne’s intimidation skills and shotgun expertise, Peter shuffles back toward the front of the facility. Walking away makes his stomach churn instantly, but what else can he do? He makes his way to the main office he had seen the man disappear into earlier while doing his best to avoid direct line of sight as much as possible. If he gets involved he’ll just make things worse, he knows that. But, it doesn't mean he can't find a phone to call the cops over so someone would be there who could help.
Peter sets the tee shirt he had been holding against his ribs down to reach for the phone. It's an old corded thing, twisted wire tangled up in a pile of paper and other miscellaneous things that Peter feels horrible about accidentally sending to the floor. His feet ache as he stands still. His entire torso protest bending over the desk. It doesn't matter, none of the pain does. Peter grabs the receiver and dials.
"9-1-1, what is your -"
"Hi!," Peter cuts them off in his urgency, wincing. "Um, there's shots fired? Uh, a shotgun. But that doesn't matter. It's the storage place, Bowery Storage. Two guns and one man injured, definitely needs an ambulance."
"Alright, and what's your name, son?" The man over the phone asks.
Peter hesitates. He can't just give out his name, can he? Should he? They don't really need it. Besides, Peter Parker doesn't exist anyway so it wouldn't mean anything.
He slowly drops the receiver, backing away. It's fine. Someone will be on their way. Peter shouldn't stay. Peter really shouldn't stay. Someone else will come and figure out what's happening, help the old man. It'll be alright. They'll all be alright.
The shot that rings out as Peter limps through the front door makes him stumble. A second shot send him shaking to the pavement. He doesn't really remember falling, or getting back up. Peter only notices he's left when the pavement under him shifts to a soft mess of brown and faded green.
Dead grass clumps between his fingers, some more green than the rest but all of it frozen by the November chill. Peter feels the burn of the wind on his cheeks before he processes where he really is. The park from before greets him again, though the look is generally unfriendly. It's emptied out in the dark, the barest remnants of dusk helping the few flickering street lights to light the grassy paths. The same bench from earlier sits in the distance but Peter can't bring himself to stand. Another set of benches sit across from each other a few further down the path. One has an old, faded advertisement plastered to it, so faded it's become nearly illegible. The other has a case of newspapers standing beside it, wedged open by the amount of papers stuffed inside.
Peter shuffles to a better position on his knees, working to get one foot under him then the other like a toddler learning to walk. He doesn't know how long it takes before he reaches the newspapers when all he has to gauge from is his own pain. It might be pointless, but he can't help his curiosity. Has anyone talked about what happened yet? The battle on Liberty Island had to have been noticed by someone, and if it was there was no way the news would miss out on it.
Before he went to read it, though, Peter had an idea. There was a time the freezer in the apartment died, and to keep everything frozen until they could fix it May had to stuff it with paper to insulate it. Their ice cream got a bit milky, but, otherwise, it worked. Peter could do the opposite here — keep the heat in with the newspaper.
He began to separate the pages of the paper and shoved them right up the inside of his sweatshirt. Peter almost instantly regretted it. His sluggish brain hadn't considered the fact that the papers had been out here for hours if not longer. They would already be frozen and were just as likely to chill him as help trap the air in the too-big hoodie. He tore the sheets out of his shirt just as quickly, shoving them in the hoodie pocket with retributive force. Peter somehow squeezed the rest of the bundled paper in beside it but he shoved out the bag of cookies through the other side, watching them plop into the frosted grass with a lackluster grief.
His following sigh was that of a much older man.
When Peter bent to grab the bag, he could have cried from the pain but instead he bit his lip. It was all too much. He was cold, frozen solid, the hurt was so bad he couldn't touch his own toes without risking vomiting from pain, and beyond all that he was tired in a way even sleep wouldn't help. It was just too much.
So he kept going.
Because that was what Peter Parker does.
What Spider-Man does.
Peter walked off from the path, not following anything but wherever his senses or whims guided him. Eventually, he found himself in front of a somewhat larger building. It was the grandest he'd seen all day, certainly, and larger than any store would have the right being. Across the street, its large wooden doors stood at the top of stone stairs. A feeling dragged Peter to the right, an anxious creep down his back easing as he moved through the dark and away from street lights. The same feeling pulled him across the street, toward the side of the building.
Up.
Up the brick wall was an open window. Small, a bit thin, probably only a half-window meant for ventilation. Yet, it was left open on a frigid November night.
Something in Peter won out over the pain, glazing over it. All his aches floated away down a river somewhere within him while something else pushed Peter on a different current.
The current pulled, prompting him to scale the wall in a way he was used to. He was slow, awfully, painfully slow, but he made it to the window and felt the current change. It was less insistent now, a gentler guide as it urged him inside. Peter slowly dropped himself inside and crept down the wall until his feet touched the floor.
Shiny oak floors and painted stone walls greeted him inside. It was a cafe of some kind, tiny and with only a few couches to go with the minimal bar. The space was lofted above another room. Peter never made it far enough to check where exactly the cafe was lofted. He fell onto one of the couches like it was his own bed, closing his eyes as the exhaustion took him.