The Pursuer

December 12, 2016:

Cutscene. Takes place some time after 'PI to the Rescue.'

Gotham City

Characters

NPCs: Gottfried Muller, Robert Carter, Unfortunate Guy

Mentions:

Mood Music: [*\# None.]


Fade In…

The cigarette tastes like shit, but the Winter Soldier smokes it anyway. He'd made a corpse to get it, and he wasn't actually authorized to make too many of those, despite his ultimate job description.

Admittedly the cigarette wasn't the only reason. He'd needed the man's weapons, too… or more accurately, the magazines in the man's weapons. He had to hand it to the Batman; in less than forty-eight hours, the asshole had pinpointed and dried up his major supplier in Gotham. Just one spent casing and a detonated grenade, and he'd deduced enough to do that kind of trace-back? Shit.

That's where the East End and all its people who wouldn't be missed came in. It was an awkward way to get reloads, especially when people started shooting back, but the train back to New York for resupply was a long few hours he couldn't afford.

Not right now, anyway. He's busy. The Winter Soldier ashes his cigarette right on the shoulder of the person he's busy with, just because he can.

Sam Jones, weekend shift bank clerk, is too petrified to object. He's rigid in his chair, hands shaking so hard he can barely pull up the files the man behind him brusquely demanded he print. Robert Carter's personal information. Robert Carter's credit card statement for the month. Holy shit! Robert Carter was just in the news! Probably being hunted by the very man standing behind him now.

Jesus, Sam thinks as he sends it all to the printer, I'm so fired.

He's only aware the Soldier is gone— the printouts with him— when, after a paralyzing half minute of immobility, he finally dares to glance over his shoulder.

—-

The Soldier's long since finished his mediocre cigarette by the time he's back in the room he's been crashing in— unbeknownst to its vacationing owner— but he still mouths the stubbed-out end of it in an absent way. Something about the muscle memory greases the gears of his fragmented, one-track brain.

"Hm," he mumbles to himself around it, reading down the card statement as he sits at someone else's appropriated desk. December 7th. Charge for an airline ticket. One way, judging by the price. He picks up the phone of whoever-it-is lives here, and makes a call. Shit man, I booked this trip, but I lost my confirmation number to see all the details. Can I get it from you? Yeah, sure, I got my social right here.

Hanging up, he considers the notes he's written down. Sounds like Rob Carter wants to skip town really soon. Crazy 6:20 AM flight.

Good, the Winter Soldier thinks. Less traffic in the way of a clear shot at the man's tires. It's a lot of trouble just for one man, but there's no helping it. Carter wasn't just the authenticator who verified the Liber Consecratus. He also liased with most of the special guests slated to be at the auction.

If anyone has any idea of where Gottfried Muller is staying while he's in Gotham, it'll be him.

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