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Back against the railing, Barbara slid down until she was seated on the roof. Chin in the palm of her hand, she looked at the Red Hood, curious expression plastered across her face. It was infuriating how difficult to read this guy was. The kind of frustration that got on your skin like a rash, a rash you couldn’t stop scratching.  It wasn’t just the fact that he wore a helmet that completely covered his face. She was good, damn good, at reading body language, voice intonations, everything. But he was better at alluding her.  It was maddening.

He was a puzzle, the kind that had no obvious resolution. She detested that more than anything. Her scientific, over calculating mind could figure out damn near anything. His reputation and actions were in direct conflict with each other. When she expected him to weave, he bobbed.  When she expected him to be just another faceless killer in the Gotham night, he was rescuing a restaurateur’s daughter. He was unpredictable – and erratic wasn’t good, not when you needed to trust someone to have your back.

And now he wanted help with what she could only assume was preventing a girl from being sold into an underground sex trafficking ring.

Barbara rubbed her eyes, pinching the bridge of her nose as she took in a deep breath.  She couldn’t say no, declining his offer would mean someone would suffer and she wasn’t prepared to use an innocent as a pawn.  Both gloved palms splayed out on the concrete roof, fingers idly playing with a rock.

“I’m not saying yes because I want you to owe me a favor. I’m saying yes because I can’t say no.” Hoisting herself back into a standing position, she turned on heel back towards him, eyes following the dark horizon. “Do you have anymore intel, because that’s not a lot to go on.”

Jason did, in fact, have more intel. The problem was proving it. The Dimitrov family was notoriously insular, and the only contact he had with them was a man who had also escaped the Gulag with Jason, all those years ago. Not a problem, usually, but Maxim Dominina was not most men. After returning to Russia, he had defected to the United States, joining a counterspy operation with the CIA. To involve him was to invite the government into Red Hood business, something Jason hoped to avoid.

“I know a little. Just enough to pinpoint their warehouse. It’ll take observation and surveillance to get anywhere real. Stakeout, like. You up for it?” The ‘imnottakinganyofyourshit’ look she gave him didn’t make him feel good about the operation, but he supposed that reluctant help was better than going it alone. 

“All I ask is that you back me on this play. Can you manage that, Little Red?” With another shrug, he held his hands up, miming innocence. Couldn’t hurt, right?

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With pursed lips and a scrunched up nose, she looked at him with feigned disgust. “Should we add littering to your no doubt long list of criminal acts?” Bending down, Barbara picked up the spent cigarette and strolled over to the helmeted man. Yanking out his hand, she placed the the trash in his palm. “You should be more careful next time, Darth. Wouldn’t want your DNA getting into the wrong hands.”

A scoff escaped her lips, eyebrows drawn and arched in disbelief. “The great and powerful Red Hood needs my help? Are you concussed? You don’t seem like the type to ask for assistance, let alone from an ally of the bat.”

He raised his hands up and she sensed he was being sincere. Which was an incredibly odd feeling and one she was certain she couldn’t one hundred percent trust. Barbara dropped the sarcastic tone, switching to something a bit more serious. Leaning against one of the railings, she looked over the skyline, taking a moment to consider his request, still stunned he was asking for aid. “How do I know you are being honest? How do I know you aren’t lying to me?”

Barbara didn’t trust him farther than she could throw him – which considering his height and bulk was probably not far at all. But she probably owed him a favor, he had sort of gotten her out of a jam. A really stupid jam, but a jam none the less. She could at least humor his request.  

He couldn’t help himself. He smiled when he saw her pick up his scattered bad habit, a genuine smile too. Good thing she’d never know. He accepted the handful of butts, crushing them in his fist before depositing them into a jacket pocket. “Nice to see you again, Padme. Good to see you’re still trying to earn that anti-littering merit badge.” She scoffed. 

Despite her accusations of nefarious deeds, crimes, and various other skullduggery, he actually needed her help. Wanted it, too. So he endured her cautious looks, the dripping sarcasm in her voice. Finally, when she finished talking, he spoke.

“You don’t know I’m not lying to you. That’s where trust comes in, Batsie. Just hear me out, okay?” He put his hands in front of him, signalling for her to just let him explain. 

“A contact of mine, Boris Ilyinykh, called me this morning. His daughter, Ylena, has been missing since yesterday afternoon. Shit out of luck normally, but Boris tells me she’d been seeing one of the Dimitrov leader’s kid. Some asshole named Anatoly. They’re sex traffickers, primarily.” He stopped, sighing. “I need reliable help, here. Someone I can trust to not storm in there and tip the Russians off. That’s why I’m not using the others here. Too volatile. The Dimitrovs have a warehouse in Randall, and that’s where I want to start.”

He knew she couldn’t see his eyes, but he still bored his into hers. “I need someone here, Batsie. Plus, I’ll owe you one.”

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It was like a scene from a noir film: streaky clouds and smog surrounding dark structures rising up into the night. The new temples of man – high-rise buildings and billboards – stretching so far it looked like they would impale the stars in the sky.  Batgirl stood sentry on the roof of one such building, observing the city as it citizens drifted towards slumber.

Barbara was exhausted. She had been working the ‘sex bugs’ case, as Dinah had so eloquently dubbed it, for the last two weeks. Every spare moment that she wasn’t on patrol or at work she was researching; sifting and gathering intel in attempt to piece everything together. Somehow she had even managed to fit in an undercover mission to the thinly veiled ball over the weekend to get additional information. Her feet were still aching from the five-inch heels Dinah had forced her to wear.

Eyes darted back and forth over the Gotham horizon, legs dangling over the side of the superstructure. The comm lines were quiet tonight and Barbara was thankful for the reprieve, no matter how temporary or slight. Out of the corner of tired, emerald eyes she spotted the light – an entirely new signal gracing the Gotham skies. Lips pressed together into a tight smirk, she pushed herself up with the aide of the safety railing and took a running leap off the building.

Within ten minutes, Batgirl was standing near the source of her amusement and she couldn’t hide the smile on her face. “You know,” Barbara declared into the shadows. “I would say that it’s a crime to deface police property.” Hands went to rest on her hips. “I would say that, if it weren’t so funny.” 

“There may be angry Bats and police commissioners arriving soon.  Might want to douse the light. Unless your intention was to bring more attention to yourself, then by all means, keep it on.” Crossing her arms over her chest, hip jutting to one side, Barbara stood with cheeky demeanor. 

His helmet was in his hand, and a cigarette was dangling from his lips as he scanned the skyline. The signal was blazing in the air, a brilliant amethyst bat in the heavens. The weather wasn’t cold enough to seep through his armor, but the wind was brisk, biting at his face. It had been a good thirty minutes since the light went up. A small pile of black butts littered the ground at his feet, a sign of his impatience. 

A light sound of footsteps on the far side of the light caught his attention, and he tugged the helmet over his head as he stepped around the buzzing spotlight. He blinked twice as the HUD powered up, changing his visual field from the naked skyline of Gotham to a pulsing stream of information. Batgirl was standing across the roof, looking annoyed. Good. He flicked the butt of his cigarette at her, watching as the coal spun crazily in the night wind. It landed without striking her, rolling into the toe of her left boot.

She spoke. 

With a deft hand, he pulled the handle of the light downward, cutting the power off. The buzzing stopped, and the MCU rooftop plunged into what seemed to be pitch darkness, without the brilliant symbol illuminating their surroundings. He allowed a few seconds for her vision to adjust, then spoke.

"No one is even going to notice, Batsie. There’s a multiple alarm fire on Sandy Hook, plus a hostage situation the new Bat is dealing with up on South Channel Island. No one’s here; certainly no one who’s going to meddle in our affairs.” She looked good. Tired, maybe, but good. Vibrant red hair, sharp eyes. Legs that, had Jason allowed himself to dwell on, would have thrown his concentration fully. He closed his eyes for a brief second, then, in a softer voice, spoke again.

“I need your help, Batsie. I’ve got a kidnapping case I’m working on, and I need someone softer to back me up. Domestic cases aren’t my forte, but this is a favor for a friend. I need someone victims will trust, someone they’ll talk to.” He raised his hands in mock surrender, his tone taking on a sarcastic tone. “No tricks, no trap. This is the Big Bad Wolf asking Little Red for help.”

Jason hated domestic crimes. 

There was the inherent deplorableness of them, men hurting those weaker than themselves. There were the memories of Willis Todd tossing his son across the room when he stepped in front of his mother, at age three. He’d broken his arm then. Catherine had cried over his crumpled body until Willis left, off to get shitfaced before returning to pass out in a heap against the deadbolted front door.

He wasn’t good at handling hysterical women and children, and even in the cases where they were semi-calm, they were loathe to trust him immediately after Jason had put a stop to the man (or men) who had hurt them. He was just too big, too rough around the edges. He lacked a polish, an inherent trustworthiness that connected him with victims.

It was with that mindset that the Red Hood was standing above the Batsignal on the Major Crimes building, watching as the light cut through fog and smog, casting a purple light onto a low flying cloud. Purple, because he wasn’t looking for the lesser Batman tonight. A five eighths thick sheet of plum colored plexiglass was clamped onto the spotlight, and the result was a distinctly different type of call for help. 

If everything worked according to plan, Batgirl would show up.

Eighteen hours earlier, Jason had received a call from Ilya Katsalapov, the CEO of Redstone Security, and one of Jason’s oldest and closest friends. His brother-in-law, Boris Ilyinykh, had a daughter who hadn’t been heard from in three days. In Gotham, that meant you were dead. However, the girl had been involved with some Russian mobsters lately, some kid she’d been seeing. Boris didn’t know his name, just that his father had been big in the Dimitrov family. They were a nasty group, making their bones on human trafficking and the sex trade. Foul play was always suspected when they were involved.

Normally, Jason would have asked one of the Outlaws to back him up, but Kory wasn’t exactly patient when it came to human traffickers. If it were up to her, she’d go in guns-hands, really-blazing, and level their hideout in Uptown. Roy would do whatever she said. Besides, they were new at the vigilante game, and Jason had been itching to see Batgirl again. Their last meeting had ended a little darker than he’d intended, and he’d been trying without avail to run into her in the seven or so weeks following that.

So, with a basic lead about where the Dimitrovs kept their slaves, the Red Hood waited in the shadow of the Bat, hand on his revolver at the small of his back. Ready, watching, waiting.