2012-09-30 Good Mark - Info and Pizza

Early morning, little bit before dawn. Only a few people out this time of morning; a few homeless, a jogger, a woman in a maid'uniform hurrying from the bus stop. Everyone has that "leave me alone" attitude that few but New Yorkers have perfected. The middle-aged man leans against the corner of the SoHo Abbey, left hand in his dirty jeans pockets, right hand fingering the medallion that's attached to a gold chain around his neck. Either four swords crossed at the point or four Ps crossed at the base, that's the emblem that's been pressed into the gold medallion. It was once a Spanish doubloon, from the look of it. Dark hair, cut a few inches from the scalp, might have been tamed at some point, but not in the recent past. A scratchy few days' worth of beard is on his angular face, drawing more attention to his jade-green eyes. He wears a simple white T-shirt tucked into those jeans, over which he wears a light windbreaker, with well-worn and scuffed-to-hell work boots. He didn't think it would work, but--it did. A super, more or less under his thumb. He smiles at that, then looks around, wondering how he's going to celebrate--when the door to the Abbey opens and an Italian woman leaves, to head down the street. Probably going to the bodega at this hour, or maybe a the diner down the street. He doesn't know which, and doesn't care. When she gets a few yards ahead, he pushes off the wall and heads after her. He's in the mood for Italian this morning.

Helena Bertinelli woke up early. Too early. Even knowing that she was probably safer last night than any time since she returned to the US from Italy, she didn't sleep all that well. Probably habit from doing so much moonlighting. Tucking her hands into her jacket as the apartment building door closes behind her, she feels the little communicator Robin gave her in one pocket, a few bills from the cash he gave her and the burner phone (powered off) in the other. With a faint yawn, she walks down the steps of the building and turns to walk toward a small pastry shop she thinks she remembers seeing the night before. She's not too sleepy to have NOT noticed that someone is walking behind her, but this is New York. There's ALWAYS someone out on the sidewalks, right?

Sticking his right hand into his coat pocket, the man rubs his face with his left and looks around. He's walking only about a third-again as fast as Helena, and he looks around, noting the general lack of anyone who gives a shit. Excellent. Technically, he isn't supposed to be doing this. Technically. His new friends made it clear that if he got into trouble when they weren't around, there'd be hell to pay--but she's one little girl. What harm is she going to give him? When he catches up to her, he pulls his right hand from his coat pocket--and in that hand he's holding a little twenty-two handgun, which gets pressed into Helena's back. "Hey, darlin', let's you'n me take a walk into that alley..." he murmurs, meaning the alley that's just on their side of the pastry shop. The smile is obvious in his voice--and it's not a friendly smile.

Helena Bertinelli gasps when she's taken by surprise, but it also helps wake her up much more quickly. A quick glance with just her eyes reveals no one nearby. And, she's a Gothamite. Alleys are more familiar to her than tree-lined streets. Not to mention if she opts to beat this walking bag of dicks to within an inch of his life, it's probably better if she does so OUT of easy eye-shot. So, she pretends like she's going the direction indicated because he's got her scared. Be nice if she had even ONE bolt with her. But NO. All she's got is a knife in her left boot, but she'll need a moment to pull it. Walking slowly toward the alley in a manner that hopefully makes it seem like she's afraid, she mentally compiles as much info as she can about Dickbag from the pistol in her back and what he said. He's shorter, that much was easy to pick out both by the fact that if he fires his pistol he'll take one of her kidneys out and that he didn't speak those sweet nothings directly into her ear. Almost far enough into the alley...

He might be shorter by a few inches, but he's got a gun--which is, he thinks, all he needs. He's not overly muscular, but he's not a stick or very flabby, either. He's "toned", if in a distinctly prison-obtained way. There's just something about the sort of physique one gets when one only has a small cell to work out in. Five will get one ten what he was in prison for, and it's likely obvious that it wasn't for embezzling. He prods her back with the gun, though not as hard as he could be. She is complying, after all. "Little bit more, darlin'," he says as they approach the alley, the audible smile growing wider. And when they get to the alley, he slows down, just a touch, though keeps the gun at her back as his arm extends. "Over there--other side'a that Dumpster." The one piled high with crap and detritus, making it even more unlikely that anyone would see them. "You'n me're gon'a have a little party, girlie..."

That's the cue she was waiting for. Like Gay Perry said in Kiss Kiss Bang Bang, most pros know to not hold a weapon AGAINST their quarry, it puts them close enough to do this... Helena abruptly turns and with one hand knocks the pistol up and away from her back while the other snaps toward the man's face, aiming to jam the heel of her hand into his nose. If he's lucky, she'll send shards of bone into his brain and he'll die quickly. If he's not so lucky...

The gun goes flying, smacking into the wall of the pastry shop with a clatter and ricocheting off behind her. So startled was the man, he'd actually started to slip on some alley-muck, so that palm narrowly misses his nose--though it does get him in the eye. He goes down with a whimper, of all things, hands coming up to protect himself. Oh, his friends are going to be so pissed at him! And when Helena presses the attack--there's a gunshot, this one hitting the ground at her feet, carefully aimed so it would burrow into the muck and such, instead of ricocheting. It came from behind her, and when she looks--it's the Phantom. With one of his weapons in his left hand. "I can't let you do that..." he says, evenly, firmly--and sadly. The corners of his mouth are pulled down in a frown, brows knitted together in a look that almost says that he REALLY doesn't want to be doing this--but he doesn't have a choice. And that gun? Is aimed at her knee.

Helena Bertinelli is indeed pulling her hand back to hit the man again when the shot rings out and she startles. She takes a hasty few steps away from the man so he can't touch her, turning so the Phantom is in her line of sight as well... sort of. Okay, more like so her back is toward the alley wall and not toward either man. "What the hell? Do you realize what this dickbag was about to try to do to me?"

As she moves, so does his gun, steadily tracking her knee. His hand is calm, as is the rest of him, though what's visible of his face betrays the mixed emotions he feels. "Yes, I do," he tells her as the guy peeks out from beneath his arms. He grins when he sees what's going on, and gets to his feet in a hurry before making a production of dusting off his clothes. "Looks like you messed wi--" he starts, but the Phantom cuts him off. "Get. The hell.  Over here," the Phantom growls, anger radiating from him palpably. And that "hell" is the strongest word he's used in--many, many years. He's that pissed. The man grins at Helena again as he starts to turn toward the purple-costumed man, dusting off his shirt and straightening his medallion--the one with the four crossed swords or Ps. The same mark on the ring on the Phantom's left hand, and thus in full view.

Helena Bertinelli warily watches the man dust himself off, and her eyes widen. "YOU." She looks ready to try and attack the man again, even MORE incensed now than before if that's possible. She looks from him to the Phantom, hesitant to say anything more immediately. She ALMOST forgot for a second there that she's not in costume currently, and a ball cap is NOT a disguise.

The man makes his way over to and behind the Phantom, making the latter half-turn. He's not going to trust that jerk as far as he can hurl a Buick. And it's only after he's safely on the other side of his "protector" that he gives a wave to the woman. "Have we met before, darlin'? Think I'd remember a pre--" He's cut off by the Phantom whipping out his other gun and pressing the muzzle against the man's forehead. "Shut up, creep," snarls the Phantom, keeping his attention on Helena. She moved too damned well to let him take his eyes off her, even if this jerk sorely deserves it. The man, to his credit, sparks a brain cell and just grins, holding up his hands placatingly. "Now start walking," growls the Phantom, who re-holsters the weapon, keeping the other on Helena as he starts to walk backward.

Helena Bertinelli stays still where she is, even if she could pull her bootknife and throw it she couldn't without getting shot by the Phantom at the exact same time. But, he didn't tell her anything about keeping quiet. "Seriously, what the fuck? Why are you HELPING this dickbag? He's one of the..." Shit, can't say that. Dickbag already knows who she is, that's a given. But Kit... he doesn't.

That sudden pause makes the Phantom cant his head a little, then he turns it just a fraction of an inch as his thoughts flick to the man behind him. Oh, he and the Phantom are going to have a little chat after all of this. "I have to," he tells her, keeping the gun in his left hand pointed at her. "Please--please--believe me when I say I don't have a choice in the matter. I--have an old debt to repay." Which leaves such a sour taste in his mouth, shown by the rather sour and sad expression on his face. He knows--oh yes he does--that this in a very real sense goes against everything the Phantom has fought for for centuries--but it also upholds everything the Phantom has fought for.

Helena Bertinelli scowls quite openly at that. "That's bullshit. Everyone has choices. And you're hiding behind that convenient excuse so you don't HAVE to choose. For fuck's sake, he's ... " Damnit, there it is again! She just growls, leveling a withering glare at the man fit to melt steel and definitely promising MUCH pain. Later.

"Yeah, everyone has choices--but sometimes they're between evils. And sometimes, there is no lesser evil.  Sometimes there's just a choice between crud and crud," says the Phantom, still slowly walking backward. His left eye twitches once, told by the way his eyebrow moves, then he cants his head a little. "Tell me what you're holding back," he says a bit quieter, though still loudly enough to be heard. "Please. I can't--I need..." He can't explain himself, so just exhales sharply through his nose and presses his lips together.

"Yeah, everyone has choices--but sometimes they're between evils. And sometimes, there is no lesser evil.  Sometimes there's just a choice between crud and crud," says the Phantom, still slowly walking backward. His left eye twitches once, told by the way his eyebrow moves, then he cants his head a little. "Tell me what you're holding back," he says a bit quieter, though still loudly enough to be heard. "Please. I can't--I need..." He can't explain himself, so just exhales sharply through his nose and presses his lips together. Meanwhile, Dickbag gets tired of this. "Yeah, I don't think she likes me very much. %bI'll be around, purple guy." A grin is then given over the Phantom's shoulder at Helena. "See you around, dar--oh. Oh.  Oh yes, darlin'--be seein' you around." That grin widens, then he turns to jog down the alley to leave.

Helena Bertinelli watches Dickbag jog his way on out of the alley then breathes out a heavy sigh running one hand roughly down her face. "All right. I'll tell you everything. But not here. Somewhere secure." And she'd REALLY feel better if she had her crossbow, but she knows better than to go that far quite yet.

When Dickbag jogs way, the Phantom grits his teeth, lips just barely far apart to make that noticeable. Great. Just great. He needs to question that moron, and do it soon. There's more going on than just a putz with something he probably shouldn't have--on he other hand, with him gone... The Phantom slides his finger from the trigger guard, resting it against the guard as he goes to slide the weapon back into his holster. "I really don't have a fight with you, madam," he tells her, frowning still but at least a touch less so for the moment. "Name the place and I'll be there. Maybe I can explain why I have to do this--as much as, I hope you believe, I really don't want to." He rests his hands on the holsters, more for wanting something to do with his hands than anything else. His fingers curl over the front of them, toward her, not the sides as if readying to unsnap the holsters at a moment's notice. He'd seen how fluidly and skilled she was when she took the jerk out--maybe she'll note that small difference.

Helena Bertinelli does notice the difference in his posture, and can appreciate it even if she doesn't say anything. "Fine. Rooftop of this building. Right now." NOW she turns her back to Phantom, which he hopefully sees as the gesture of trust it is coming from her. She's walking back toward the building she'd just exited, and doing so at a brisk walk that is even faster given her height.

"Alright," says the Phantom. "Roof of this building it is." He'll let her head off, then he'll exhale softly and turn to the pastry building. It's the shorter of the two that flank the alley. He uses an overturned crate to leap up and grab an angled crack, boots braced against the wall. A leap up and to the side to grab another crack... Eventually he's on the roof of the pastry building, then he leaps across the alley as he raises his left arm and flicks his wrist, making a small mechanism pop out of the side. A small grappling hook is fired, line playing out, the hook grabbing onto the edge of the roof. The line is reeled in as he walks up the side of the building. When Helena gets there, he's at the back of this building, one foot on the low parapet, forearms crossed over his thigh as he looks down at the small maze of alleyways.

Helena Bertinelli enters the building through the front door, runs up the stairs at a pace that would anyone else cringe, then enters the safe house just long enough to leave the little communication unit Robin gave her and snatch one of her unused bolts out of her quiver. Less than thirty seconds later she's back out of the apartment and running up the stairs to the roof. She steps out onto the roof only slightly winded from the run, takes a second to straighten her jacket, then steps toward the center of the rooftop, even though doing so goes pretty much totally against her usual habits.

Without moving, the Phantom knows it's her. Timing, simple lack of anyone else having a good reason to be there, no sudden pauses from surprise--so on and so forth. It truly can't be anyone else. "Centuries ago," he says without looking, "the Phantom was born in a small African village. He became the Ghost who Walks, protecting the people he was born into, and as the centuries passed he traveled the world, protecting and fighting for everyone who needed him.  Along the way, he met some people who went above and beyond--they did more than any reasonable person could be expected to.  Not only did they help each other, not only did they help me, but they proved that they are the very people the world needs.  They needed more than a reward--they needed an oath.  The oath is that wherever they go, they and their families will always have my protection." He pauses, brows knitting together as he takes a deep breath. "And until today," he continues, voice a touch softer, "I have never regretted giving my oath to these people. In over five centuries, I have never looked upon my oath--my duty--as anything but sacred, and a responsibility taken on willingly and happily.  Today, it's become a chain wrapped around my neck, tightening and tightening.  But--I can't remove it.  To do so is to throw away everything I have fought for over all those years.  To withdraw my oath is to turn my back on the people who need my protection.  I realize this--man--does not deserve it.  He deserves nothing less than what I stopped you from doing.  But it is not him I must ultimately serve.  I must serve my duty." Finally he moves, reaching his right hand up to rub his face as he closes his eyes behind the mask. He's so tired--not physically, not really, but--emotionally. Mentally. So very, very tired.

Helena Bertinelli looks at Phantom -- Kit -- as he explains his history, and why that dickbag was protected. "Okay, I understand why you have a duty to protect, but ... god. Why HIM? If someone can earn that oath, isn't there a way for them to prove they're no longer worthy of it? 'Cause if anyone doesn't deserve that, it's THAT douchewad." She shakes her head, stepping over to a clear spot on the roof to sit down. Her body's reminding her that she's HUNGRY. Damnit. Perfect fucking timing.

"That's the question, isn't it?" replies the Phantom, looking up out over the buildings at eye level. Can the son undo what the father has earned? I'm--afraid I don't know the answer. I know I can't take it from him; I am bound to my honor. That also means that, until I figure out what to do, I am bound to protect him." Bringing his hands together, he fiddles with the ring on his left hand, the ring with the Good Mark, as takes that moment to think.  A smile--a tiny one, but still--suddenly pulls at one corner of his mouth.  "Want to order pizza?" he asks, turning his head a little to address her more directly.  "You might be surprised at how many places deliver to rooftops and don't ask questions."

Helena Bertinelli scoffs. "At this hour? Only if the pizza's got eggs and bacon on it." She rolls her shoulders and tilts her head to one side then the other before adding, "Maybe this will change the rules of that debt tally thing of yours. That douchebag you just helped. HE is one of the ones that put the hit out on your friend Mandrake."

Lips press together, the color draining from the visible portion of the Phantom's face. "Actually--that doesn't make it any easer," he says, pushing back from the edge of the roof to turn and look at her. "It does, though, start to make things make a bit more sense. You were approached first to make the hit; it was only when you turned them down did they go ahead with that--impersonation scheme..." He starts pacing, right index finger somewhat extended and wagging as he speaks and thinks. "Their plan was doubtless first to corner Mandrake someplace--easier to get to, easier to deal with him. But they had to know I'd be there, so they were going to use this man to--buy them a window.  Maybe even pull the trigger himself." He stops and looks back to her again. "Crap. Okay, let's find a place that will shove eggs and bacon onto a pizza.  I could use the fuel, myself."

Helena Bertinelli moves to stand again, dusting off her backside as she checks the cash in her jacket pocket. "Well, I make it a personal rule to never share bacon and egg pizza with someone I don't know. So, um, hi." She offers Phantom her hand. "Helena Bertinelli, school teacher and part time moron." God, PLEASE don't make her regret doing that.

Offering a small smile in return, the Phantom takes her hand for a firm but not overbearing grip. "Pleased to meet you," he says sincerely, adding, "And--don't worry about the moron part. You're not the one having to help the bad guy, are you?  And I'll take care of the pie." Bringing up his left wrist, he flips open part of the gauntlet to reveal a small screen and touch-screen interface. "I'd introduce myself, but--I've realized I don't have to..." he says as he looks down at the small screen. A few taps brings up a home-brew web browser, and he finds a good enough restaurant open that early that would fulfill the order. He adds a note, the quicker they get there, the larger the tip. It all takes only a matter of a minute or so; he gets a decent connection on that thing, and they already know what they wanted.

Helena Bertinelli watches Phantom place the order, crossing her arms tightly and starting to pace a bit, unconsciously repeating her behavior from when she spoke with Robin less than 12 hours ago. When he's done ordering, she quietly offers, "I'll cover the tip."

"Tell you what--keep the tip and pay me back with information," says the Phantom, reaching two fingers and his thumb into his belt near his left hip. He comes out with a small leather bag, soft tinkling coming from the contents. "What more do you know about the situation?" Opening the bag, he pulls out a couple of small red gems--two rubies, and native-cut Burmese rubies at that, which will be worth over seven hundred dollars when appraised. Better than diamonds, these. This is only the second or third time he's had the chance to use these, too, but it's for a good cause, considering how difficult a deliverer's job really is.

Helena Bertinelli sighs, trying to think. "I... I don't know what else I can tell you that I haven't already. Well, except that I haven't been home in two days because of it." She rubs one hand across her eyes. "I wish I knew how they got their hands on those bolts."

Arching a brow, the Phantom draws the bag closed and slips it into his belt again. "Well, when you fire your bolts, do you make sure you collect them all or destroy them? Even if so, all it takes is one--take it to a skilled fletcher and have good copies made in no time." He shrugs one shoulder as he jingles the rubies quietly in his palm. "For what it's worth," he adds softly, "I'm sorry you haven't been home. I can imagine how that must be."

Helena Bertinelli shrugs slightly. "I'm really only worried about the house plants."

Eventually the pizza guy will come, poking his head out onto the roof carefully. A--guy in purple and a less-than-happy young woman. Well, he's probably seen stranger, in his time. If not, he at least has some grasp of tact and such, for he just smiles at them and holds up his pizza bag as he heads over. The Phantom gives the man the two rubies, which the young man looks at skeptically. "Hey, they're good," the Phantom says to him. "When you get them appraised, you'll see." The man looks between the costumed one and the woman, then just shrugs and goes with it. He bids them goodbye after handing over the pizza, and heads back to the roof access door. The pizza is turned around in the Phantom's hands so he can lift the lid and offer her a slice, first. Bacon and eggs, drizzled nicely with a few different kinds of cheeses.

Helena Bertinelli has been trying to remain stoic while waiting for the breakfast pizza, but once it arrives the fact that she's hungry is clear. She watches the pizza change hands, then when she realizes what she's doing she blinks quickly, taking a small step back. Then he offers her the first choice on the pizza and she can't help but look at the food appreciatively. Carefully pulling one slice from the box, she struggles to keep it under control and all the toppings in place. Pizza isn't this ... floppy in Italy or in Gotham.

After she takes a slice, the Phantom does as well, folding it up a little to keep it all intact. Might not be how you're "supposed" to eat it, but what the heck. The box gets set on the rooftop as he crouches, then he leans back against the low parapet. He's almost sitting, but not quite; more of a really deep squat. Still, he can keep both boots squarely on the rooftop as he does it, and it's obviously somewhat comfortable. A few napkins are pulled from the little baggy that was tucked into the box--the sort of package with the hot peppers and grated cheese in little packets as well--and offered up to her, then takes a few for himself. Other than that, he'll wait patiently until both of them have had their fill. He could tell how hungry she was, and truth to tell he was pretty hungry as well.

Helena Bertinelli finally manages to figure out how to eat the pizza without making an excessive mess, though it's amusing for a few moments there. "Oh, thank you," is her reply when he offers her the napkin, but otherwise she also eats quietly. Finally, though, she's settled, sitting on the rooftop having finished a third slice. (Gotta give her that, she's not one of those women that tries to starve prettily. She eats healthily.)

Between them, the pizza is finished right off, though that last slice was a bit much for the Phantom. Still, better than wasting food or trying to haul a huge box all over for just one slice. He breaks the box down and folds it up, shoving used napkins into the baggy before making sure they aren't leaving any messes about. At least he's studious with his fastidiousness. "The question now," he says as he rubs the corner of his jaw, "is what to do next. Unfortunately, about all I can do is make suggestions.  Caution does say that I--shouldn't hear any details of plans made against these people." Until he figures out how he can serve his oath and the Good Mark both, he has to continue protecting the jerk, which means he has to be kept out of the loop--as irritating as that is."

Helena Bertinelli sighs. "I think the best plan of action from here is to figure out WHO they are and WHY they're doing this. Because if we take them out and they prove to only be one little snake on medusa's head... You know?" She shakes her head, really hoping that Robin finds out something useful that they can act on. This whole waiting thing SUCKS.

"Well, even if they are, at least you've taken out a snake," replies the Phantom, spreading his hands in something of a shrug. "Sure, we want to take down the entire organization, but even one tiny bit means at least we've saved someone some pain. I realize it's something like a drop versus the ocean, but..." He arches a brow in thought as he cups his chin. Hopefully this really /isn't/ one little snake on Medusa's head--but if he is, maybe he can find consolation in a small victory.

Helena Bertinelli sighs. "I guess. But if that IS the case, I /really/ don't want what those assholes know about me getting spread about, you know?" Too much time to think. She's used to just doing. Reacting. Dealing with what's right in front of her at the moment. Maybe this kind of crap is why the Bat is so surly? Would sure make sense to her.

"We'll stop them before it comes to that," he says firmly, looking at her as he rises up to stand tall once more. "And no matter what, I've got friends in the right places--I can hide whomever you need someplace /no one/ will find them. Least I can do for bringing all of this to you, if in a round-about fashion." If they're right and this idiot with the Good Mark is part of some plan--he really does feel guilty about it, and if things do go that bad, he couldn't very well /not/ help.

Helena Bertinelli moves to stand as well. "I hope so. Because what they've got against me isn't family. It's far, far worse." She dusts off her hands. "So, until then... We just gonna hang out here, or do you maybe want to go find Dickbag and give him a stern talking-to?" Either way, she's now worried that Robin's safe house is compromised. As soon as she gets the chance she'll have to clear her stuff out and find another hotel room or something of that sort. Damnit.

Canting his head a little as he arches a brow, the Phantom says, "Well, I was planning on letting him run wild all over the place while I relaxed right here, but I suppose going and talking to him isn't such a bad plan after all." Okay, so there's more than a little bit of sarcasm to his voice, there, but at least it's the good-natured sort, given with a smile and in something of a riposte to the implication of her question.

Helena Bertinelli raises an eyebrow at the sarcasm. "Maybe... Hm. Would it be against your duty to notify the police that he's skulking around being all aqualung at girls? With luck, they'll just detain him for a little while, ask him some unfriendly questions, and give us time to figure this whole mess out in way that'll keep you from a crisis of faith. Or something like that."

A thoughtful look comes to the Phantom's face as he takes a moment to let out a breath and think. Finally, he says, "Well, that's iffy--but there's nothing saying I have to stop /you/ from doing that. I can't let you directly hurt him, but if you place a phone call when I'm not around, how am I going to know?" A small smile pulls at one corner of his mouth, and he adds, "Now, then, I think I'll go look for him at construction sites around the Upper East Side/Lenox Hill areas." He might just be telling her, too, where the man can likely be found. Maybe. Possibly.

A thoughtful look comes to the Phantom's face as he takes a moment to let out a breath and think. Finally, he says, "Well, that's iffy--but there's nothing saying I have to stop /you/ from doing that. I can't let you directly hurt him, but if you place a phone call when I'm not around, how am I going to know?" A small smile pulls at one corner of his mouth, and he adds, "Now, then, I think I'll go look for him at construction sites around the Upper East Side/Lenox Hill areas." He might just be telling her, too, where the man can likely be found. Maybe. Possibly.

A sly and possibly dangerous smile slowly spreads across Helena's face as she gets the gist of the Phantom's words. "Well, good luck finding the asshat. Give him a very disapproving glare for me." She takes a step toward the building's roof access. "So...do you want to call me later, or what?"

"Sounds good to me," says the Phantom as he crouches to retrieve their trash. "I'll let you know if I find the guy. It shouldn't be too long, I'd imagine." He steps over to the edge of the roof and spares a quick glance down, checking his route. "So--until later, then?" he asks, looking back to her.

Helena Bertinelli nods. "Until later. Be careful out there." She then leaves the rooftop through the access door and goes down to quickly check in on Robin's safe house before heading back down to street level. She's hoping to head on down to that area Phantom mentioned so that she can use a pay phone there to call the 'anonymous' tip in on dickbag.

"You be careful, too," he says a bit more quietly, then turns to hop over the edge of the roof and dangle by one hand. The trash gets dropped into the Dumpster below, then he starts spider-monkeying his way down, until he can jump and land in the alley in a crouch. A soft whistle to call Hero over, and he'll pat her cheek affectionately. "How much you want to bet we'll find a police car if we find him, huh?" he murmurs to the horse before hauling himself up and into the saddle.