Chapter Text
Alfred, April 2002.
An average yet dignified office tower at a sufficient remove from Maroni territory. Upper East Side, Midtown.
. . . . .
Leo Russo Design had a strong presence in Gotham, for those who knew how to look. They were discreet, as architectural firms went, but they kept busy. Despite this, as Alfred made his way to the small meeting room indicated by Ms. Clarke, he noticed staff outright loitering nearby, giving him furtive glances and even a smirk. Had they somehow traced him to Master Bruce? Alfred would have to drop this inquiry, if they had. There must be no connection between this “secret lair” foolishness and the good name of the Waynes.
Alfred’s misgivings about this meeting intensified as he strode into the room and made eye contact with Mr. Russo himself. The Principal-in-Charge sat flanked by two men. The tall man was clearly experienced security, right-handed, left foot slightly forward. The other man was stocky, but nonthreatening. He was a white fellow who had a lurid fresh sunburn, and his posture was awkward as he tried not to aggravate it. He had the slightly leathery look of someone who had frequently forgotten that the sun could shine in Gotham. He had also forgotten his employee badge.
They were all waiting for Alfred’s arrival at what ought to be a preliminary proposal meeting with Ms. Clarke alone. Alfred allowed his eyebrows to rise slightly in surprise. His easygoing cover persona, however, held steady as he offered a handshake.
Mr. Russo started to rise to meet him, but the sunburned man said: “He’s armed, sir.”
Alfred’s eyebrows were a lost cause. “What was that?”
The man eyed Alfred with a furrowed forehead reminiscent of sliced ham. “You brought three melee weapons past the front desk. Hand them over.”
Alfred’s holdouts were perfectly hidden, of course. The average Gothamite would assume this man was a keen-eyed guard, and be cowed by his supposed expertise. Alfred, who actually had expertise, was even more wary. Such immediate detection could only be achieved with magic. Unlikely to have been worked with an artifact, either. Any artifact that could identify hidden weapons would be dangerously coveted and immediately swallowed into Gotham’s underbelly.
Alfred did another surreptitious scan of the room, in case he had somehow missed an ancient urn or an unsubtle statuette. Nothing jumped out except the smell of whiteboard markers. This disarmingly pink man must be a true magic-user, and a cunning one at that, for his spells to pass muster with the cursed genius loci of Gotham. The real threat. But why?
Alfred raised his hands slowly, expertly fielding his document case with three fingers as he splayed his pointer and thumb. He tilted his head to regard Ms. Clarke. She was rather unruffled for a civilian project manager. Alfred reconsidered her frumpy suit and the metal hair sticks twisted in her frizzy bun, and decided that she had at least half a decade of practice disarming her clients. She held the barest tension in her lean muscles as she took his briefcase and gestured for him to turn around. He took care to move slowly despite the adrenaline.
Nobody moved to divest Alfred of his weapons. Just as well. They would not be able to locate them without risk of exposing the magic-user. Instead, Ms. Clarke nodded for Alfred to remove his weapons himself. Alfred took a moment to admire her impeccable bluff. A move backed by experience and an unknown arsenal of spells, but a bluff nonetheless. No overt hostility to it, which was encouraging. Their precautions were disconcerting, but this had not gone pear-shaped just yet.
“One can never be too careful in Gotham,” Alfred said, picking a soothingly pragmatic tone. “I had better kneel to retrieve the knife in my boot, Ms. Clarke,” he added, as neatly as he would offer to pick up a dropped pen. “And I will require the blue folder in the briefcase, if you are still interested in my project.”
It was the right move. Ms. Clarke neatly deposited his items in a cabinet drawer, checked the lock, and handed him his folder before taking a seat halfway down the table. The tall security guard motioned for Alfred to take the chair closest to the door.
“We might be interested in your project,” Mr. Russo said, “but first we are interested in your thoughts on Shoreline Lofts.” The glint in his eyes reminded Alfred of Master Bruce.
“I did mention Shoreline Lofts in my request,” Alfred said, with careful neutrality. “The building was among the examples of similar projects, representing a standard of quality across the city regardless of… political affiliation.” It was public knowledge that Shoreline Lofts included the offices of Carmine Falcone; or at least, everyone in the immediate neighborhood knew why the old façade had been shot to smithereens. Did they think that Alfred was a representative of the mob? They must not have made the connection to Master Bruce after all.
Alfred felt miffed, actually. “Are these precautions on account of the Falcones? I am not affiliated with any such organization. I’m sure it’s my fault that this wasn’t clear in the description. If you would sign the NDA I mentioned in my inquiry, we can discuss any concerns in detail.”
“That’s part of it,” Mr. Russo said, still watching closely. “The other part is, you implied that we are involved in their business. You grouped Shoreline Lofts with the LRD projects. Next to an earlier project widely attributed to the Maronis. Neither job had our name on it. The Falcones and Maronis are bitter enemies, you must know that.”
They thought this was a blackmail attempt. An incompetent blackmail attempt, since he came here alone. Alfred had a brief thought about how he might appear with a trustworthy partner at his side. No matter.
“I am not making a threat,” Alfred replied. “If your firm was indeed involved in both projects, I would count it as an endorsement. I believe your company is one of very few that is truly neutral, and could well have built both projects with complete detachment from any power struggles. For various reasons, my own project requires that type of dedication to impartiality.”
Master Bruce had actually requested a company that had no criminal connections whatsoever, but seeing as Alfred was not a genie, he would get what he got.
“Regardless of whether we work together, I have no intention of disrupting the balance,” Alfred promised. “The layout I used, grouping the projects, was mainly intended for comparison. Some small elements of the work are reminiscent of your contractors’ methods, and the designs would not be out of place in your own portfolio. So I had a conjecture that LRD was involved, but there is no real evidence.”
“And nobody… suggested that conjecture to you,” the magic-user said, uncertainly. “You just came up with it.”
Alfred gave him a small, wry smile. “The Falcones hardly posted a notice, you know. In fact, I could not find a single name attached to the re-securing of Shoreline Lofts, not even a cement service. The baristas down the street had no gossip about the builders. It was remarkable.”
“Might’ve been paid off,” the security guard snorted. “Rich people like to pretend we don’t exist.” He was still shifting slightly on his feet.
“And powerful people have secrets,” Alfred agreed, with a concerned frown to show fellow-feeling. “A dangerous combination.”
An idea was starting to form, now that Alfred knew that Leo Russo was friendly with a magic-user. The baristas had not even griped about the rush, which really should have tipped him off earlier. It would be nearly impossible without magical reinforcement, but…. “That’s actually a clever strategy, to remain anonymous as an assist to remaining neutral,” he mused aloud.
“I’m reminded of that apocryphal story of the emperor who killed everyone involved in a project to keep it secret. It’s entirely fictitous,” Alfred reaffirmed. “But now imagine that paranoid Roman in Gotham, if you will.” Mr. Russo stifled a snort at the unsubtle euphemism. “Here people are silenced all the time, by the would-be usurpers as much as the emperor. Anyone percieved to have information is at risk. So the key is to not be percieved.”
“Wait, are you saying someone got got by the Mar—uh, the usurpers? Did a barista go missing or something?” Now the guard looked alarmed.
“No, the staff hasn’t changed,” Alfred assured him. “Everyone seems to be quite safe. The entire project is a united front of anonymity. Nobody knows who did the work; nobody knows who to threaten. This would be easier to ensure with a full-service firm like your own, but still, the infosec—”
Alfred stopped short. He had been about to allude to the files Master Bruce had searched via less-than-legal means. This was a shocking lapse in compartmentalization.
“Excuse me,” he said, eyeing the magic-user balefully. “Am I subject to a truth spell right now?”
“What the fuck,” the man said. His sunburn was incapable of turning pale, but it made a go at turning blotchy.
“What, like magic? You think that’s real?” Ms. Clarke snorted, valliantly attempting to redirect while the other men froze. It would have been more convincing if the guard had not flinched when she kicked him under the table.
“You all know?” Alfred demanded, gobsmacked. “Bloody hell, I was expecting to have to play that off with at least one of you.” Ah, that would be the truth spell again.
“Did you tag me with something, or is the locus my chair?” he asked, craning his neck to examine his jacket as much as he could while keeping his hands in view. There, on the back of the right shoulder pad: a burdock burr, probably placed by Ms. Clarke when she was holding the door. Not the worst disguise, especially since retrieving the burr would pass as a polite favor. He let out a sigh. “Well, this is disappointing, but it does make some things simpler.”
Mr. Russo made quick eye contact with each of his employees in turn before fixing Alfred with a half-apologetic smile. “We have a well-established security protocol. I cannot discuss specifics.” That was a rehearsed line. “If it helps, you were speaking rather freely. You didn’t even hesitate to say the misunderstanding was all your fault, remember?”
The magic-user shrugged. “Most people don’t bother with that kinda polite minor hyperbole.”
“No, that one was a full oxymoron,” Mr. Russo smirked. “He’s British. He meant that he’s blameless and it’s entirely our fault.”
“I took great pains to set accurate expectations, I’ll have you know,” Alfred sniffed. “Still, your caution could be quite a benefit, if our interests are aligned.”
Mr. Russo sighed. “I think both of us still need convincing on that last point, unfortunately.”
“Here,” Alfred offered. He delicately plucked the burr off his jacket, taking care to keep it in full view. The barbs were unpleasant. “We can take turns asking questions. A truth for a truth. What do you say?”
“Your call, Mike,” Mr. Russo murmured to the magic-user. Mike agreed easily enough, but spent the next several minutes fussing about until everyone was rearranged to his own satisfaction. They ended up wrapping the burr in a kerchief to make it easier to hold. Alfred held the packaged locus with his fingertips and waited for the first question.
“How much do you know about magic?” Mr. Russo asked. Alfred privately approved of his priorities. Magic, while it was persnickety, was much more powerful than the Falcones. And there were far more people in the world who recognized the crime family than people who recognized real magic.
“I only know the basics,” Alfred demurred. “I learned to spot some kinds of magical interference as part of advanced security training. I’ve never used magic myself. Here, now.” He delicately passed the kerchief over. “Are you or your employees directly bound to any criminal organizations or protection rackets? Or do they owe specific allegiance? To the best of your knowledge.”
“That could describe half of Gotham,” Mr. Russo said, dryly. “I can’t say we’re unbound because we’re obliged to honor a few work contracts. The city would crumble if nobody did the work, you know. But we hold no allegiances. We are independent and neutral, like you said, and we would very much would like to stay that way. We keep all work strictly limited to architectural design and construction. We also prioritize employee safety, and run audits to ensure workers are well-compensated and not pressured into side jobs.”
“Your turn.” He waited for Alfred’s nod. “Are you or your employer government agents, Mr. Hall? If that is indeed your name.”
Alfred ignored the magic-driven whim to say that he was retired. “No,” he said. He paused, considered. “I am using a pseudonym at the moment, but intend to be quite transparent with whoever agrees to a contract.” They had earned that respect.
It only took a few more questions to establish that neither party was a threat to the other’s safety. Leo Russo Designs and their partners were quite serious about confidentiality. They would not sell Master Bruce out. Alfred would not set LRD up. And they would all keep mum about the existence of magic, of course.
Mike busily prepared a quick spell of mutual non-aggression to make sure of that promise, with Mr. Russo representing the firm. The spell only restricted intentional malicious acts, and was widely used among those in the know. Alfred had done the same thing at MI6, and had never been particularly constrained. It did take some rules-lawyering to quit MI6 in favor of Thomas and Martha (of blessed memory), but self-defense went a long way. Safe to say that this new agreement cost Alfred nothing. Or rather, nothing aside from three minutes of intense memorization and a dram of energy. Alfred would treat himself to pudding later.
After all that fuss, they were on the same side after all. Alfred found himself feeling strangely relieved. He tried to shake the feeling. It would hardly be wise to relax without his own contract in hand. It seemed that LRD was a good match for the project, though. Certainly Ms. Clarke seemed eager to get her hands on a new challenge, from how quickly she retrieved the blue folder.
“You said you could not give specifics,” Alfred said, teasing out a thought while Ms. Clarke made a first pass on the Wayne NDA. He turned to address Mike. “Since I suspect the anonymity of the Shoreline Lofts job involved magic, you and I should have a chat about my investigation. It might help improve future deals of that nature. We can speak separately if the firm declines this project.”
“That… would be really great,” Mike said, running a hand down his face. “Pete’s sake. Hey, Leo? I’m gonna get him the special R&D contract. He’s so close, I gotta.”
“No, you’re right. Go for it,” Mr. Russo said, switching chairs so he and Ms. Clarke could read the NDA together. She pointed to Master Bruce’s name on the page and his eyes went wide. Alfred privately felt smug.
“Here, this one’s for you,” Mike said, appearing at Alfred’s side with a legal form on LRD letterhead.
Alfred’s eyes caught on the logo in the corner. Something was off. Simple canting, he thought. A lion’s head caboshed gules issuant from the mouth goutes d’eau. He peered closer. That wasn’t just the shimmer of metallic ink. The slender water droplets were moving on the page, continuously pouring from the lion’s mouth like a gargoyle. The lion’s eyes seemed to stare into him. He wrenched his eyes away to find Mike grinning right up in his face.
“Pretty, yeah? That’s how you know it’s a real magic contract. Don’t mind the name, the fellas are nerds. Uh, and let me know if you want to make amendments, I gotta be the one to do it, okay.”
Alfred looked back at the first line. Welcome, it said, to the Secret Lair Safety Association.