Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Gotham City, Diamond District, Rooftop of the Drescher Convention Center

“Huff! Huff!”

She ran as fast as she possibly could, her arms moving up and down like well oiled pistons while her face remained focused on what was ahead of her. She was running, just as she always was and always expected to be. But this time? It felt different.

Selina Kyle’s feet impacted against the concrete rooftop she was moving across, thundering out so loudly as to make her wince, knowing that they gave away exactly where she was. ‘Dammit. Dammit! Fucking shit!’

She curses herself for her stupidity, for her boldness and carelessness that had led her here that night. To this convention center in particular, but Gotham in general. She knew she never should’ve come back. Maybe not when she left all those years ago, but she knew over time that coming back to the city of her birth to ply her trade wasn’t a smart idea.

She turns, moving her body as quickly as possible while making a sudden beeline to the left, rushing forward and using a small box like structure that contained the uppermost portions of the stairwell which covered her at just the right moment.

As soon as she turned she heard the sounds, sounds that she was familiar with both their source and their meaning.

BLAM! BLAM!

CRRRRKKKKK!

A shower of concrete and brick comes cascading out right at her back, chips hitting her as she keeps on running, not even daring to look back at that moment lest her pursuer catch up with her, which was something she most definitely didn’t want to happen.

‘Ohh no…no..noooo!’

Her breaths come out ragged and quick, though it wasn’t all thanks to the physical exercise she was putting her body through. No. Fear was a healthy portion of the equation as well, her fear causing her to shake and quiver at just how close those shots had been. 

For the moment she takes a breather, pressing her back tightly to the wall behind her, trying to take some degree of safety from it that she couldn’t get from continuing to run or turning to face him. It all goes quiet, and the woman who was garbed in strange clothing, takes a second to reflect on that.

‘Where is he?’ she asks herself, pleading in her own mind for an answer to such a question, wanting to know for certain what he was doing. Only then does she realize that hiding against this outbuilding atop one of Gotham’s most preeminent convention centers, where a massive auction was going to be held the next day, had only played into his hand.

She was trapped.

No matter what she did at this point, she’d be playing into his hands. If she remained where she was, she’d just allow the man to walk up and pick her off at his leisure. If she ran? She’d be gunned down without a moment of hesitation. 

Normally some goon with a gun wouldn’t be that much of a problem for her. She’d been training after all, and when it came to fighting she was no slouch. Selina Kyle was uniquely suited to this life.

And rather alluringly dressed as well.

The woman wore a tight, skin tight, black one piece, which was secured and closed about her body via the usage of a zipper that ran from the length of her neck all the way down to her womanhood. It was zipped down a considerable way right at the moment, exposing the valley of her cleavage.

She wore thigh high boots, heeled, which did nothing at all to affect her cat like balance and speed. She was very good at working in heels. In fact she was better at it in heels than she was without them.

And speaking of cats, her whole motif was based around that, though it was mainly fixated on her head, which was covered by a covering that was tightly secured around her neck, black in color. She wore a stylish pair of sunglasses as well which covered her eyes even at night, and to top it all off? The fabric of said covering was pushed upwards in the form of ears.

Cat’s ears.

Cat’s ears for the so-called Catwoman, a jewel thief who had made a name for herself in such places as Metropolis and Star City. if you wanted something stolen you went to the Cat….though you might not actually receive it if she wound up liking it enough. That was why she was mostly hired for so-called ‘boring’ things. 

Technology and the like. Things that weren’t shiny or pretty, that wouldn’t draw the stunningly beautiful woman’s attention too much.

“Heh..heh…heh…heh…dammit…”

She kept turning her head both ways, looking to the side of the outcropping which was, at that moment, the only thing keeping her from getting her head blown off. She doesn’t see anything, or rather anyone, which doesn’t put her at ease in the slightest. Her gloved hands cling to the cold brick, a cool breeze blowing over the rooftop which turned her warm sweat, which glistened over her skin and ran in rivulets down it, cold, causing her to shiver.

‘I never should’ve come here. I never should’ve…you’re here now Selina’ she reminds herself, taking a deep breath as she tries to calm herself. ‘You’re here now. And you’re going to find a way out of it. You always do’.

Business wasn’t what brought her back to her hometown. It was pleasure…a rather stupid one at that. She couldn’t help it. Sometimes she’d read the newspapers or magazines, and when she did? Tidbits of information would make their way to her.

Information that was bound to get the attention of a curious kitty.

So when she heard about the Heirlooms of Gotham Exposition going on in Gotham she just couldn’t help herself. Like a moth to the flame she was drawn to it, unable to keep away. Like a siren’s song. 

The Pearls of Jamaica. 

The one SINGULAR item that wasn’t up for auction at the event, and yet, for some reason, was there. Oddly enough? The pearls didn’t seem to be all that much on their own. Indeed they were exactly what they sounded like. A string of gleaming white pearls which had been created for some duchess or lady in high standing during the colonial period of Jamaica. A governor or some other rich snob intent on getting into some woman’s garters had them made as a gift.

They were nearly five hundred years old, which made them unique, and pricey, enough on their own. But there was more to the story, things that added to their mystique and the desire many had for them.

They’d been passed on for generations to the wife of each patriarch of one, singular, family. The Waynes. These pearls? The ones on display here in Gotham? Had been the same pearls that Martha Wayne had been wearing the night she and her husband were gunned down in cold blood.

These were the same pearls that ran red with the blue blood of the family that had built this city, and which had been stained in the murk and mud of Crime Alley. That had been painstakingly put back together with all the care in the world.

That Catwoman now held in her hands.

The jewel thief looks down at the string of pearls which she grasped in one of her hands, keeping a tight hold on them as she got her breathing under control. ‘Shit’. She’d read the papers and heard all about them, and when she did she’d made up her mind to have them. 

It was supposed to be easy. She’d slip into the convention center, slip out and then be away. That would be the end of it. Maybe she’d find a buyer in Gotham, maybe she’d send them abroad. Maybe she’d keep them for herself.

It didn’t matter. All that mattered was that she had to have them, even if only for a few moments. It wasn’t supposed to be any different than any other heist. No hitches, no problems.

But it was different.

Very, very different.

Things had been going fine until she was about to leave through the skylight she entered through, her quarry in hand. Just fine…until she saw him. And then the chase began. She’d heard about him. Mostly rumors. Rumors were what there were about the man. All there was really. Rumors, a few grainy pictures and fear.

Above all there was fear.

While some creatures of the night could be dismissed as fantasy, no such thing could be done with him. Too many people had felt his power, his presence, to deny his existence. The bodies that had been piled up were more than enough of a clue for those who couldn’t be convinced by superstitious whisperings. 

Criminals. Murderers. Rapists. Mobsters.

You name it.

So many had died, been killed, and yet the entirety of the GCPD seemed to be doing nothing about it. Appearing clueless even.

Clueless…or complicit. 

Either way, rumors didn’t bring a city from the number three spot on the list of most dangerous cities in the country down to the number one safest. Rumors didn’t do that. Bullets did. Bullets and blood. Gotham’s streets still ran slick with them, but it wasn’t the blood of the innocent like it was in the time of the Waynes.

No. 

It was the blood of the scumbags and predators, the human refuse that didn’t deserve anything more than a slug between the eyes and being left to lay in the gutter with the rest of the trash. Fear was palpable. Like a physical presence in the air. You could breathe it in, feel it and you’d keep it with you. 

Selina had felt it upon her first arrival back in the city, a city which she couldn’t recognize as she’d stepped off the train and onto the platform. The walkways were clean. There was no graffiti or litter, no drug addicts loitering about looking to bum a dollar off of some passerby. 

No.

Just people.

Quiet people who kept their heads down and moved about their business. They didn’t look over their shoulders, nor did they seem to be waiting for the knife to be slipped into their back any longer. They barely even said anything.

Selina had been shocked, but she didn’t dwell on it. After all, that was none of her business. She was here for one thing, and one thing only, and once she got it she’d be gone. She never wanted to stay here in this city, even if it was clean and relatively crime free now.

She’d dismissed all their fears and the evidence around her at the time, and now she was paying for it. Paying for it and cursing herself for being an idiot. ‘Gotta talk your way out of this Selina. Talk your way out. He’s a man…use that’.

She smiles to herself as she thinks that over, licking her lips and taking one final calming breath as she collects her thoughts. ‘He kills drug dealers and rapists. He’s not going to kill you for stealing some rich asshole’s bauble he wants to show off’ she muses, laughing to herself at such a silly idea.

She brushes off the shots that had been fired and the utterly frightening image of that creature of the night as nothing more than an intimidation tactic. He hadn’t been meaning to hit her. They were just warning shots. Nothing more.

“You still out there handsome?” she calls out, allowing her voice to carry across the empty and vast rooftop, hopefully to her pursuer. All the while she checks herself over, ensuring that she hadn’t lost her whip in the confusion.

“Yes”.

The voice that wormed its way back to her was cold, hard, and Selina couldn’t suppress the shiver that went right up her back as she heard it. ‘Just the chill. It’s freezing out here. Brrr’. She smiles despite the fear that was rising within her and the fact that the man who’d spoken couldn’t see her, turning her head a bit.

“You’re Batman, right? The guy everyone seems to be talking about. That everyone is afraid of”.

He was quiet that time, not answering the woman’s question right then. That was…disquieting.

Regardless, the jewel thief continues on, chuckling as if to try and convince the man that she was perfectly at ease. “Hehe. You got me. Honest. Dead to rights. Fair and square”.

“Step out where I can see you”.

“You’re not gonna shoot me, right?” she calls out, unable to prevent the tremor of nervousness and her self chiding inner voice from mocking her for asking such a stupid question. “I mean…I heard about you. You waste degenerates. Me? I’m not evil”.

“Step out where I can see you”.

“I’m just a thief, alright? I admit it. I stole the damn thing. But why do you care so much huh?” she asks, brushing past the fact that he’d repeated himself. “I mean…it’s just a piece of jewelry that some rich asshole had locked up. I’ve got it right here you know?”

“If you step out I won’t shoot you”.

“Promise?”

“I promise”.

“Alright” she says, exhaling a breathy sigh of relief, giving in, only slightly, to the hope that he would keep his word on that. “I’m trusting you with a lot you know? Mainly my life”.

“You won’t be shot”.

He was like a robot, repeating things once again, but that only made him more menacing. More in control of the situation than he already was, and there was no denying it. This? This was his battlefield and Selina couldn’t see any real way out of it. Sure she could run, maybe get twenty or so feet across the rooftop but after that?

There were twenty more feet to go, and in that time there was no doubt that the man would be able to put one or two rounds into her, maybe more. She had to play it his way…for now. Slowly she begins scooting to the side of the outcropping, keeping her back to the wall before reaching the edge.

“I’m coming out now”.

Silence again. 

“Alright? I’m giving up. I’m surrendering”.

She hated this. Really, she did. But when a heist like this went wrong she didn’t see any other way out of this. ‘Dammit’.

She pushes her hand out into the open first, waving it back and forth, showcasing the pearls which were still clasped tightly within her digits. “See? Still got them. It’s cool, right?”

“Step ou-,”

“Yeah, yeah. I got it” she huffs, sighing as she braces herself, knowing that she didn’t have a choice. She pushes her body further and further to the side, breathing heavily as her nerves once again return to their previously high strung state. “I’m stepping out now, alright? Stepping out”.

She pushes her leg to the side and takes the first step, exposing half of her body. Quickly enough, she takes another step, moving fully into view as she turns to the side and raises her hand in a sign of supplication.

‘He isn’t going to waste you. He isn’t! He would’ve already fired’ she thinks, calming herself as her heat practically gets ready to beat right out of her chest. And she was, to a degree, correct. Gunfire hadn’t instantly erupted, cutting her down as soon as she stepped into the man’s view.

He hadn’t killed her.

He wasn’t just going to kill some thief. She was right to think that that punishment existed only for the worst of the worst. She was safe.

The added benefit of stepping out onto the rooftop was that she could see the man who had chased her down so effortlessly clearly for the first time. When she first saw him, standing on the rooftop as she pushed her body out of the skylight, she hadn’t been able to get a good look at him. He was just a shadow and not much else.

But now? She could see him clearly.

And that didn’t do a damn thing to make him any less frightening.

He stood fifteen feet away from her, standing there ramrod straight, unmoving. He, like her, was dressed in all black, though there was a major difference. While Selina was dressed for comfort and ease of movement, and to a lesser extent, sex appeal, he was dressed for war.

Combat boots were what covered his feet, and they gave war to some sort of armor, most likely a high grade kevlar of some sort, that covered his lower legs. A knee pad was there too, and above that? Even more armor that covered his thighs.

He wore a belt of some kind with numerous different ammo pouches clearly visible, magazines stuffed into them. There were many. So many, and that wasn’t even the end of the immense firepower available to this one man. Grenades were on his belt as well, along with a sidearm tucked into a holster at his right side, a 1911 if Selina was guessing. 

More armor covered his stomach and chest, as well as his arms, which were clutching an M4 rifle all in black, the very same rifle that had sent two multiple rounds of 5.56 mm flying at her with the intention of herding her right where he wanted.

It worked too.

She moves her gaze upwards towards the man’s head, which she finds to be covered by a mask. No ordinary mask like a ski mask or balaclava or anything like that. No. It was open at the chin and mouth, allowing his pale flesh and stubble covered lower face to be visible. But beyond that? Nothing else.

It was blackness, the nose and eyes covered, white slits of the optics he undoubtedly had being the only thing that gave away the fact that he could even see. Like her he had ears built in at the side of his cowl, though these were shorter and straight, pointing directly up.

If there was any more doubt as to the man’s identity, it would be wiped away by the act of looking at his chest and specifically the symbol that was carved into the chestpiece that provided protection over his center mass. 

It was a symbol of a bat, its wings splayed out to either side and in a silverish gray that contrasted nicely against the dark black of the rest of his uniform. This was the Batman. The man who had single handedly brought order to Gotham City.

And now he was staring Selina down, still clutching his rifle tightly in his gloved hands.

“See?” she asks, forcing a smile as she showcases the pearls. “I got them right here. This is what you wanted right? This is what you were looking for?” she asks, trying to get the man to engage in more conversation.

“Why’d you take them?”

“Because I could I guess” she says with a shrug, thinking that the worse had passed as he keeps a rather neutral tone of voice that doesn’t give much, if anything, away. “I saw it in the paper. Thought it was pretty. Wanted it. Basically the story of why every girl wants a flashy piece of jewelry”.

“It isn’t yours to take”.

“Ohh come on…relax will you?” she scoffs, already forgetting how precarious the situation she was in was. “Whose is it to take then? Who owns it huh?” she asks. “The Spanish who took it from some natives in Jamaica? The guys who took it from them? The Waynes?” 

She smirks at this last one, not even realizing how the man tightens his grip upon his rifle, his trigger finger poised precariously against the mechanism that would send hot lead gushing forth once more. 

“There’s only one of them left, and why the hell would he need pearls anyways? In fact, I’m kind of doing him a favor, aren’t I?” she asks, looking towards the pearls once again, admiring them and moving them about this way and that.

“Give them back”.

“I mean, his mother died wearing these. How morbid right? Would you want something that reminds you constantly of what happened?”.

Batman begins walking forward, slowly, methodically, and Selina ponders if she was making a mistake. ‘Get him close. And when you do? Hit him with all you’ve got’. It was her only chance of escape and she knew it. Getting the drop on him before he got her. ‘Nine lives, remember?’

She was smiling, continuing to speak as a means to distract the man, not realizing that all she was doing was goading him. “Then again, he seems to. I read the papers on him too. Honestly? I think he does all this for attention. He likes the pity party. Wants people to think that he’s still just that crying little boy in the alley when he’s really just a cockroach feasting on the city. Hell of a trick the wealthy get to play on the rest of us huh?”

Batman keeps getting closer, and very soon he is only three feet or so from Selina, who licks her lips as she senses the upcoming opportunity. 

“It’s not fair you know? That it gets to sit in that cramped little display case when he decides to trot it out. It belongs around the neck of a woman, wouldn’t you say?” She cocks her hip out to the side, bringing one of her hands down to her waist, clamping it down upon it as she strikes a sexy, seductive pose.

‘Hehe…always works’.

“Tell you what. You let me go, keep the pretty pearls, and maybe? I’ll give you a kiss”.

Batman was right atop her now, so close that his rifle wouldn’t be able to be brought effectively to bear upon him. It seemed to be something that even he was aware of at that moment as he released his hold on the weapon entirely, revealing that it was secured to him via a sling that was wrapped around his back. The rifle was now resting over his front, the muzzle pointed to the ground.

“And you think that’s a fair deal?” 

He was right in front of her now, only a few inches separating them, staring down at her from his position due to his height. Selina smirks up at him, biting her lip and nodding, standing on her tippy toes while reaching out with the hand holding the pearls for his chest. 

She scrapes her claws against the symbol, trying to caress the man through the layers of armor he wore, while her other hand moves up to his face, teasingly touching the side of his face, allowing her claws to tickle at his flesh.

To his credit he doesn’t even move, and his left hand comes out to her waist, grasping it as the two get close.

“Hmmm…you’re actually pretty handsome. Anyone ever tell you that?”

“Hmmm”.

He doesn’t overtly respond to that statement, and instead continues to look at her, further solidifying the idea in Selina’s mind that she had him. That once again, she’d used her feminine wiles to get her way. To extricate herself from a situation. She was walking out of here…and she was going to do it with the pearls.

‘All because the big bad Batman was distracted by a firm pair of tits’ she muses to herself, finding it funny. 

“So…how about it?” she coos, getting in even closer so her breath can tickle at his lips. “Do we have a deal?”

“No” he says back firmly. “Give me the pearls”.

Her smile instantly turns to a frown, and her hand which had been tracking over his jawline suddenly stops in place. “Awwww…I’m sorry we couldn’t work out a deal” she mocks, her smile quickly returning, believing that she still had the advantage even if the man hadn’t succumbed to her as she wished. She extends her claws out further via the mechanism in the glove, using her fingertips to control their length.

“But I still can’t leave here empty handed”.

She yanks her hand back, whipping it through the air while scrunching up her face in anger as she prepares for a fight, though in her mind it wouldn’t be much more than a sneak attack, which she would escape in the aftermath of while he was groaning on the ground and clutching his wounded face.

She got her arm pulled back about halfway, ready to slam it forward when something she hadn’t accounted for happened.

BLAM!

A shot rings out yet again, and while Batman didn’t even flinch of move, Selina did. She jerks to a stop, her mind trying to make sense of what had just happened. He wasn’t aiming his gun at her, it was still spread across his chest, inert. And yet, a shot had been fired.

She was confused, and her confusion only grew when she felt a strange burning sensation overtake her, specifically at her thigh. She looks down, taking a step back as she does so, which proves to be a very unwise move.

As soon as she moves her leg the pain grows tenfold, and she hisses in agony while her hands instantly dart down to the spot where she knew the pain was coming from. She grasps her thigh, but in doing so, manages to lose her balance as well.

“Gaaah! Aahhh!”

She falls back, slamming onto the top of the roof on her side, bent at an odd angle as she clutches down at her leg, feeling a warm wetness cling to her hand. “Gaaaah! Ahhhh! Ahhhh!”. She realizes what happened now, having enough evidence to put it all together as to what exactly had happened. 

She still has to look though, and though she was laying on her ground, she peers down, pulling her hands away for a moment and watching as splashes of bright red come forth. Blood. And lots of it. More and more was gushing out of the hole that was now made in her thigh, and the pain? It was almost unbearable.

BLAM!

Before she could do anything else or even respond to the first gunshot wound that had so easily been dealt out upon her, he shoots again, and this time she sees the muzzle flash right before another blast of pain overtakes her. Batman had been holding onto his pistol, and he’d fired it through the holster right at her.

She didn’t even see it happen.

The second bullet slams into her knee cap, instantly shattering her patella into dozens of pieces, and adding to the absolute anguish she was in. “AHHHHHHH! AHHHHHHHH!”. She writhes in pain, her hands not sure where to go now as the pain spreads out, leaving her with absolutely no chance of escape now.

Her leg was utterly out of commission.

And as hot tears streaked down out of the bottom of her mask she realized how stupid she’d been. How stupid she’d been to disregard the warnings she’d gotten about Gotham. The news she’d heard. To think that her luck would hold up and miraculously, somehow, she’d escape notice.

The pain was constant now, all encompassing, and yet the Batman stood above her, releasing his grip upon his holstered pistol and letting it fall back into its normal position as he released it, no longer aimed at Selina.

He was gazing at the ground besides her where the pearls she’d dropped lay, having fallen to the ground in the midst of the vicious attack. Without any real thought he kneels down and reaches out, plucking the necklace up.

It’s brought closer to his face in a somewhat halting, nervous way, as if he was worried that it was damaged in some way, which was something that well and truly would’ve offended Selina had she been able to notice it. But pain and fear took her focus off of the man, and she rocks back and forth continuously.

“You son of a bitch!” she screams out tearfully. “You shot me! You shot me! Gaaaaaaaahhhh!”.

This seems to reach the vigilante, and he looks up, peering at the downed woman again while he pushes his hand with the pearls down to his waist, opening up an empty pouch, and allowing them to slip in. He closes it right after that, securing the prize so to speak.

“I did”.

“You said you wouldn’t!” she screams, shocked that he hadn’t kept his word.

“I lied”.

“Motherfucker! You’re an animal!” she seethes, baring her teeth as if she was a real cat and wanted to tear right into him at that moment. “I’m not hurting anybody! You fuck! Gaaaaahhh!”. Her face falls back against the rooftop, cheek pressed tightly to it as her body continues to quiver. “Ho-hospital. You go-gotta get me to a hospital”.

“Hmmm”.

“Ple-please” she begs, wide eyed and fearful, knowing that her life lay completely in his hands now. “I’m n-n-not a bad person. I j-j-j-just s-steal things”. She was going into shock. The signs were all that, but even still, Batman appeared to be unmoved. “I-I had to. Gr-growing up. Stea-steal. It was the o-only way”.

Her pained explanation could’ve been spoken to a stone wall for all the effect it seemed to have on the man who kneels before her, the very image of an individual who was best to be avoided. She hadn’t done so though, and she was paying the price for it now.

She didn’t expect him to say anything, which meant she was surprised the next moment when he finally communicated in something more than monosyllabic grunts. He peers down at her hand, the very same one that had been holding the pearls and was now clutching at the bleeding wound.

“If your right hand makes you stumble, cut it off and throw it from you; for it is better for you to lose a part of your body than the entire body to go to hell”.

“Wha-what?”

“Book of Matthew. Chapter five, verse thirty”.

He moves his hand once again, lowering it to the side of his body where Selina finally sees something else that he had on him, positioned right next to the holster of his pistol. He unclips the holding mechanism, and grasps the hilt, pulling it free.

SCHWING!

A metallic glint could be seen in the night air as well as the sound of metal brushing against metal, and Selina was now gazing at a massive knife with an edge so sharp that it seemed like it could cut through air itself. He held it with the practiced ease of someone who had a lot of experience in this field, and the shocked Selina could only go wide-eyed at the sight of it and the implications of what he’d just said.

“N-no…no. Pl-please…”

Only two people knew exactly what happened that night atop the rooftop of the Drescher Convention Center. There were a few others, many others, who had heard it at least. The horrific screams that split the night, screams that issued forth from a female mouth. Nobody intervened. Not here in Gotham.

A point was being made tonight. A very clear one that would leave absolutely no room for confusion as to what it meant. The screams went on for a little while and then stopped, replaced by loud, vigorous sobbing. It picked up again right after that as yet something else was done, and the faint smell of burning flesh could be smelt on the wind. 

Nobody knew exactly what happened up there. But everybody would know about the aftereffects. The newspapers had a field day in printing these sorts of things. It helped the city out oddly enough. Maybe not so much in tourism, but definitely when it came to their zero tolerance policy when it came to crime. 

Logerquist Square, Five Hours Later

“Ahhhhh shit”.

Those were the words that escaped the mouth of Detective Harvey Bullock as he pulled the police cruiser up onto the curb and put it in park, not wasting much time in opening the door and stepping out. Despite his corpulent form he moved relatively fast, and in no time at all was standing in the middle of the main road through the heart of Gotham City.

In the daytime it was the very image of a bustling metropolis. Trucks, cars, taxis and pedestrians all moving about their business. At night though? It was empty, giving the impression that the city was dead. All but those who absolutely had to be out at this time were at home. 

They were too scared to go out otherwise.

Not that it wasn’t safe to do so. A woman could walk down the street with her purse clearly displayed in places like Park Row without fear, something that never would’ve been conceivable ten years ago. 

But, even still, you didn’t want to be out at night.

Because if you were, that raised questions. Like why? Why were you out at night? And were you lying? The night was the home of criminals, the cruel and the violent, and you being out without a legit reason made people curious. Or rather one person. You didn’t want to have his curiosity.

But the two officers that were responding to the scene wouldn’t have that problem…they hoped, and Renee Montoya was relatively sure that they were fine as she too stepped out of the passenger side of the cruiser and looked up, quickly admiring the flashy billboards attacked to so many buildings that advertised so many different things.

Wicked, Scary Eight the movie, Oreo Cookies, Huggies Diapers and McDonalds.

There were hundreds of such buildings clinging to the sides of the massive skyscrapers that reached into the sky all around them, as if they were trying to touch heaven itself.

“Heheh. Wonda’ what she did ta piss him off huh?”

The larger male detective was wearing a trenchcoat, tie and slacks along with his coffee stained button up shirt, a fedora clinging tightly to his head which he pushes upwards while scratching his forehead, in awe at the sight before him.

His eyes were fixated on the Cobblepot Building, a rather diminutive yet storied structure in the midst of all this progress. It was still quite impressive, standing at fifteen stories and sporting an obviously aged facade that called back to its construction in the early twentieth century. 

It was all brick and mortar, an anachronism with all the glitz and glamor of the ever growing and modernizing Gotham around it. Detective Montoya at his side joins him in staring up at the spot he was looking, her attention impossible to be drawn anywhere else.

“Mierda” the hispanic woman exclaims, crossing herself quickly.

She was younger than Bullock, and naturally a lot more beautiful. She wore a shirt without a tie beneath her leather jacket which hung loosely across her shoulders, jeans, sneakers and a belt which held her holstered pistol and visible badge. She was a shapely woman, with piercing brown eyes and mocha skin, jet black hair that was pulled into a tight ponytail at the back of her head. 

Her lips were cherry red, which contrasted nicely against her skin tone.

“Heh. Ya said it sista. Damn. She musta’ really done somethin’ ta piss him off”.

“Pfft”.

The initial shock has worn off, and Renee laughs it off, shaking her head as her hands go to her hips. “Whatever it was, it wasn't so bad. He let the perra live”. Harvey shrugs. “True enough I guess”. He reaches into his pocket right after that and retrieves a pack of cigarettes, opening it up quickly before bringing a lighter up to ignite it. He places the tube between his lips while replacing the pack back into his pocket.

“Uggggh”.

“What?”

“I really don’t wanna go up there and cut her down”.

“Yeah well. We gotta. Afta’ that we book her fer whateva’ it was the Bat saw her doin’”.

“Gordon isn’t gonna like it” Renee warns, reminding the man of a recent addition to their lives in the form of a naive and rather ambitious lieutenant who was most definitely not welcome within the ranks of the GCPD. “Fuck Gordon. Asshole prick”. Harvey takes another deep drag on his cigarette as Renee nods, wordlessly agreeing with him.

“Wants ta fuck up the easiest job in the world and fer what? Some scumbags who are already dead?”

“Let's hope the cabron doesn’t stick around for too long”.

“Doubt it”.

Silence descends over the two cops and they both realize that they’d spent enough time stalling. They’d have to get into the Cobblepot building and then up to about the fifth floor windows where they’d be able to work on getting the poor unfortunate down. 

“Let's get a move on Montoya. Soona’ we get up there and get it done? Soona’ we get back ta the precinct” he says, beginning to walk forward. Renee follows after him, scoffing as she puts her hands in her pockets, neither showing any sense of urgency. “So you can jerk off to revistas sucias you got too right?”

“Keep it up Montoya. Keep it up, and I won’t let ya borrow Naughty Nurses Six”.

She acts faux upset and puts her hands up in mock surrender. “I’ll be good!”

“Heheheh!”

“Hahaha!”

The two share a laugh, something that was utterly and completely out of place in the middle of a crime scene. They were used to this and in the end? Supportive of it even. But the woman that was secured to the building above them, hanging by the rope tied about her waist and attached to the roof, wasn’t laughing.

She was crying, sniveling, and tears continued to make their way down her face, dripping down off of it and then falling many feet to the street beneath, impacting against the asphalt and concrete. Selina Kyle was apprehended, and she swayed lightly back and forth in the wind.

“Eh…ehehe….heh…”

She sniffles, unable to keep it in, half out of it, dazed and injured beyond thought. When she was finally cut down and brought into the building, lowered down to the ambulance that made its way out to the two officers who’d called it in, many notable wounds would be found.

A shattered kneecap, out of which a bullet would be extracted. Her thigh as well. The doctors theorized that she would walk with a limp for the rest of her life, provided even the steel plate they’d have to put in would hold. The wound in her thigh, from which another bullet would be pulled? That would heal.

But her right hand…the one which held the pearls she’d stolen.

There was nothing they could do for that. It was gone, leaving behind nothing but a stump. Beyond bandaging it there was nothing else they could do. The wound had already been cauterized, sealed in, the bleeding stopped. 

Selina Kyle’s days as a thief were over. The infamous Catwoman had been stopped right in her tracks. In her skin tight suit was a note addressed to the woman herself which would be handed over to her after she was released from the hospital into police custody to be charged for her crime. 

It was a simple, yet poignant message.

“Do it again and I’ll take the other one”.

There wasn’t a chance of that. Selina Kyle was sentenced to fifteen years imprisonment in Blackgate Penitentiary. When she got out she’d be a one handed, middle aged woman with no skills other than larceny. But, even with all of that, there was no chance she’d risk it again. No. Not when she knew he’d carry out his threat.

That was for the future now, a future that looked bleak for her as she cried to herself and faded in and out of consciousness, swinging back and forth in the wind.

She’d lost everything.

All because she couldn’t keep her hands to herself. Gotham was one of the safest cities in the world. You could drop your wallet in the middle of the city and it would remain there completely untouched on the ground for days. 

It was a safe city.

Arkham Asylum, Receiving Wing

BRRZZZZZZT!

The alarm sounds as the metallic gate slides open, making a path forward for the three guards who stood besides the man who was strapped down to a gurney. He was tightly bound, leather straps placed over his wrists and ankles, keeping him secured tightly. He couldn’t escape, wouldn’t escape.

And he was afraid.

“Ehh…ehhh…AHH!”

He turns his head this way and that as he groans and cries to himself, his teeth chattering and his eyes wide in fear, checking out each and every shadow around him as if waiting for some hidden assailant to jump out at him. His skin was pallid, pale, and his brown eyes were full of fear. He had light brown hair and a rather skinny build, which was shown off by the strange attire he wore.

A green suit which had been dirtied in some sort of scuffle, torn in some places even.

It had alternating purple question marks in the fabric, his trousers being green as well with the same motif. He was missing one of his shoes, which revealed the horribly stained sock that clung to his feet. 

“Where-where is he? He’s here! I know it! He’s here!”

The guards at his side paid him no mind, each one of them heavily armed and carrying shotguns, ready to be aimed at anyone and everyone who even thought about holding them up. They ignored the bound man on the gurney, apparently having already gotten used to his ravings. As the gate opens at the checkpoint and the guard at the station waves them on through the glass, one of the men begins to push the gurney forward, moving it through the gap that had been opened up. The wheels roll against the ancient linoleum floor, which sported cracks and missing pieces at odd intervals.

“He…he….he would’ve killed me. He would’ve killed me!”

“Yeah. That’s what he does, asshole. Though you fucking deserve it”.

“Heh..he…he isn’t here. He…if he was he’d have killed me by now! Hahah! Hah! Ha! I did it! I…I beat the Batman! I escaped! Hahaha! He won’t touch me here! He won’t! Hahahahahaha!” 

The madman cackles to himself, laughing as he exclaims all of this out loud, now as certain as a madman that he was safe. As if what had happened was some sort of game and Arkham Asylum? It was home base. Safety.

‘I wouldn’t bet on it, asshole’.

All of this didn’t go unobserved of course. Waiting on the other side of the caged barrier stood a woman, a woman who couldn’t help the slight sliver of a smile that crossed itself over her lips at the thought of what the man had just said. She was rather…striking in her beauty. She was blonde haired, bleach blonde, and wore it up in a tight, professional bun that rested at the back of her head. 

Her outfit was simple.

A white lab coat which rested over a red, button up blouse and a black pencil skirt that went to just below her thigh, allowing the remainder of her pantyhose clad legs and the black heels on her feet to be viewed. Her skin was unblemished, perfect, and she had full, pouty lips that couldn’t help but attract people to them. Her baby blue eyes gleamed with all sorts of things. An understated intelligence, an wry understanding of the world around her. A constantly wary gaze that prepared her for any attack that might come her way.

A hidden sadism that only came out when she was sure nobody else was looking. Well…no one besides one other person in the whole world.

Doctor Harleen Quinzel, head psychiatrist at Arkham Asylum. 

She stood there with a clipboard as the man on the gurney was wheeled in, the guards stopping right besides her so as to allow the frightened, chuckling man to be studied by her. And study him she does, like one might look at a bug underneath a magnifying glass. She steps forward, her heels clicking on the floor as she reaches the man’s side.

“Hold on Doctor Quinzel” one of the guards says, reaching out to place a gloved hand up, wanting to stop the woman from getting too close. “He’s dangerous”.

“They all are,” she says with a roll of her eyes. “Where ya think ya are? The circus. Nah. This is Arkham Asylum. But ya know what the funny thing is?” she asks, ostensibly to the guard but in reality to the man who was strapped down beside her, whom she now looks down on with a wide smile.

He notices her, and his mad chuckles cease for a moment, his entire body going still as he becomes confused, unsure of who this woman was or what to make of her. Regardless, something about her made him uncomfortable, and he squirms in the gurney. 

But Harleen ignores that, opting to instead reach out and place her hand against his cheek, mockingly caressing him as she leans in a bit as if to kiss him. 

“It ain’t the inmates who are the dangerous ones here”.

She whispers that, sending goosebumps right up and down the man’s spine and drawing smirks from the guards who nod at one another, one even chuckling. “He’s gonna learn that soon enough”. The prisoner wanted to shrink into himself at that moment. She could see it. Satisfied that he was sufficiently frightened she backs off, releasing his cheek with a shove that pushes his head away from her, turning his gaze to the opposite side.

“Alright, let’s see what this waste o’ space has gots on his chart huh?”

She brings the clipboard up to her face, reading off of it. Her eyes imperceptibly widen as she realizes who it was. 

“Ahhhh, we gots a celebrity here fellas! Ain’t that sweet. Eddie Nygma, a.k.a the Riddla’. Was operatin’ outta’ Central City right? Constantly fightin’ that speedin’ red guy? What was he, the Streak?”

“The Flash, Doctor Quinzel”.

“Eh, same thing” she responds to the guard, waving her free hand as if it was of no consequence to her. “Lets see. Ahh, right. Apparently ya came ta Gotham a month ago to uh…what was it ya said in that stupid video ya sent out? Ohh yeah, rid Gotham of the Bat”.

“Ye-yes! I will! I will! I am his intellectual superior! I proved it by escaping! Who else escaped him huh? Who? Who? WHOOO?!!!”

“Shut the fuck up!”

“GAAH!”

The butt of a shotgun is instantly slammed into the Riddler’s ribs, most likely cracking but not breaking one as the man soundlessly opens his mouth and tries to let out a scream. But all that came was a gasp of air as he fell back onto the pillow attached to the gurney. Harley, for her part, was completely unbothered, seemingly not even noticing as she flipped the page on his file.

She wears a consistent little smile now.

‘Hehe…can’t believe ya actually think ya gots away’.

“Paranoid Personality Disorder, Obsessive Compulsive and a Narcissistic Personality Disorder too. Gee willika’s Eddy boy. Ya tryin’ ta collect ‘em all or somethin’?”

“Heheheh”.

Nygma doesn’t answer, remaining silent instead as he cries lightly to himself, trying to recover from the damage meted out onto him. “Anyways, ya came here and tried ta draw the Bat inta’ one o’ yer death traps or somethin’. Took a few hostages, threatened ta skin ‘em if the Bats didn’t play yer game…yadda, yadda, yadda, boring…ohh! Here. Yeah…ohh, expectedly ya got yet ass kicked”.

She chuckles again, laughing as she continues.

“And ran while he was rescuin’ yer hostages. Ran inta a sewa’ which-,”

She pauses to sniff the air, finally getting to the source of the scent that had been overwhelming her from the beginning, scrunching up her nose as she realizes it was the Riddler. “Smell like shit. Ya hid out fer a while, somehow managin’ ta gets away from him ventilatin’ ya, or maybe he just decided ya wasn’t worth the hassle and let ya go, hopin’ ya’d die like a rat regardless. Ya failed in Gotham Eddy Boy. That’s fer shit sure”.

Her gaze turns violent, feral even, and she glares down at the man with hate and rage in her eyes.

“But ya didn’t in Central City, did ya? Ya did some real dirty shit out there. Fourteen dead. Ya made five women watch their kids die when they couldn’t answa’ yer stupid fuckin’ riddles”.

Riddler said nothing as he looked up at the woman, in fear of what she was saying or rather how she was saying it.

“I…I’m sick!”

“Yeah. Ya are”.

Harleen sighs and backs away, holding the clipboard up still, completely disinterested. “Bring him inta’ cell block one, cell four. We got a…vacancy now. Wouldn’t ya know it, poor Lazlo Valentin took a nasty fall down all those stairs ta the mess hall. Hope he didn’t owe any ya boys any money. He’s in the morgue if yer lookin’ ta collect”.

“Hehe, Pyg’s gone? Nice”.

“Yeah. Poor thing” Harley sighs, bringing her hand up to her chest and sighing melodramatically. “Saw it myself. Couldn’t do nothin’ ta stop it”. She smiles, the real memory coming back to her at that moment.

“Reeeee! Reeeee! Pyg…fix…Pyg…make…better”.

“Uh huh. I’ve heard it before sweetie. But…here’s the thing” Harleen says, her fake smile falling away as the two of them reach the stairwell that would lead into one of the lower levels of Arkham. To the secure mess hall where prisoners were allowed, if they behaved, to eat.

There were about thirty of them, all steel and at a steep incline, and Harleen and Pyg were standing right at the top with his hands bound and her own on his back. They were alone, which went against standard operating procedure of course, but none of the guards said a word.

Harleen Quinzel was more than capable of handling herself.

She glares at the large, overweight man in an orange jumpsuit with an ugly, pig-like face that fits with his villainous name. 

“Peelin’ someone’s face off? It ain’t makin’ ‘em betta”.

“Pyg…reeeee…fix”.

“Yeah, yeah. I know. But now Harley wants a chance ta fix ya”.

“Pyg no…reeeeee…need, squirrrrrk…fix”.

He was confused, and as was normal around the woman who ran the asylum, scared. He looks at her with those small, beady eyes, lifeless eyes that now filled with the same fear so many of his victims had undoubtedly looked at him in their last moments. 

“Yeah…maybe yer right. Maybe there ain’t no fixin’ ya. Bye Lazlo.”

She smiles one final time and then, with all her strength, shoves the man via her grasp upon his back, sending him careening off of that first step. He falls forward, not having prepared for such a thing, and finds it impossible to find his footing.

“REEEEEEEE!”

CLANG! CLANG! CLANG! CLANG!

He slams, face first, into the few steps below him, a sickening crunch heard as his nose and face are shattered, leaving crimson to stain the steps he’d fallen upon first. He keeps going, his corpulent body slamming into the steel, causing injury after injury. He falls, and Harley watches, bringing her hands up to her mouth and stamping her feet.

“HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA!”

She laughs like a maniac, like a little girl seeing something particularly hilarious as the serial killer’s body rolls down the stairs, his head crunching down as he turns and makes impact with the wall, cutting off the squeals of pain right at the source. All of this was caught on camera of course.

‘Reminds me. Gotta see Joe about gettin’ a copy o’ that. Too damn funny’ she thinks, reminding herself to go see the security guard who had access to such video footage and who had already congratulated her on a job well done.

This week, like many other weeks prior, she was in the top running for what the guards at Arkham teasingly called ‘Employee of the Week’, though with a much more sinister meaning. Who had taught the best lesson, or done the best job. The award for such a victory was usually some sort of dinner gift card or something like that.

‘Hope it’s Outback this week’.

The guards were rolling Nygma into the hallway now, the one that led to where many, if not most, never returned from, though he was unaware at that moment. News of Arkham rarely left the island. Most refused to even talk about it. Bad luck.

“Ohh guys?”

The guards stop at Harley’s prompting, turning to look back at the woman who should not have had the level of control over them that they did. “Season him up a bit more fer me will ya? I still gots ta decide on which therapy treatment we’re gonna go fer”.

They all smiled back, knowing exactly what that meant.

“He needs his eyes and tongue, well..one eye, I’ll be generous. But anything else? Fair game fer ya ta ‘season’.

She raises her fingers at that, making air quotes.

“You got it doc”.

“Thanks boys. Yer real dolls”.

She turns away, finally seemingly done with the conversation as the guards begin to continue their path forward. “I’ll get out! I’ll get out and when I do, you’ll all pay! All of you! I swear it! I am Edward Nygma! The Riddler! Nobody can beat me! Nobody!”

His voice gets further and further away and Harleen just stands there, sighing to herself and tossing her clipboard onto a desk which a waiting guard would usually sit at right on the other side of the barrier. She stretches, pushing her arms above her and closing her eyes.

“Mmmm…yeah, yeah. Sure pal. Maybe in yer freakin’ dreams”.

She was tired and wanted to go home, done with a long day that hadn’t allowed her too many opportunities for entertainment. Most of the inmates left in Arkham, with the exception of Riddler, were Class B, which meant they were classified as docile, i.e broken in. Their punishment had already been meted out and now they were nothing more than husks who were so fearful they nearly pissed themselves whenever they heard Harleen’s heels clicking on the floor.

The blonde had ruled out any further mistreatment for them. They were no longer to be touched…unless they got out of line.

Class C ‘inmates’ weren’t technically inmates, and Harleen allowed absolutely nothing to happen to them. They were her patients to the exact meaning of the word. She was there to help them. The broken and forgotten of Gotham, the victims of neglect.

Harleen loved them, mothered over them even, and any guard who dared vent their anger or power over them faced the consequences. None tried anymore either way. They’d learned their lesson after the first time one who’d tried was found with his eyes gouged out.

An incident that was blamed on a certain serial rapist and murderer Jervis Tetch, otherwise known as the Mad Hatter. He was no longer a problem any longer either. Two birds. One stone.

Class A villains such as Riddler?

Well…they didn’t need to be even thought of. Not for long. They didn’t exist for too long within the walls of Arkham. They had a habit of…disappearing or meeting with unforeseen accidents. It was tragic really but…then again?

Not really.

‘They have it comin’.

“Somebody once told me the woorrrrld is gonna roll me. I ain’t the sharpest tool in the sheeeeed. She was lookin’ kinda dumb with her finger and her thumb in the shape of an L on her forehe-,”

“Ohh, crap”.

Harleen hears the lyrics and tune of All Star by Smash Mouth ring out, letting her know that her cell phone was ringing. She reaches into the pocket of her lab coat, fishing out the cellphone and looking at the screen. She was excited. Just like she always was, unable to help it. The drying of her throat, the unconscious licking of her lips. 

The tremor in her thighs and the growing heat in her nethers.

The screen simply read unknown, which meant she knew exactly who it was. Without thought she slides her thumb across the screen, opening up the phone and accepting the call, bringing it to her ear as she walks to the side, away from the security checkpoint where the guard had already lazily returned to reading his newspaper, and towards a wall with exposed brick.

“Hey”.

“Good evening”.

She smiles as she hears his gruff voice on the other end, her suspicions confirmed. She keeps the phone close to her ear and her head down, her free arm placing itself across her midsection. She bites her lip, waiting for more. “I heard Arkham has accepted a new inmate”.

“It has yeah” she confirms. “One o’ yers. Riddla’. Got aways from ya a while back” she teases. 

“Hmmm”.

“Ohh don’t be a sour puss. I knows ya were doin’ the right thing. Ya always do. Ya saved those people. Asshole didn’t get far anyways. Got picked up by cops tonight tryin’ ta crawl outta the sewer. Smelled and looked like shit”.

“He’s about to be even worse off”.

“Ya can count on me” she coos out adoringly, unable to keep that tone from her voice whenever she spoke to the man. “Ya always can”. She says that part much quieter, and both man and woman know that she means it. “I know. Thank you. Riddler. I want him dealt with”.

“I will but not yet. Not fully. I gots some tests I want ta run first. See if maybe we can use that genius mind o’ his”.

“Harley”.

“What? He is a genius” she reminds the man. “A psycho asshole that deserves a slug between the eyes, sure. But let’s see if we can use him first. And if not? No harm no foul we toss him away like trash”.

“Hmmm”.

“Trust me”.

“I do”.

“Good. Don’t worry though. He ain’t hurtin’ nobody no more regardless. Ta see if we can use that brain o’ his I first gotta turn it ta mush, and ya know I’m damn good at that”.

“You are”.

She could detect a slight, very slight smile, through the words the man spoke, and that made her giddy, joyful. She loved these conversations. Lived for them. Lived for him. Her entire life was effectively centered around him and she knew that was unhealthy.

But that’s how it had been from the very start. From the first day she met him…years ago now, but as fresh as yesterday in her mind. 

“Ya ain’t just callin’ ta make sure I’m keepin’ the scum in line is ya?”

“No. Come to the manor. Tonight. Bring Helena”.

“Ya didn’t call her too?”

“Call her for me. I have to shower. Be ready”.

“I always am”.

She continues to smile, meaning every word she speaks. She knew what was coming, and she didn’t mind one, single bit. She actually preferred it this way. She knew she wasn’t the only woman in his life, but she also knew that she was the most important. Out of all the others, most of whom save for the woman whose name had just been spoken, had come and gone, letting him down in one way or another. Failing him.

But her?

Never. She’d ALWAYS been there. And she always would be. She didn’t mind that she was the only one. She knew she was the favorite and that was perfectly fine with her. ‘One day it’ll be more’ she thinks, planning for that day, the culmination of everything she wanted.

“Good. Bring the nightie. The one I like”.

“Any requests fer Hel?” she asks teasingly, playing into it as a way to stoke the man’s ego a bit, something she did effortlessly and without reluctance. “Tell her to wear her purple panties. Thong. You? No panties at all. I hope neither of you shaved”.

“I trimmed” she says lewdly and crassly, holding nothing back. “And Hel? She’s eye-talian. Ya know what that means”.

“Good. Be there. Soon”.

He abruptly hangs up, not even wasting time with a goodbye, and Harleen was fine with that too. It was part of their routine, who they were and what they did. She slips the phone back into her pocket and turns around, taking a deep breath to try and calm herself.

‘Damn…I need ta get home’.

She was already walking towards the gate, flashing her i.d card for the security guard beyond the glass who wasn’t paying attention and instantly doing as she asked. Harley scowls and slams her fist against the glass, causing him to jump up in surprise. “Ey! Asshole! Open up! I gots places ta be”.

Chapter Text

Gotham City, East End, Sionis Steel Mill

“We need this to move a little quicker than it is”.

“We’re trying boss, but it can only go so fast”.

Normally that would’ve enraged him to no end. To be spoken back to like that, but in the end he knew it was the truth. There wasn’t much that could be done about it, even while hidden behind the walls of the immense warehouse. It was frightening inside as well despite the fact that they were the exact opposite of exposed.

Roman Sionis was nervous, and that was never a good thing.

Not that he’d admit it of course. No, that would be bad for morale, but more importantly for his image. No. he wouldn’t say that out loud. Instead he just stood there, overseeing everything, watching as his men moved this way and that, all of them much more openly frightened than he was. They were constantly looking over their shoulders, peering into the darkness for a sign that they weren’t alone. That they were being watched. It was an omnipresent feeling in Gotham nowadays.

‘And I barely even remember the good old days’ he thinks angrily to himself, his mind traveling back to right when he started off on his ascent up the ladder of the criminal underworld. Nobody had thought much of him then. A rich kid, albeit with connections, but soft. Too soft to make it in the world of organized crime.

Hell, he even wore a black skull mask to cover his face. Scary for sure, but not really worth more than a second glance. He taught them the error of their ways soon enough. People that crossed him had a habit of disappearing into the Gotham River, usually without a head, and the rumor was that Roman kept the head or face, depending on who you asked.

And he would turn it into a mask.

After enough time and enough failed hits, with their ensuing counter hits that were far more successful than the ones made upon him, the other bosses got the good sense to understand that the Black Mask was a new player in town, and he wasn’t going anywhere. The Falcones, the Mandragoras, the Yamashiros, The East Townders and the Del Rio Lobos all came to an understanding with Sionis.

He was on top of the world at having finally achieved his seat at the table. It wasn’t enough of course, no. He’d never have been content with just that. He needed to rise above, subjugate them all to him.

Become the boss of bosses.

He would’ve too, had things not so quickly changed. 

Carmine Falcone was killed in a car bombing. Hideko Yamashiro was found dead in his bathtub. It went on and on like this, with none of the mobsters having a clue as to who was actually doing it. None of them had a reason for these hits…yet. They’d just achieved peace and were consolidating their power. This threw a wrench in things, and all of them scrambled for answers.

They scoured the city, looking for any information they could get on who was doing this to them. Seamlessly taking them out.

And they got an answer, though not through their search. 

It came to them one night at a meeting each attendee had thought another had called.

THUMP!

The sack lands upon the table around which the remaining members of Gotham’s organized criminal families were sitting. Mario Falcone, Stephen Mandragora, Toshi Kurata, John Stewart and Gonzalo Lopes.

And him.

Roman Sionis.

He was the first to react, pulling away from the arguing and shouting as he looked up at the catwalk above them, staring at the shadowy figure who had just tossed down the sack atop the table, the black mask clad man not focusing on it just yet. But the others? They all looked at what it was, wanting to know.

“What the fuck?”

“Urrrk…bleeeeeegggh!”

“Dios mio…”

“Those are the heads of all your underbosses”.

The shadowy figure, whom Roman still had a bead on, steps out of the shadows, himself holding an M4 upright in his right hand, seemingly completely unphased by the fact that a gun was training on him.

“Who the hell are you freak?”

“Look who's talking”.

It was another voice, one Roman hadn’t expected to hear and was thus unprepared for. It took him off guard, which allowed the interloper a chance to attack. He sees the glint of the weapon before anything else, the shimmering like a barracuda in the waves. It didn’t help him in the slightest though.

“GAAAH!”

A cutting pain pierces through his wrist, and on instinct he drops his gun, the pistol clattering to the floor and his free hand moving up to grasp the area which had been wounded. When his fingers get there he finds something…odd. The handle of a knife, sticking out of him, the end sticking out of the opposite side, stained crimson with blood.

“Motherfucker!”

“Hey, language!”

Another figure steps out besides the oddly dressed man wearing a cowl and holding an assortment of weapons, apparently still completely unbothered. This one was younger, a teenager, maybe fourteen or fifteen years old. He wore a green mask around his eyes and nose, leaving the rest of his face visible. He had dark hair and his suit was a mixture of red and green, though it was obviously kevlar.

He was as well armed as the man besides him, grenades and ammo pouches over his waist, though instead of a gun he held a knife aloft, twirling it in the air and flipping it over. It was him who had attacked Roman.

“There are kids around”.

While Roman was stewing in his rage and the fact that he couldn’t do anything about it, both the intruders having the high ground and an impressive complement of armaments, the others were in awe at the table, seeing the faces present on the heads that had rolled out of the sack and onto the table.

The bloodied stumps of their necks bled out over the surface of the table, and their eyes stared blankly out at nothing, their mouths opened as a testament to the horror that had been their last moments on Earth.

Slowly all of the hard as nails mobsters, who were now on the verge of pissing their pants, looked back up towards the duo who had interrupted this meeting, their fear palpable. The man in black glares at them hatefully, and all of them expected a hail of bullets to greet them.

Instead, he speaks again.

“From now on, you all work for me”.

And thus the Commission was born. An organization of all the major crime families remaining in Gotham. Remaining was the key word. The Yamashiros and Del Rio Lobos had tried to resist, and what happened to them served as a reminder to the others. The East Towners? They played along but even still they were destroyed. Roman never knew why. 

‘Probably just wasn’t enough room in his calculations’.

All of this was overseen by one man, a man who exercised an iron tight level of control over this city and yet Roman hadn’t seen him since the day his protege, whom he later found out was called Robin at the time, threw a knife through his wrist. He didn’t have to show face. The hundreds of bodies that piled up of their criminal compatriots were proof enough of what he could do. Nobody could hide. 

He talked to them and issued his edicts through the Mandragora Family’s head, Helena Mandragora. He controlled the Commission through them. Whatever criminal enterprises they wanted to embark upon had to be sanctioned, and there were very few things that would get the okay from Mandragora.

Gambling? Yes. Gambling was fine though useless in Gotham as anyone who was anybody went to the Iceberg Lounge and Oswald Cobblepot, a new addition to the Commission following the night of heads. The short little pipsqueak was another voice box for the Bat, issuing his orders as if he would be anything without the Batman’s backing and support.

Prostitution? Also okay as long as the girls were not compelled to do so or forced into debt or addiction. That left the gangs with nothing more than high class escorts which had a much lower profit margin considering the take the girls themselves took.

Drugs?

That was iffy. You weren’t allowed to sell them out on the street. Advertise, so to speak. Anyone who wanted it had to come to you and your drug dens and could only do it there. Needless to say, this wasn’t popular and again profits, as well as addiction, in the city plummeted. A social ill had been almost entirely removed…at the expense of the mob. 

Murder, extortion, hijacking and money laundering?

Those were all completely off of the table. Mandragora had been insistent on that fact, which meant her real boss had been insistent on it. The innocent people of Gotham were not to be touched. All of this led to a distinct downfall in organized crime. They weren’t families anymore, not really. They were glorified gangs answering to a higher power, a higher power that took forty percent of all their miniscule earnings as it was.

The others? They were too afraid, or comfortable, with the status quo to want it any other way. But Roman? Roman was a different caliber altogether. A different person.

‘Those fuckers might be content fighting for scraps but me? Nah. Nah. Never. Fuckin’ never’.

He was ashamed of how long he’d gone along with it. Subverting his own interests for that of the Commission, a group of scared shitless two bit hoods that used to be something. ‘Like kids dressing up in their parents’ clothes’. He shakes his head, feeling his anger rising as he even thinks about it.

‘No more. No fucking more’.

The man leans forward and grasps the railing of the catwalk he was standing upon, looking down into the loading bay of the warehouse where at the moment one of his men, one of the ones brave enough to go along with his plan, was using the forklift. It made him wince, the noise the machine was making, as it lifted the pallet up into the air, a pallet that was wrapped tightly with cellophane and steel bands, hiding what was inside. The vehicle rolls forward, following the direction of another one of his goons who stood in the back of a box truck, the door itself being opened so as to allow entrance.

“Come on Louie! Hurry it up!”

“I’m tryin’ asshole!”

All around them were Sionis’ other men, all nervously clutching rifles and pistols of their own, though each one knew that it wouldn’t mean a damn thing should they come. Not a damn thing. 

‘We gotta hurry this up’.

“Stop fucking around and get in on board!”

“We’re tryin’ boss!”

“Try harder!”

He was angry now, angry and afraid, and one of his underlings besides him seems to have picked up on that, though he wisely says nothing. Roman Sionis was an older man, the edges of his hair beginning to be colored by gray. But he was still a dominating, dangerous figure. He wore his white suit and the constant black mask that gave him his name, whispered by many to be made of the solid oak from his father’s casket. 

He was once an up and coming star in Gotham, ready to take it all, and now?

Now he could barely muster together five guys who’d go along with his scheme. The other members of his gang, his ‘family?’ They weren’t brave enough, and all refused to go along with his plan, believing, or maybe knowing, it would get them all killed.

He’d cleaned house that night at his compound, him and his five loyalists having shot, stabbed and killed in all manner of ways anyone who’d said no. It was just them now. The six remaining members of Sionis’ criminal organization. 

Their plan?

To get out of Gotham. Set up in greener pastures. One of the box trucks was already loaded with all of Sionis’ money, which he had pulled out of Gotham Bank that day. Almost forty million dollars. There was no doubt in his mind that a move like that would set off alarm bells up top, but he was hoping that it would take time to respond. And by then? He’d be out of there, away from Gotham where he’d hopefully be forgotten about. 

Bludhaven.

That’s where he’d go next. He’d set up shop there in what was essentially a wild west orgy of violence and despair, where every third person was hooked on smack and there was a gun for hire on every street. 

The perfect place for a new start.

Not only was he bringing money with him, enough to buy his way in, but he was bringing the one thing he had left to peddle in a town like that. Smack. Black tar heroin. All of it neatly packed into the barrels which were wrapped tightly and secured atop the pallet on the forklift. 

The machine gets closer and closer to the box truck, the wheels carrying it there with ease as the hydraulics lift it up so it was level with the bed. The mobster in the back of the truck moves to the side, clinging to the wall so as to supervise the pallet going in. 

It makes contact, the wood squeaking against the floor.

‘We’re gonna make it’ Sionis thinks to himself, letting some level of happiness and joy, excitement for the future, overtake his fear and nervousness.

CLICK!

WHOOOOOOOOSHHHHH!

“Wha-?”

BOOOOOOOOOM!

It all happened so quickly that he barely had time to put the pieces together. Something clicked, cut through the air and then? The forklift and the truck into which the heroin was being loaded exploded in a violent display of bright flame, taking the lives of two of his men before they could even scream.

“NO!”

He shouts out in rage, utter rage, not at the loss of two of his last loyal men but at the loss of the heroin, his way forward. The key to the doorway of his new life.

“GAAH!”

This scream he hears, a bullet echoing out of the darkness and slamming into one of the men who’d been meant to stand guard, entering into the side of his skull, traveling through the gray matter and then out the other side, sending a burst of skull fragments and flesh spraying out over a steel beam the man had been leaning on.

He was dead, and he drops to the floor, his rifle clattering uselessly besides him.

“THEY’RE HERE! THEY’RE HERE!”

The area was now well lit, the warehouse no longer just relying upon the fluorescent lights above but on the much more natural light of the flames which twist and twirl over the shattered remnants of the box truck and forklift. There was a sweet smell in the air, burning flesh.

“WHERE THE FUCK ARE THE-OHHHH!”

“Right here guys!”

“BOSS! WE GOTTA GO!”

Someone had jumped down from above atop one of the last men standing guard in the bay, using, once again, the high ground as a means to try and win the day. Realistically it was the only way anyone could’ve gotten the drop on them, and it was effective as always. The agile man lands atop one of Sionis’ goons in full sight of the man who was still in shock over what had happened.

The gangster crumples to the floor, his hands falling away from his rifle as he screams out in agony. His ribs were cracked, some even broken, a testament to the force with which the man above had jumped down atop him.

It didn’t help that the boots wedged onto his ribs were incredibly durable, solid and steel lined. The man’s entire rib cage was definitely destroyed, shards and jagged edges turned inwards towards his lungs, piercing the organs.

“Ack…urrkk!”

He coughs up blood which stains his lips and chin a bright crimson, his lungs rapidly filling with it as he stares up at the man who had killed him. He sees a smile displayed prominently over his lips, a smirk, as if the act of this man’s death was funny. He was recognizable too, so there was no doubt in the dying man’s mind that to him? It was funny.

Nightwing was there.

“Ouch. That looks like it hurts asshole”.

He stands as if he wasn’t in the middle of a warzone of his own creation, showing off his just as recognizable as Batman, uniform. He looked like a special ops member. With the kevlar and the ammo belt, the twin holsters and combat boots. He didn’t carry a long rifle like Batman did, opting instead for his two sidearms and twin escrima sticks, which he kept sheathed at his back. 

He wore a mask over just his eyes, allowing his well kept black hair to be shown off. 

He was young, bold, brash, acrobatically gifted.

But he was also incredibly, irrevocably violent. He’d been groomed into this, molded, though there was no doubt that there was a prior existing skill that couldn’t be denied, something that everyone saw in his mentor as well.

He turned violence into an art form.

The younger man rises up to a standing position, keeping that smile on his face as well as a foot upon the destroyed ribs of the gangster he’d killed, the light in his eyes already leaving as the choked out sobs spitting up of blood ceases, the man slowly going limp. It was just him, Sionis and the one remaining goon left, and a distance of maybe twenty feet separated them, Nightwing being on the ground floor and Sionis and his underling being on a slightly raised catwalk off to the side.

It wouldn’t do a thing to stop him if he wanted to reach them though and they all knew it. He’d just leap up into the air, do a somersault and then he’d be level with them.

He was completely unphased at the fact that both men had a gun aimed at him, Sionis himself drawing his pistol and aiming it directly at his head. He wanted to shoot, not only for destroying his heroin but also for that first meeting where the now older man had embarrassed him. 

“You motherfucker! Do you know what you just did?!!!”

“Yeah. I blew up your heroin supply with an RPG he says back flippantly, stepping off of the now lifeless corpse as his feet and leisurely walking forward, his hands at his side. “I left the launcher up there in the rafters though. Hell of a thing to carry around with you while falling”.

“You piece of shit! I’ll-,”

“No, Sionis” Nightwing says mockingly, both men he was facing inadvertently having their eyes drawn to the red symbol upon his chest. It was akin to a bird, stretching out its wings to either side, a head turned in the manner of some heraldic eagle but nowhere near as detailed. It was really more of a vague shape so to speak, but still very, very recognizable. 

“You won’t”.

The distraction was just what Nightwing needed and with almost superhuman speed he had grasped up his pistol from his side, drawn it, and aimed directly at Sionis’ remaining goon’s head. He fired, showing no hesitation, and in less than a second the man’s eyeball explodes in a flash of gore, some of which lands on Roman’s shoulder, staining his white suit.

“Shit!”

Sionis was in full survival mode now, his adrenaline rising and pumping through each and every one of his veins. Before his last lackey’s body had even hit the ground he was running, his eyes fixated ahead on the office at the end of the catwalk that would lead out onto the street. He raises his arm though and aims out to the side, blind firing his pistol in the hopes of hitting their attacker, but knowing he wouldn’t.

At the very least he hoped to distract him, buy him some time to get away as his feet slam down against the steel grates below him that lined the floor of the catwalk, causing noise of his retreat to thunder out through the warehouse.

BLAM! BLAM!

‘Fuck! Fuck!’

He couldn’t take the time to look and see where exactly Nightwing was in reference to him, how close so to speak. If he did that then he wouldn’t be focusing on the prize, i.e the exit. From there he didn’t know what he’d do. Realistically nowhere in the city was safe and now with all his men dead he wouldn’t have any extra muscle to assist him.

If he ran to the Commission every single one of them would start clawing at one another to be the first to turn him over and thus gain some favor.

His future in Gotham was over. There was no doubt in his mind that he had to leave the city, though now it would be without anything, not even a penny to his name. All of this was academic of course. He still needed to escape Nightwing, a prospect that was already doubtful.

BLAM! BLAM!

He blind fires again, shifting a bit so he was aiming behind himself, though again he doubted it would have any effect.

Thud!

CLANK! CLANK! CLANK! CLANK!

Another pair of feet were slamming into the catwalk, allowing Sionis to more accurately judge where Nightwing was. He was closer than he’d have hoped, way closer. He could hear him getting closer, running but clearly not putting any real effort into it. Sionis could almost see it. He hadn’t wasted any time with taking the few stairs that led up into the catwalk itself. He’d just vaulted over the side, pulling himself up easily before turning and running.

He was chasing after him, but in reality he was toying with him. Playing a game and having fun, a stark contrast to the terror that overwhelmed Sionis. Like a frightened rabbit the hardened gangster was fleeing, desperate to get away.

CLANK! CLANK! CLANK!

Nightwing was going to catch up with him like some sort of monster in a horror movie, and when the Black Mask looks forward and sees just how far away the opening to the office is his heart plummets as it all fits together.

He wasn’t going to make it. He wasn’t going to get away. 

BLAM!

Another gunshot rings out, though this one didn’t come from the pistol he held in his hands. It came from behind him, and there was no doubt as to what it was immediately after. “Gaaah!” Sionis falls, slamming onto the grates below and sliding forward a bit, the steel grids tearing bits of his suit and digging into his skin as he goes, though admittedly also slowing his forward trajectory.

That pain was minimal in comparison to what he felt in his thigh, which burned as if it was on fire. He’d been shot and he knew it. It wasn’t the first time.

“Ahhhhh! Motherfucker! Motherfucker! Ahhhhhhhh!”

He rocks back and forth for a second, forcing his mind to quickly come to terms with the pain he was feeling as he knew that this wasn’t over. Not by a long shot. While one of his hands grips his wound, the blood pouring out over his hands, staining his figures, he turns onto his side, gasping for breath.

“Wait! Wait!”

It was a struggle to even force those words out, raising his free hand while balancing on his shoulder. Nightwing, as expected, was right there, never having been far from the man at all. There was no doubt as to how this chase was going to end, even right from the beginning, and yet, despite that the man still had to try it.

“Wait…I…I got money! I got money!”

“Yeah Sionis. I know”.

Nightwing walks forward and with the ease that one might flip a switch kicks the man as hard as he could in the jaw. Sionis’ head snaps back violently, almost enough to break his neck, and his teeth clatter in his mouth, biting into his tongue and adding yet another bleeding wound to the one he’d already suffered tonight.

Nightwing had kicked him hard enough and in exactly the right position so that the mask that the man was wearing splits apart, the hinges that held it together at the sides so as to cover all of Sionis’ face snapping under the pressure. The famed black mask falls apart into two pieces, and slides away from the man’s face, onto the ground, laying against the steel, and Roman himself lays down, going prone as he tries to breath, remarkably still conscious.

“Sffftt…”

Blood spews out over the catwalk as he spits it out, unable to help himself, needing to clear his mouth, all the while Nightwing stands disinterestedly over him, hands on his hips and a sigh from his mouth.

“Roman, Roman, Roman. What are we going to do with you?” he asks, moving to the side and leaning against the railing, crossing his arms over his chest. “Here I thought you were smart. I’ve gotta say, you let me down”.

“Pl-please-,”

“Did you really think he wouldn’t notice?” the vigilante continues on, not even listening to what the gangster had to say. “Forty million being withdrawn? Come on. We had word from the bank seconds after you walked up to the teller. And with a pile of money that big? We knew you’d act fast. Surprise surprise when I went to that mansion you live at to find all your guys pushing up daisies”. Nightwing looks off into the distance, mulling over something it seemed. But eventually he shrugs, considering whatever it was not so important.

“Leaving with heroin and money huh?”

“I…I’m sorry”.

“Yeah. You really are. You look pathetic Roman” the younger man mocks. “Like that day when Batman and I set down the new rules. I bet you were on the verge of tears, that knife sticking out of your hand. Bleeding all over. You really thought you were going to be something, didn’t you?”

Roman wanted to scream.

To rage and throw himself forward, dig his fingers into the other man’s eyes, gouge them out and kill him as violently as possible. ‘Fucker…you motherfucker’. His pride was injured and for a mafioso like him that was the worst thing that could be done. But he was smart. He knew there was only one way out of this. One last way. 

‘Dropped my fucking gun anyways’ he thinks, remembering how the piece had slid out of his hands and over the side of the catwalk, falling to the ground floor below. There was nothing he could do on that front.

“Fif-fifteen million. Fifteen. I’ll kick it up to your boss. An…apology for this…this…misunderstanding”.

“Ohh really?” Nightwing asks. “That’s what we’re calling it? Okay. Newsflash buddy. Fifteen million doesn’t really mean anything to him. Especially since I have all forty million sequestered away in that truck over there. Watched them load it by the way. Wanted to make sure”.

Sionis went blanche, realizing that the money wouldn’t be a bargaining chip. The man could just take it anyways. 

Panic was beginning to set in.

“Sev-seventy percent! Seventy percent. I’ll kick that up instead of the sixty. Seventy percent”.

“Your operations are destroyed dude” Nightwing bites back, wearing a sick smile as he plays with his food so to speak. “All your guys are dead. Your smack? Destroyed. Your money is ours. What are you gonna kick seventy percent of up to us? Gonna get a job working retail or some shit?”

“Pl-please! I-,”

“Nah. Sorry Roman. You just don’t have anything to offer us anymore. You’re all used up. Funny thing is? It didn’t need to be like that”. Nightwing pushes himself off of the railing and stands up, letting Sionis see the nine millimeter he held in his hand, the same gun he’d already shot him with. 

“You could’ve been content with what you had, watched the money roll in and have to do even less than when scumbags like you ran this city. But no, you got greedy. Like your kind always does”.

Sionis licks his lips desperately, looking around for any sign of escape. But he found nothing. He couldn’t even move, not really, and definitely not faster than Nightwing could. He couldn’t even beat him when he wasn’t sporting a slug in his leg. 

“I gotta say…I expected it to end this way”.

He raises his pistol, aiming it right at the man’s face, letting the smile slip away to be replaced by a scowl as the man cowardly raises his arms, trying in vain to protect himself. “Please! Please! I don’t wanna die!” It was a ridiculous statement really. Not many people wanted to die, especially not cockroach mobsters who lived off the misery of others.

“You should’ve thought of that before”.

BLAM!

A single shot echoes out and moves through the small distance that existed between them, drilling itself neatly into the middle of Sionis’ forehead. His eyes go wide as if in shock right before his brain is utterly decimated by the bullet, his body falling completely limp as he falls back onto the catwalk in its entirety. 

He was dead before he even hit, and now his blood stained the steel, dripping down to the main floor below. It was just Nightwing now, standing there with a pistol, which he quickly deposits back in its holster. He looks around, and quickly realizes that the fight was fully over.

He knew that of course on instinct, but in one of those subconscious ways.

Now, looking at the remnants of the enflamed truck and twisted machinery, the heroin burning up within the barrels, useless now.

‘At least the money’s intact’ he thinks to himself with a smile, grateful for that beyond words. ‘Helena and Oswald would’ve killed me if it wasn’t’.

To that end he reaches down for one of the compartments within his ammo belt, and opens one up, reaching in and retracting, of all things, a phone. He brings it out in front of him, his gloved hand moving with ease across it and opening it up, bringing him to the screen saver.

Quickly inputting his password he opens the device up, and with one final pressing down upon the screen selects a call he wishes to make. The person he was calling was simply labeled H. He puts it on speaker, knowing that there was nobody left alive to hear him speak and he didn’t have to worry about his secret identity. 

“Beeeeeeeeeeeep….beeeeeeeeeeep…..beeeeeeeeep”.

He waits, and waits, and waits, letting the ringtone run out of time and come to a close, triggering the voicemail greeting. “This is Helena. Leave a message”. 

“Ugggh…straight to the point as always” Nightwing says, not even bothering with a message as he ends the call before the beep that signals he could leave said message calls out. His finger slides down the list a bit, downwards to the lower echelon of his contacts. He stops at Os, and tries again, opting to call him instead of Helena, the man always being a backup when he couldn’t reach Helena.

He calls, and the ringing commences again, though this time it only gets to the second or maybe the third beep before he picks up.

“What do you want Todd?”

“Ohhh, Oswald. You sound upset. Are you upset?”

“I’m busy, and irritated now because yer interrupting my telly time”. The thick Cockney accent comes right out, assaulting Jason’s ears as it always did. But the ward of billionaire Bruce Wayne doesn’t let it get to him. He just smirks.

“Anything good on?”

“None of yer bleedin’ business!”

“Ahh, dirty movies then”.

“What do ya want?”

He was getting frustrated again, and Jason knew his time for Penguin baiting, the man’s nickname, was going to be short lived. “I took care of our problem with our masked friend”.

“Ohhh?”

Now Oswald seemed interested, excited even, and it was because of one thing and one thing only. Money. Mainly Sionis’ money. “Yeah. All his guys are dead though. Meant to tell you before but…heh…got distracted”.

“Sod off with that. You know we can always get new meat to keep things running”.

“I know yeah. Sucks though. The guys Sionis’ killed? The principled type. They played things by our rules and they died for it”.

“Are you feeling bad for ‘em?”

“Yeah…a little. Don’t you?”

The silence on the other end of the phone spoke more than words, and Jason stands there for a second, waiting for whatever Oswald was going to say next. The man on the other end of the line sighs, and Nightwing could almost see him nodding his head. “Yeah…a bit. Poor lads. I’ll pay for their funerals and write a check for their families. Dammit. Bloody Sionis”.

“Yeah well, he paid for it. Trust me”.

Jason looks down to the side at the body laying on the ground and scowls at Sionis’ unseeing gaze, constantly looking upwards now. “I added a sun roof to the back of his head for the trouble”.

“Good lad”. 

“Anyways. His heroin is up in smoke”.

“No loss there” Oswald sniffs. “I know yer boss lets it through begrudgingly but I wish we only dealt in shrooms and weed. Stuff might turn ya inta a dribbling moron but it won’t kill ya”.

“Uh huh”.

Jason shared Oswald’s distaste for all drugs, though that didn’t mean he wouldn’t take a slice of what was being sold. Nobody disliked money after all. 

“Money’s secure though”.

“Why didn’t ya lead with that?”

“I don’t know. Was bored. Wanted a friend to talk to”.

“Hehe ya cheeky sod. Get tossed by the way”.

“Yeah, yeah. God save the queen and all that bullshit. I need you to send some guys down here to gather it up. All forty million of it”.

“What? Why me? That’s Mandragora’s job”.

“Yeah well she ain’t picking up right now” Jason says with a frown, rolling his eyes as he knew exactly what that meant. “Ahh, so she and Quinn are gettin’ the ole’ in an’ out from the big Bat then ain’t they?”

“Do you have to be so crude?”

It was funny. Killing a man by blowing his brains out, blowing two others up with a rocket, cracking someone’s ribs with his boot and carelessly shooting another was fine to Nightwing, but dirty talk? He wasn’t a fan of it. 

“It ain’t crude, it’s the truth. Awww, whatsa’ matter? Little bat sad he don’t got nowhere ta park his pork sausage?”

“Go to hell Os”.

“Hey now, don’t be like that! Hahahaha!” the man says with a deep belly laugh. “Listen, if yer really nice ta yer uncle Oswald I can hooks ya up with a really pretty bird. Don’t matta the kind, I can find ‘em. Ya like asian girls? Redheads? Blondes with big knockers?”

“Knock it off Os”.

“I mean, rich young lad like ya? Ya can gets ‘em ta do whatever ya want. Bark like a dog, wear a leash. But I know ya better than that. Ya want the nice, lovey dovey kinda gal. The girl who’ll kiss yer boo boos and fetch yer slippas’ afta’ a long day of work, don’t you? Cook you a nice meal and do the two backed monster like an angel and all because she loves you, nothing more right?”

“How long have you lived in the US Os?” Jason asks, biting back a bit. “Why the hell do you still sound like a chimney sweep from Mary Poppins?” 

He was trying to deflect the situation off of him of course, but to not talk about this any further, but it wasn’t working. Penguin smelled blood in the water, and clearly he was going to go in for the kill. 

“Let me tell you something. She don’t exist. Not for men like us”.

“Us, Os? You’re barely a kid. You still have to order off the kid’s menu at restaurants?” he asks. But again, Oswald doesn’t take the bait. “Nah. Men like us? We get the pick of the beauties for sure. Money brings ‘em in. That’s what birds really care about. Money. The good ones that don’t? They wouldn’t touch crooks like us with a ten foot pole. They stay away because they’re smart”.

“Hey, we’re not crooks. We protect this-,”

“Yeah, yeah. I remember the spiel” Cobblepot says, cutting the man off. “Keep the city safe by controlling crime. I can’t believe you still believe that utter crock but hey, whatever helps you sleep at night kid. Sure. We’re protectin’ the city. We keep it calm, peaceful. Little ole’ ladies can walk down the street without their purse being snatched. But the money pouring in don’t hurt does it? Look at you. Twenty one years old and already worth fifty million on yer own. Heh”. 

Jason goes quiet, not knowing what to say to that. Not knowing if there was anything he could say to it.

“Hey. Don’t get all sour. I’m just teasin’ you”.

“It’s fine. Whatever. Listen, twenty million goes to the big man. The rest is split up between you and Hel”.

“With you getting a twenty percent finders fee from each of us. I know” Penguin says in response to the business being discussed. “It ain’t my first rodeo kid…you sure you’re okay?”

“I’m fine Os”.

“Just don’t want ya gettin’ yer knickers in a twist because o’ something I said”.

“Why? Batman wouldn’t kill you for that”.

“Well, contrary to what you might think I thought we was mates”.

“Heh…we are Os. We are. Sorry just…not in too great a mood tonight”.

“Yeah. Sorry about that”.

“It’s fine”.

“Listen though, I am bein’ truthful with ya. This life? It don’t lead to happy endings. Sure, ya got the lavish car and exciting lifestyle. Hell, maybe that in and of itself are compensation for what you and yer dead old adopted dad have sacrificed for this dump. But I don’t think I’ve met any sadder group of individuals than the ones in our group”.

“You’re probably right on that”.

“Saturday. I got a soiree going on here at the Iceberg” the man carries on. “Bruce Wayne and Helena Mandragora are already comin’, so I figured Jason Todd might show his ugly mug too. Ya ain’t gots a date I’m assumin’ so I’ll set one up. Come on. Be a pal and pick one out fer me huh? She’s yers the whole night”.

Jason rolls his eyes and smiles despite himself.

“Let me guess, half price?”

“Nah. This one’s on the house. Consider it a extra incentive fer takin’ care of the trash. Gimme somethin’ good to work on. Somethin’ fun. Maybe kinky. Siamese twins? Albino Siamese twins from Morocco? Come on gimme a challenge”.

“Latina. Big tits”.

“Yer a right stick in the mud, ya know that?”

Penguin laughs, teasing him but agreeing. 

“But ya got yerself a date. I gots the right one in mind too. Gifted actress. She’ll have ya convinced she’s in love with ya in the first hour. Best way ta get out from unda’ yer thoughts? Is to get under a woman”.

“You’d know, you perverted little pipsqueak”.

“Don’t you know it? Haha, anyways. Goodnight Nightwing. Don’t splatter against the concrete when you fall while wankin’ off on top o’ a building”.

“Don’t fall in the toilet you turd”.

Both hang up after that, leaving Jason alone in the warehouse once again. For a second he thinks about calling Bruce and maybe going over to Wayne Manor to talk to him in place of returning to his cold and rather lonely apartment. But then he remembers what Oswald had said and the fact that Helena hadn’t answered and thinks better of it.

He was busy. 

Wayne Manor, Master Bedroom

“Ahhh! Ahhh! Ahhh! Sii! Siiii!”

“Unfff. Unfff”.

The bed, a rather luxurious and large one, with four posts and occasionally drapes attached to said posts was rocking. Rocking under the weight of three people laying upon the bed, all engaged in a very intimate act.

Sweat poured out over each of their bodies, covering them in a glossy sheen as they carried on. Bruce Wayne was as naked as the day he was born, a robe being the only thing he’d initially even walked into the room with, and was now laying discarded on the floor like a fallen soldier. It was joined by other articles of clothing, though none of which would be worn by a man.

Blouses and skirts, bras, and a very obvious purple thong which was at the foot of the bed. 

The thong belonged to one Helena Mandragora, or sometimes Bertinelli, who at that moment was just as naked atop the bed as Bruce was, the man himself behind her, clutching onto her hips as he kneels atop the bed. Helena was a beautiful woman.

Very clearly of Italian heritage, her skin was a bit darker than other women, though not dark enough to pass for African. Perhaps a very light skinned Hispanic, though if anyone suggested such a thing they’d receive a fist in the face.

She was Sicilian, and anyone who thought otherwise would be made to suffer.

She had long black locks which at that moment were cascading down her back, sticking to her skin in different places due to how sweaty she’d gotten. This session had thus far been quite vigorous. Her eyes were blue, ocean blue, and were one of the most beautiful traits that people innately focused in upon when meeting her. Her face? Perfectly sculpted as well, with nearly all the proportions leading to a mixture of angel and demon, innocent seduction that made a man simply wish to protect her.

Her body was nothing short of a work of art either.

She worked out a fair amount, her lifestyle and…occupation, leading to her having quite a bit of downtime to do so. She had the very beginnings of abs, and yet was still perfectly proportioned in other areas. Her breasts were large and full, rounded out perfectly with nipples that were perfectly latchable, dark little quarters topped by erect little nubs. 

And her ass was quite something to behold too. Heart shaped, and well poised for softening impact. And that was most certainly needed at that moment.

Bruce’s grip upon her waist tightens, the woman positioned in the bed doggystyle, her palms facing downwards atop the covers and her knees bent, positioning her at the perfect angle for Bruce’s cock to enter her.

“Unff! Unfff! Unfff!”

“Si! Si Bruce…fottimi! Fottimi!”

“Mmmm…I don’t needs ta undystand eye-talian ta know what yer sayin’ there”.

Another woman was on the bed, equally naked as Helena was, though chubbier. Not in a bad way at all though. Helena was sporty and Harleen? Harleen was pudgy, giving Bruce an alternative to pick from whenever the mood struck him. He thrusts his white hot cock into the welcoming lips of Helena, pushing out Harleen for a second while focusing on how her depths swallow him up.

Beads of sweat broke out over his forehead and rolled downwards, covering his face and flesh in a sheen equal, but less visible than that which covered Helena. And all of this happens under Harleen’s watchful eyes.

The blonde bites her lips and smiles, laying upon her side, propped up on some pillows. Her tits were larger than Helena’s, pillowy perfection that one would simply like to lay their head upon, suckle and fuck.

‘Too bad he didn’t ask me fer that tonight’ she laments with a mental sigh, loving how it felt when Bruce slapped his rigid prick between her tits and began to slide it back and forth, grasping the sides to create friction. She loved it even more when the stimulation caused him to cum.

She loved that especially. Watching his white, creamy seed splatter out of his uncut cock head, landing upon her tits and face, depending on the position at the time. The warm, sticky feeling, especially in the valley of her breasts, made her feel…warm. Loved oddly enough, though she knew such a thing might be silly.

One of her hands was groping her own breast at that moment, squeezing it and caressing, sliding her own digits up and down its breadth before occasionally moving in to pinch and tease at her nipple, the pink buds erect and eager for attention.

Her own flesh was pale white, a direct contrast to Helena’s tanned southern Italian complexion.

Lower, past her large tits and rounded belly, not fat or obese, squeezable and full, was another sight of erotic merit. Her leg was raised up, her foot balancing on her opposite leg, leaving her sopping wet pussy accessible.

And Harleen was accessing it easily enough. 

Her fingers plunged in and out of her own flower, soaking her digit, her thighs and the bed beneath as her excitement runs like a river, soiling the sheets. ‘Sorry Alfred’ she thinks, her eyes still fixated on Bruce’s cock, watching as it pistons in and out of Helena, making the woman squirm and moan. She had such a lewd expression as they fucked, something that was completely out of place for the business orientated Helena who, like Bruce, rarely smiled.

Harleen had to admit…there was a jealousy coiling within her at seeing this sight. Bruce, fucking a woman who was, in all seriousness, a competitor for his affection. An affection that anyone else would think was never going to be shared. But Harleen knew better. She knew.

‘Yer destined ta be mine Brucey boy. I loves ya too much’.

“Mmmmf”.

She groans, touching a particularly sensitive portion of her inner sanctum, imagining that it was Bruce doing the touching in place of her at that moment.

‘I love ya. I loves ya so damn much…what otha’ girl would let ya fuck some eye-talian broad fer funsies. Mmmm…I know ya want my pussy more though. She’s just the warm up. Just the warm up. Yer gonna want me soon enough. Yeah, that’s how-,’

“Urrggh”.

What was happening outside soon interrupts Harleen’s thoughts, as Bruce pulls his hardened cock out of Helena’s needy slit, apparently needing to put some effort into it as the mafiosa’s cunt walls did everything they could to cling to him and keep him inside.

For Harleen, watching it get pulled out was like watching a whale breach the surface. A beautiful sight to behold. Now she was staring at his cock, all seven and a half inches of pale, uncut manhood that was slick with the juices of another woman, another woman who coos out in sadness at his cock being removed. 

He was kneeling there on the bed now, his abs and dangling balls being areas of particular interest to Harleen, whose own baby blues gaze out in open, unceasing affection. He turns to look at her desirously, like a feral animal wanting to claim a female, and easily enough he kneels his way over towards her, pushing his cock right into her face.

“Suck”.

He reaches down and grasps the back of her head, tightly grasping a few strands of her hair and yanking back, a gasp of slight pain and shock overtaking her as he does it. But beyond all that she feels excitement.

She loved this treatment, the raw, primal, animalistic sex he gave her and she craved it like a drug. No matter what was happening, where she was, she’d come running when he called.

“Gaaah…puddin’” she coos, licking her lips as he leans in a bit, pressing his juice slick tip against Harleen’s lips, smearing it back and forth so as to force the woman to get a taste of the other whom he’d just been inside.

“When ya ask me so nicely-Glllurrgg!”

As soon as she opened her mouth to talk he’d shoved himself in, not even worrying about anything other than inserting his cock into one of her orifices. The grasp he held on her hair tightens, intensifies, and he shoves his entire cock down into her throat, bulging it out obscenely.

“Mmmfff”.

He throws his head back in enjoyment, pumping his hips as he moves in and out, using her throat as if it was her pussy. And Harleen? She just laid there and took it. “Urrrkkk! Glllk! Glllk! Gllk! Gllkkkk!”

Her eyes were starting to water, and she gags over and over on his dick. Her senses were completely and utterly taken over by the man as he went to work upon her. He buries her nose in his Helena slick pubes, and she feels his full balls slap up against her chin.

‘Gimme yer cum tonight puddin’...please’.

It’s all she could thin about at that moment, all she wanted, and she gazes up affectionately at the man as she pulls her finger from her sopping wet pussy. Her hands both come up, one moving to his midsection, rubbing at his abs, while the other moves around, latching down onto his ass cheek and squeezing tightly, pulling him in to try and let him know that she was eager for more.

“Gnnnrrrkkk!”

Saliva spurts out around the edges of Harleen’s lips as she suckles his cock, the penis wedged tightly in her mouth and throat, and Bruce’s face crunching up in something akin to anger. He fucked like he was still in the field, fighting with all his might and holding nothing back. But Harley also knew what that meant.

He was close to coming.

‘Mmmmm fuckin’ empty it down my throat puddin’ she thinks, trying to communicate that sentiment through just her gaze at the moment, her mouth being far too preoccupied. ‘I wanna taste ya’.

Meanwhile Helena couldn’t keep herself upright any longer, and she topples onto the bed, first onto her side and then finally her back, her chest heaving with each ragged breath she took. She’d cum three times or more, neither woman able to keep count. Harleen had already reached orgasm once already when Bruce had first got in and slammed her against the bed, burying his face in her pussy to get her ready with his tongue.

Since then though she hadn’t enjoyed his touch, the man focusing on Helena and slamming his cock into her as if to destroy her, and Harleen would be lying if she said she hadn’t started to get jealous.

“Glllk! Gllkkk! Gllkkk!”

She was pushing herself to the very edge of endurance, feeling his member throb within her mouth, undoubtedly getting ready to release his seed, his tasty nectar, into her. But his grip upon her head, his forceful penetration, somewhat lessens, stopping, which was odd considering he was finally on the edge of orgasm.

Harleen didn’t notice nor did she care. Him letting go of her head wasn’t a sign for her to stop. She keeps pushing herself forward, gagging all the while. ‘Come on Bruce! Come on! Cum fer Harley!’

“Let go”.

She was confused when she heard that order, that grunted, animalistic order, and she looks up, not doing what the man said at all. Her lips were still wrapped around the base of his girth, her tongue slithering up and down it, teasing the flesh there. He glared back down at her, making her wilt, the blonde woman not realizing what she’d done wrong.

“I said let go”.

He grabs her head again, but this time it was not to force his manhood down her throat. No. Instead he just yanks her off of him entirely, causing a repeat of what had happened before. His cock was freed from a warm, wet, hole dedicated to pleasuring him, and his dick was slick with saliva. Harleen’s spit.

“Gaaah…pu-puddin-kak!”

She fights to catch her breath, the cockhead sliding past her pouty, ruby red lips and leaving some of his equally delicious pre behind, allowing the woman to dab her tongue out and taste even more. His cock was throbbing in anticipation, no doubt eager to spew out its payload. 

It clicks in Harleen’s mind.

He didn’t want to cum in her mouth. He wanted to cum in her pussy, her warm flower which was eager and waiting for his seed to be deposited with her. It made Harley’s heart beat rapidly, knowing what was about to happen, and being utterly ready for it.

She wasn’t on the pill. She’d thrown them out right after the change in her and Bruce’s relationship, when they first became intimate. She just…knew. Whatever was meant to happen between them would happen.

And she was perfectly fine with it.

With accepting Bruce’s baby into her, carrying their child. Her ‘puddin’s’ baby, the man she worshiped with every fiber of her being, whom she served dutifully in the hopes that one day he would see her as she was meant to be seen. His other half. The beauty who soothed the savage beast. 

Of course, he never wore condoms. A man like him considered himself beyond those concerns. With his wealth? It was doubtful it even mattered to him.

“Ohh…puddin. Lemme get ready fer ya baby”.

Quickly, acting on what she had guessed was his meaning behind pulling his cock away from her, she lays back and spreads her legs out, exposing her blonde, hairy pussy to the man, which was soaking in further excitement, waiting for him to spear her. The path forward was open to him, and it would be absolutely no effort for him to rush forward and thrust into her. Harley was waiting for it, desperately wanting it.

But Bruce pulls away, not even looking at her as he instead gazes back at Helena, his hand moving up and down his cock furiously, pumping himself to keep him on the precipice. He scoots over, walking on his knees once again and making his way towards Helena. 

“Huh?”

The Italian woman who was still riding down the high of her multiple orgasms looked up, confused for the moment and not understanding what was happening fully as her mind was still effectively a pile of sludge. It didn’t matter to Bruce. He didn’t need her understanding right then. He needed something very, very specific. He grasps her by the thigh and pulls it to the side, further opening her battered and reddened pussy lips once again.

His cock was resting atop her, pushed back and forth and teasing through the thatch of dark, almost unruly pubic hair above her pussy lips.

“Puddin’, wait! I’m right here! She already got hers!”

Harleen’s complaints fell on deaf ears as Bruce pulls back, positions his cockhead at Helena’s waiting entrance, and once again plunges in, allowing her walls to cling to him once again, though much weaker this time due to her exhaustion.

Helena grips the covers tightly with her hands, convulsing as she is pleasured once again, Bruce reaching out and upwards to grasp her tits, squeezing them tightly in tandem with his thrusts. “Unnfff…unffff…unnfffff!”.

He was atop her, humping downwards and plugging up her depths with his cock, his orgasm now rapidly approaching as the last bit of his stamina is reached. He thrusts in one final time, his cockhead buried deeply within Helena, almost poking at her womb, and arches his back.

“UNGGGH!”

He lets loose his loudest animalistic grunt and cums, filling Helena up with his warm seed, which the woman clearly enjoys, at least on the physical level. Her mouth opens and her eyes go wide, the semen filling her as Bruce makes a series of mini thrusts, ensuring that he stayed inside and filled her as best as he possibly could.

“Unff…heh…heh…heh…”

He rests there for a moment, still sheathed deeply in the Italian woman, panting and catching his breath, all the while Harley glares furiously. Not at Bruce though, rather she stares hatefully at Helena, who she was beginning to loathe.

‘Why can’t it eva’ just be me and him?’ she huffs mentally, enraged that she hadn’t been the one to receive his creampie.

But Bruce was unaware of her anger, unaware of uncaring, and as soon as he regains his senses he beings to pull out. His cock was beginning to soften now, his cum having been released and thus having no reason to be hard any longer. It comes out again, still soaked, but this time with a fair amount of his man chowder spewing out as well.

‘It was a nice one…fuckin’ bitch…’

Some globules of his cum fall out onto the bed as he climbs off of the panting woman, and pushes his feet down onto the floor besides the bed, standing up again. “Mmmf…thank you girls”.

“Yer welcome puddin” Harleen says mournfully, looking down at the bed and huffing, clearly upset but unwilling to take it out on him. Helena says nothing, still spread out over her back on the bed, catching her breath even still. She hadn’t expected the utter blitzkrieg of the creampie that came her way, and wasn’t ready for it when it came. She was still shivering, even then.

“Stay here tonight” Bruce says as he turns and reaches down for his robe, scooping it up and throwing it over his shoulders. He fastens it tightly about his waist, wanting to be away from here, from the two women, from this room.

He didn’t know why but he craved them when he felt….those things. The awful loneliness crushing in upon him, the pain and self doubts.

But when he was done and the darkness had passed? He didn’t even want to look at them. He knew it was cold, maybe even cruel, but it was the undeniable truth to him. “I have some of your clothes in my drawers. Or you can wear some of mine if you want”.

Harleen brightens a bit at that, the thought of slipping into one of Bruce’s shirts and cuddling up with him in his bed being something that went a long way towards making her feel better.

“Thank ya puddin’. I…I hope I mades ya feel a little betta. I know it was a rough night”.

“You did. Thank you”.

‘Tell them to leave. You’re done with them’.

He closes his eyes and sighs, glad that he was facing away from Harleen and Helena at that moment, fighting back against his own nature in an attempt to be better than he was. ‘It’s destroying you. All of this. It’s breaking you. You’re selling your soul for this city’.

“In the morning….Alfred will cook you some breakfast. And then he’ll take you into the city. He’ll take you home. Before that take my credit card…go buy some things for yourselves”.

“Awww, Brucey baby! Yer spoilin’ us!” Harleen giggles while Helena just slightly lifts herself up, balancing upon her elbows as she looks at the man who’d just come inside of her’s back. “G-grazie Bruce”. She looked like she’d been through hell, and was trying to pretend she didn’t love every single second of it.

“You’re welcome. Goodni-,”

“Ya ain’t gonna cuddle with us?” Harleen asks desirously, wanting the man to get back into the bed and lay down besides the both of them, to get in close and hold them and allow him in turn to be held by them. Well, her really. She didn’t mind Helena being along for some fun, at least when she didn’t hog Bruce to herself, but she was perfectly fine with kicking her out of the bed and letting her lay upon the floor when it came to cuddle time.

“I-,”

KNOCK! KNOCK! KNOCK!

“Yes?”

‘Saved by the bell’.

“Master Bruce?” Alfred calls out. “There is a phone call for you. A certain Detective Montoya wishes to speak with you. She says it's urgent”.

“On my way Alfred”.

He turns and gives the two women a look, appraising them with his eyes for a moment. Their naked beauty, the adoration and love clearly present in Harleen’s own gaze and yet? He didn’t love them. Neither of them. He felt something akin to friendship perhaps, though it was closer to simple business expediency. They were useful to him. He used them. They used him. That’s how it was. 

“Afraid not. Enjoy the rest of your evening”.

And just like that he begins to walk forward, heading towards the door. When he gets there he opens it and slips out, closing it behind him so as to not leave the two naked and post coital woman to be viewed by Alfred outside, though the aging butler who had raised him had more than enough tact to not look.

CLICK!

It closes behind him, and Harleen and Helena are left in the room alone, silence falling over them save for the crackling of the fire that had been lit in the fireplace. ‘I wish I was back at the asylum’ Harleen thinks, stifling her anger. ‘At least I’d be able ta work someone ova’ and feel a bit betta about this shit’.

“No….oh no, no, no!”

Helena had apparently just sat up, and was now gazing down at her cum filled pussy, letting the ramifications of what it all meant impact against her mind as she makes sense of it, the lust fog leaving her with her reason. She looked panicked, knowing what it all meant.

“Merda! Why the hell did he have to cum inside?!!”

Harleen just rolls onto her side, resting atop the pillows with one arm raised to support her head. “Because he’s Bruce frickin’ Wayne and he wanted ta creampie ya. Doncha’ think it’s owed ta him? Everything he does fer this place?”

“He…he…he didn’t have to cum in me! Why can’t he at least wear a condom?”

“Yeah, sure. Richest, hunkiest guy in the city really wants ta spoil gettin’ his salami wet with a piece o’ plastic. Relax. Aintcha’ on the pill?”

“No!”

“Heh…then it’s yer own damn fault”.

Helena whirrs on the woman at her side, scowling openly and letting the blonde know she was enraged. She sits up quickly, squelching as her thighs come together and cause some of the cum to slip against her slick skin.

“Fuck…fuck…fuck!”

“Relax ya idiot. Havin’ his baby wouldn’t be the worst thing in the world,” the blonde says murderously, looking at the back of the woman’s head, praying, for Helena’s sake, that she hadn’t just been knocked up by Bruce. ‘If she is…I’ll make sure she don’t stick around too long afta’ it’s born’.

It would be easy really. Well…not really. 

It would be hard, really hard, to hide a murder from the world’s greatest detective. But still, Harleen liked her odds. Helena would meet with a little accident after the birth of her baby. Something tragic and awful, leaving a little orphan with nothing but their father and in desperate need of a mother.

Harleen would swoop in right after that and fill that void, giving them brothers and sisters later on with nobody being the wiser that she had done anything wrong. But that was all academic. Only if. Just if.

“You don’t understand” Helena bites back, scooting up onto the bed a bit more, still seemingly shell shocked about what had just happened. “I can’t have a baby. Not with all the work I have to do. All the-,”

“Yeah, yeah. Must be real hard ta sit in yer penthouse apartment and pretend ya run a waste management business with yer daddy, ohh wait…he ain’t yer daddy, is he?” Harleen asks with a smirk, digging in deep with Helena now, and causing the woman to give her a death glare worthy of Batman himself.

But Harleen wasn’t phased. She just keeps going.

“Or is he? I keep forgettin’, which one was it that shot a wad very similar ta the one just got shot inta ya inta yer mommy? How many goombas were giving her the business? Was that part o’ the deal? Kickin’ it up ta the bosses’ wife?”

“Harley...shut the fuck up…before you say something that-,”

“Ohh right, right. That fat fuck is yer daddy. Ya had ta DNA test ta prove it. Hehe. Funny thing huh? Finding out all that time lata’. Afta’ ya got tucked inta bed by a guy who wasn’t yer pops. And shut the fuck up with that mafiosa talk like yer some Italian donna. Ya ain’t nothin’ without Brucey. ‘Sides”.

She smirks maliciously, licking her lips in an almost demonic way.

“I know things. I got things all tucked away in a secret folda’ ‘bout ya. Ya do anythin’ ta me, and it all comes out. ‘Specially what happened that night ya found out whatcha’ thought was true wasn’t what was true, got it? Ohh wait, capische? That’s what dumb guineas like you speak in right? Weird fuckin’ language”.

“You’re a nobody without Bruce too, you slut”.

“I’m a docta,” Harleen says, completely unphased. “And I had ta work my hot little booty off ta get where I am. Which is why Bruce chose me as a partna’. He got saddled with ya because Mandragora is-,”

“DON’T YOU DARE SAY A FUCKING THING ABOUT HIM CAGNA!”

“Ohhh jeepa’s. Lot more protective over him than ya are of yer last old man!”.

“I’ll kill you” Helena seethes. “One of these days…I’ll kill you”.

“Sure. I believe that”.

She didn’t. Mostly because she fully believed that it would be her that slid a knife into the mobster’s throat, watching as she struggled to live beneath her, while Harley constantly drove the knife into her, again and again.

“But again…it just happened. We don’t know if it’ll even take. Takes days ta find that shit out”.

Harleen falls onto her back, looking up at the ceiling and clearly disinterested in any further conversation with the woman who was a rival to her and nothing more. “I can’t be pregnant. I can’t. I-,”

“What if ya are?”

“What?”

“What will ya do if ya are preggers?” Harleen asks with a sigh, hating that she couldn’t get a single moment of quiet to mull over things and try to center herself. “Ya gonna get an abortion?”

“Que? NO! I’d never do t-,”

“Good, because if ya did? I’d tell” Harleen says in a sing song voice, openly mocking the woman. “I’d tell Brucey first and then? Then I’d tell yer dad”. Helena says nothing, opting to instead keep glaring hatefully at the blonde whom she had never gotten along with. “Funny thing ‘bout mobsters? They’ll whack a guy, sell dope and lie cheat and steal ta the moon and back, but every Sunday yer butts are in church pews pretendin’ ta be good catholics. Hehe. My ass”.

“Fuck you”.

“No thanks”.

Helena rises off of the bed, standing in a manner similar to how Bruce had stood moments ago, clearly wanting to exit. She was nervous, scared, and undoubtedly angry now with Harley digging into the wound. 

“Ya know how he feels ‘bouts it. Don’t likes it at all”.

“I…I wouldn’t do it”.

“Yer thinkin’ ‘bout it. That’s fer shit sure. Do yerself a fava’. Don’t. You’ll be fucked otha’wise”.

“Vai al’inferno Harleen”.

“We’ll all gets there eventually. Where’s ya goin’ now though?”

“To…to take a shower”.

Helena had grabbed her clothes, the ones Bruce had yanked her out of as soon as she’d gotten there, and used them to cover herself up as much as she could. Harleen crosses her arms behind her head and smirks. “Yeah. Maybe that’ll help. Ya should stop playin’ the innocent victim here though”.

The Italian woman was ignoring her now, or at least pretending to, trying to rather. Remaining silent and not saying anything as she makes towards the door.

“He ain’t forcin’ ya ta come. He’d stop invitin’ ya if ya stopped comin. Yer here ‘cause ya wants ta be. Ya love this shit. Ya probably love him. But the funny thing? He don’t love ya. He just uses ya as a cum dumpster. That’s all. Wouldn’t even miss ya if ya bit the bullet tommora’. Replace ya as quick as shit”

She opens the door, walks out, and then slams it shut, not saying anything at all, which was proof positive to the blonde that she was well and truly affected by what had just been said. It was quiet once again, and Harleen was alone.

Rapidly the smile that had curved her lips drops away, replaced by a frown and then a scowl.

She was angry again, miserable. They were all miserable and she could tell.

Maybe that’s why she had to make things that much worse for Helena. If she could do that then maybe, just maybe, she’d feel a bit better about herself too. But it didn’t work. It never did. Yet she kept trying to do it. Wasn’t that the definition of insanity? Doing the same thing over and over and expecting different results?

That didn’t matter.

‘Why should anyone else gets ta be happy when I’m so fuckin’ miserable? When Bruce is so damn miserable? Why…why can’t he be happy with me?’

She knew, just knew that all it would take for her happiness was Bruce. Bruce, and Bruce alone.

And yet, here she was.

Alone and miserable.

Gotham was safe though! That was something…right?

GCPD, Precinct Nine

“Come on Bats…pick the fuck up”.

Renee Montoya was not a fan of waiting. Especially not when it was waiting in such an uncomfortable place, hiding in the stairway and leaning up against the wall, the cell phone tightly pushed against her ear while she had to constantly look over her shoulder, making sure that nobody snuck up on her or heard what she was saying.

She’d made contact of course, though not with who she wanted to hear. No. it was always that aged British voice first, the heavy accent grating on her always telling her to ‘wait a moment.’A moment was always more than a minute. A solid ten minutes at least.

But still she waited, knowing without a doubt that it was in her best interests to do so. 

She waited, and waited, and waited and then, finally?

“Montoya”.

“Bats” she whispers, keeping her voice low. “That you?”

“What is it?”

It was him, which made the fact that she had to ask that question rather silly. Who else could that voice on the other end of the line be? It was an unmistakable one, linked forever to the Batman. She had enough experience with him to know that he would want her to get right to it.

“We got una problema”. 

“What?”

“New lieutenant here” she explains with a shrug, continuing to look out up and down the stairway as if the man she was talking about would materialize right out of thin air. No such thing happened of course, but even still, she somewhat expected. “He’s pissed at you. Doesn’t like what you did with the cat burglar you left hanging up there in the square…without her hand”.

“She’s a thief”.

“Yeah, yeah…I know, trust me. I get it. Me and Bullock are on board but…this fucking new guy man!” she seethes, her voice raising a bit as she gets angry, something she quickly corrects by lowering it once more. “He’s pissed. Says what you’re doing is wrong. Trying to rally the troops and get the cops to go after you and your group”.

“How much support does he have?”

“Support?” she scoffs. “Fucking zilch. Nada. Nothing. You think any cop in this city, at least the ones who remember how it was, wants to go back to the bad old days? Shit, GCPD is an easier job than the fire department now. Nah. We’re cool with keeping it the way it is”.

“So is he a threat?”

“He keeps talking about calling in outside help” she admits. “SWAT from other cities. Cities less…in control of things. Hell, he’s been talking to the governor and making some inroads with the bleeding heart bullshit about law and order”.

“We have law and order here Detective Montoya”.

“You don’t have to tell me. What the hell do we do?”

“What did Loeb say about it?”

“That fat piece of shit? He actually agrees with Gordon; thinks it's time for a ‘change’ in Gotham. We both know what that means though” she spits angrily. “He wants things to go back to him having his pockets fucking full. He ain’t happy with the scraps you’re giving him”.

“Hmmm”.

“It was a mistake you know” she says tentatively, not wanting to seem like she was questioning him. “Leaving him on. You can’t control greed like that, Batman. He isn’t content”.

“I see that now. This lieutenant, what’s his name?”

“Gordon,” Renee says. “Jim Gordon. New guy but born and raised in Gotham. Ex-special forces or some shit, I don’t know. Got a good record. Clean cop”.

“No chance of turning him to our way of thinking?”

“Nah” she admits sadly, despite everything, the threat this man posed, feeling bad for him. “I kinda broached the subject, tactfully with him, telling him that since you came around crime has fallen to practically nothing. What little is left you’ve got a handle on it. He told me it didn’t matter. The law was the law”.

He goes quiet on the other end, not saying anything for the moment, weighing what he wanted to say next it seemed. Thinking.

Soon enough though, he comes up with an answer. 

“It would be best if you and Bullock took him to the river”.

Renee closes her eyes and sighs, nodding her head all the same. “I figured you’d say that. Don’t like it, but I knew that’s where it would go”.

“We can’t have anyone threaten what we’ve built Montoya”.

“I know. I know. Trust me, Bullock and I are on the same page as you”.

“As for Loeb…you’re also right. He’s too greedy. Not content with the largesse he’s already been granted. I think it’s time we put him out to pasture, after James Gordon is removed from the board. A new commissioner will be needed. I think Commissioner Montoya has a good ring to it, don’t you?”

Click.

The phone call ends with Batman disconnecting, and Montoya in shock over what had just been said, offered really. It might sound awful, really, truly awful and even evil but…she felt better about what she and Bullock were going to have to do.

It was for the greater good after all.

Chapter Text

A Galaxy Away, Apokolips, The War Dome

Click! Click! Click! Click!

“My queen, I assure you, this display will be most enjoyable”. The groveling. Ohh the groveling. She hated it so, and yet could never find it in her heart to bat it away. It was a sign, a sign of her complete and utter domination of those around her, of her command over this planet and its inhabitants. 

Groveling was only to be expected by those around her. It was natural.

What else was one to do in the midst of a New Goddess save but drop to their knees and bow, worshiping her in the hopes that she would consider them worthy of continuing to even draw breath in her presence.

Of course that didn’t always save them.

Some of them the woman found so loathsome, so contemptible, that all they could rightfully expect was to be incarcerated right on the spot, the woman not even caring beyond that split second of effort it took to destroy them, forgotten as she walked through their ashes.

“It better be Bernadeth, or you’ll find yourself in the War Dome”.

Her voice was cold and aloof, and yet all the same it was beautiful, carrying with it a soft and melodic tone that somehow made her even more frightening. The sycophant besides her knew better though. Her beauty was, in no way shape or form, something to make one forget about the utter danger she posed.

Bernadeth, the feared torturess of Apokolips, whose name was feared throughout entire galaxies for her prowess in extorting truth and lies in equal measure from tongues, shivers, and makes no attempt to hide it, knowing that her mistress wished for her fear. If she didn’t make any outward showing of it, she would begin to question her.

And the last thing you wanted from the woman before her was to be thought disloyal.

‘Apokolips preserve me’.

The gray skinned woman brings her hand up to her cheek, pointedly looking away in a sign of supplication, trying to make herself smaller than she was. She herself was no pushover in the art of physical combat. She was gifted in it, truly. But against a new goddess? She stood even less than no chance at all.

Bernadeth herself, as stated before, had grayish skin, though it could more be construed by pale. In no way could she be considered beautiful, not with her sunken in, beady eyes that consistently looked about as if searching out a new form of torturous entertainment, some poor soul to vent her frustrations on.

She was gangly, long limbed and thin, though that couldn’t truly be seen under the green, regal robes she wore, signifying her ‘importance’ to the regime that ruled over this planet of never ending flame and war. Her hair was black, and short, clinging to her scalp with small locks hanging down at equal lengths and position over her forehead, something akin to a cowlick upon Earth.

Her lips were thin and grayer even than the rest of her flesh, pursed in a thin line that rarely gave anything away other than disdain for those around her. Her nose was small and upturned, piglike almost, adding to her utterly loathsome appearance.

“I pro-promise you. Granny Goodness and I both ensured that this fight would be-,”

“Ugggh. Stop…talking” the other woman groans, waving her hand in the air dismissively, no longer wanting to hear the grating voice that assailed her ears. “Your voice sounds as bad as you look”. Bernadeth was…hurt, though she knew that was rather stupid all things considering.

She’d always known that she wasn’t a beauty. Not like Lashina or Barda. She was sensitive about it, and all others who had dared to pass commentary upon it found themselves dragged off to the royal torture chambers beneath the Palace of Woe where they would never be heard from again.

But the woman who walked before her, before all others realistically speaking, could say such things without the barest hint of worry about retribution. There would be none. Even Bernadeth, spiteful and one who dwelt upon grudges and hate, knew that. 

It had already been proven beyond a doubt that such ideas were folly. 

“Yes my queen. I am so-,”

“Didn’t I just say to shut up?”

Bernadeth says nothing, instantly clamming up completely and not even thinking to part her lips. She was stuck in a no win situation, that much was clear. If she spoke she would be incinerated instantly for daring to go against the ruler of this planet. 

If she remained silent, and did not address her sovereign in any way, she might be killed as well. Quickly going over her options made it clear that the smartest thing she could do was remain silent. It had a greater probability of keeping her alive.

Not that much greater, but still greater than speaking again.

It was noted quickly how she had ceased speaking, and a smile graced the lips of the woman who had given such an order, a good sign that Bernadeth had made the right choice. “What do you know? You aren’t completely useless after all”.

They continued walking, heading towards the massive opening at the end of the hallway, flanked as it was on either side by torches that sat within sconces, well lit and illuminating the way forward. Bernadeth was ugly, quite like the planet that had spawned her and her entire family, but the woman she served?

Ugly was the very antithesis of who she was.

She was beauty incarnate, perfectly proportioned and built in all ways, as if some force from beyond the universe itself had come forth to sculpt her. Starting at the very top of her head one would first see the beautiful golden locks which were the color of a blazing sun, so vibrant and perfect. She wore it long, her hair normally going down to the middle of her back when it was undone, though at that moment it was perfectly twisted into one long braid, the interlocking lengths twisting and turning over one another before ending in a tightly secured knot.

She wore it over her shoulder to the front, the braid bouncing as she walked along, her hips swaying out this way and that as she moved. 

Her hair wasn’t completely secured however.

Around the dome of her head, especially the sides, she had left it loose enough so that a curtain could skirt just around the edges of her eyes, casting a slight shadow and framing those equally beautiful blue eyes which gazed out at the world coldly, coldly in a way that didn’t quite match with their vibrant hue.

It was as if she wasn’t meant to be who she was, her own body and looks betraying her as something…else. Other.

But those were just fantasies regardless. There was no denying what she was. The undisputed ruler of a world dedicated to war and darkness, a world that had not known peace since it had been brought into existence.

She’d proved that she was first amongst all the citizens of this planet, though such a thing had never been meant to pass originally. She was meant to serve, to be the crown jewel in a collection of warriors who were to serve their previous ruler for all time. 

He was gone now, displaced, and in his place stood this woman. The creature meant to serve, now worshiped as an even greater ruler than the one she had risen up against.

Her beauty was not only in her face. It continued.

Over her surprisingly unmarred, unblemished and perfect skin, pale due to a lack of unobstructed sunlight and the seemingly perpetual night that overtook the planet, from her neck to her clavicle.

Down to the valley of her chest.

Despite the nature of Apokolips and the twisted form many of its denizens took, beauty was not absent. Nor particularly rare. Was there not immense beauty in violence? A strange order in disorder? Nothing was one thing fully or the other, and this woman was proof of it.

She had wide hips which supported to the back a perfectly shaped rear end, globes of immense hardness and yet supple softness all at once, the result of countless days of intense training. Her legs were powerfully built, capable of so much more than they even appeared. Her stomach? Ab muscles covered it, yet gave way upwards to very large breasts, breasts that could doubtlessly feed and support many healthy young.

Ohh yes, this woman was of an immense beauty, near perfection it seemed.

Her clothing further accentuated her form and power, clinging to her and allowing all of those who looked upon her a glimpse at the true strength of Apokolips, at the sole reason that they remained free of the so-called ‘goodness’ of those self righteous hypocrites upon New Genesis. 

It was, all things considered, a rather simple garment.

A dress, so to speak, which was tied succinctly around the back of the woman’s neck, held together by a tightly wound knot that was tied by the servants within her palace. It was black in color, black as night, as the space around their planet beyond the reaches of the illuminating flame of the hellspores that consistently blazed up into the sky. Like thousands of volcanoes in perpetual eruption, bathing the entire planet in a ceaseless snow of sparks and fire.

It went down in two separate straps, moving to a portion where it gets wider, just above her breasts. It even out as it traveled across the expanse of those perky, full gloves, covering her nipples, which Bernadeth knew to be a bright pink, and about seven or eight inches on either side.

Even with this expanse of fabric much of her breasts were still left open to purview, on either side, the round breadth of them visible. The dress itself was plunging deeply, a v-cut existing and traveling down the length of it to just below her belly button, leaving only the space beneath that covered.

While her sides were left completely open the fabric widened and splayed out once again, hanging loosely over her hips and side, going around the back to cover her ass cheeks and continued on in a long trail that carried on about five or six feet behind her. Behind that were other attendants, all women, who walked in a straight line, their hands folded and their heads bowed in supplication. Their job was to remain silent and tend to the needs of their mistress whenever she called upon them. 

They prevented anyone from crossing her path, always conscious of that trail which all feared treading upon by accident.

The dress was longer in front as well, reaching down between her legs and covering up her womanhood, flowing out backwards between her legs and joining the trail while her legs moved, freed by the slits torn in the sides of the dress. Her feet were clad in sandals, which were intricately tied in laces that went halfway up her calf, tied tightly at the top.

This was the outfit she normally wore whenever she attended these functions, one of many different uniforms that the woman donned. Her ‘pleasure robes’ as they were called, for day to day jaunts done for entertainment.

Only one item of her clothing and adornments at that moment was always with her, no matter the time or place. Even while she bathed she did not remove it, refusing to do so. Anyone who touched it would suffer instant death.

Only her hands were to be laid upon it.

It was a necklace, tied about her neck and hanging low right over her breasts, no doubt due to the weight of the item attached to the opposite end of the chain that had been forged from the dying embers of a far off dwarf star, a star that the blonde herself had destroyed for this very purpose as a celebration of the deed that led to the piece of jewelry itself. 

It was sort of triangle-like, though it was flat at the top, sporting two downward lines on either side. Clearly it was a seal, a sigil of some sort, sporting an emblem in the midst of it. 

It was an S, an S which curved through the strange, rock-like object which was mostly gray save for the lines of red fissures that darted through it at random, like obscene veins, pumping blood through a body.

A fitting comparison, considering that was exactly what they were.

The gray, rocklike pendant that she wore was indeed all that remained of a once powerful man. A god who had sought to subjugate her. 

Her.

Kara Zor-El.

Goddess and ruler of Apokolips. All knew her name, but few spoke it. Instead they called her by the name she had taken by force, by her victory in trial by combat.

Darkseid.

They were getting closer and closer to the exit at the opposite end of the hallway now, and the sounds that were happening outside were now pushing their way into the space itself, allowing Bernadeth and the horde of servants to hear the raucous, bloodthirsty cheers. But Darkseid herself? She had been aware of them before she even began her trek to the War Dome, miles away in the middle of her throne room in the Palace of Woe.

She could hear and see everything that she wished to see upon her adopted planet. 

Nothing escaped her gaze.

“Mmmm…It is a good day for this, isn’t it?”

Bernadeth says nothing, keeping her head bowed and her eyes locked onto the floor as they move forward, continuing onwards. She remembered her mistress’ command, and wouldn’t budge from it. Kara takes note of this and sighs, rolling her eyes.

“You can talk now idiot. Especially when I talk to you”.

“Y-yes my queen. Of course. It…it is a beautiful day for it”.

Nothing more was said as they finally exited down the hallway, a hallway designed specifically for the woman’s royal personage, with no others save for her and those she allowed able to use it. It led out onto a sprawling balcony that was devoid of any and all other life, open completely. The warm, cinder filled air impacts against her cheeks, and Kara smiles as she comes face to face with an example of her power.

“YAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHH!”

The roar of the crowd, of hundreds of thousands of throats letting loose with a victorious war whoop, all eyes fixed upon the area before them, a sprawling mass of sandy dunes and hills that was ever shifting with the tides and turns of the combat that occurred inside. The War Dome was infamous for its brutality, for the untold cruelty that occurred within. Evidence of it could even be seen now, with the bones and body parts of past victims of the Apokoliptian need for blood sport strewn about the floor of the arena.

Kara breathed in deeply, smiling to herself as she took in the scent of the carnage, of the bloodletting, enjoying it deeply.

“By Rao…this is a perfect day”.

A hushed silence falls over the crowd, each and every one of them falling silent as the word is passed that Darkseid had entered the arena, and was now amongst them. All heads bowed save for the two upon the ground, both men locked in fierce, brutal combat, unrelenting as they focused exclusively on one another.

Kara just smiles, paying no attention to the worshipful gazes of her slaves, and instead turns, her eyes landing upon the royal box seats which were for her and those she allowed to accompany her. Lazily she raises a hand and waves it back and forth, signaling to the crowds that they could return to their shouts of murderous glee.

Instantly they did, a loud thud echoing out throughout the entirety of the area as one large, gray skinned man-like being slams his fist into the side of a heavily armored, squat, yellow skinned being.

“THE MAIN MAN IS GONNA FRAG YOUR ASS!!!!”

He growls out, screaming in utter rage, clearly enjoying this as the jawbone of his opponent is rattled, clearly shaking his teeth. He falls backwards, bringing his arm up to attempt to deflect another blow, doing so, but forcing the fist of his enemy to slam into his arm.

“AHHH!”

He screams out in pain, and the crowd roars their approval, clearly having a favorite. Meanwhile, Kara apathetically moves up towards the royal box where four warriors stood guard, waiting for her. They didn’t dare look at her, not yet, as doing so might incur her wrath. Instead they stood there, waiting to be addressed with an air of nervous anticipation. 

“Ahhh, the Furies are here…great”.

She was being sarcastic of course, the woman not putting much stock in this new idea of her generals. Granny Goodness had assured her though that this was worth the effort and that one day her Furies would lead the armies of Apokolips across the battlefield and onwards towards New Genesis.

Kara doubted it. Highly. But she did have to admit, sometimes it paid to have young women about her who were utterly in awe of her very person and would give their lives for her if she so decided.

She turns her back upon them, and sits down upon the throne, looking down into the arena for the first time so as to study the battle that was being waged, though her initial excitement was already wearing off. ‘Nothing keeps my attention very long. Ugggh…so disappointing’.

“Barda” she calls out quickly with a firm tone of voice, speaking to one of the Furies, the one who remained at the forefront of her sisters.

“Yes Lady Darkseid?”

Barda was truly an impressive specimen of what could be sired upon Apokolips. She towered over nearly everybody around her, even Kara herself, though she was wise to never, ever, draw attention to that fact. She was beautiful too, despite her relative youth. She was only in her fifth hundredth year, just out of childhood in terms of the longevity of the New Gods.

She was still youthful in appearance, yet so firm, stoic. Utterly fearless in battle. She would throw herself forth with reckless abandon, completely uncaring for anything other than killing the enemy. And her cruelty? It could scarcely be matched by any of the other Furies. Her favorite activity was yanking the arms from a defeated opponent, pulling them right out of the sockets until the flesh itself snapped away.

A testament to her strength.

But also to the fact that she would, and always would be, suspect in the eyes of the ruler of Apokolips. After all, Kara knew the circumstances of her birth. Granny Goodness had told her before she’d been inducted into the Furies, implanted as the leader. Her mother was a warrior by the name of Big Breeda, who had won countless wars for her predecessor.

On Apokolips warriors were bred with one another for the sole purpose of cultivating what served Darkseid the most. Cruelty, cunning, bravery and utter dedication to the ruler.

Big Breeda had betrayed Darkseid.

She’d mothered a child not out of concern for the future of Apokolips and without thought to the strength of its armies, but for love.

For this crime both she and the man she loved were put to death, and Barda taken from them and trained within the walls of Granny Goodness’ orphanage. She was never allowed to forget her mother’s failures, and was ensured that every beating she received, every burning, slap and countless other horrors that befell her were the fault of her mother, and it was on her to make them right.

Barda intended to do so. To wash away the stain of her mother’s dishonor and finally take her place at Kara’s side, replacing Granny Goodness as her general and closest confidante. She intended to do this by piling high as many corpses as she possibly could. A testament to her dedication to Darkseid. 

She wore armor, alternating red and yellow plates over the fish scale that covered her entire well built, youthful, and nubile body. Over her head she wore a large helmet that obstructed a view of her long, dark locks. She stared ahead coldly, with those piercing blue eyes.

She was not alone though in her desire to stand at her mistress’ side as they burned down the universe in the name of Apokolips.

There were others standing right besides her.

First and foremost was Lashina, a woman whose entire body was covered in steel bands, which in combat she wielded immense control over, using them to entrap and slice to ribbons anyone unfortunate enough to get in her way. One such band was wrapped about her face, covering the entire middle of her nose and cheeks. Of all the Furies, none hated Barda more than she, though she had yet to defeat her in one on one combat. She too was beautiful, possessing many of the same traits as Barda herself, though diminutive, human sized so to speak.

Underestimating her would be quite foolish.

Then? There was Stompa, an even more immense woman who was large by a fraction of four than even Barda. Her shoulders were as wide as a truck, and her head seemed small, a tiny little pill placed atop a massive expanse of flesh. Her body was similarly large all around, with beefy arms that could rip trees from the ground, and powerful legs able to send her flying through the air.

Her choice of clothing was simple. A tunic with alternating red and yellow, similar to Barda in that regard, that buttoned up the front. A helmet, emblazoned with the letter F for Furies and boots. At that moment she stood there, her arms crossed over her chest in defiance, though clearly avoiding directly looking upon her leader. She lacked breasts, or rather only had very small ones, pulled taut against the musculature of her chest. She was mannish, lacking in beauty unlike her sisters in arms.

She was afraid, and while she was physically impressive she was one of the dumbest creatures that Kara had ever run across, possessing not a shred of battlefield acumen or philosophical ability. She just charged into battle with no thought.

Kara would’ve already had her killed had she not seen the woman alone fell entire armies by herself.

And last there was one young woman whom Karen was not quite able to place as of yet. Oddly enough? She liked her, all things considered. There was just something about her, something that stoked some long forgotten feeling within Karen. 

Perhaps it was a stand-in for a maternal sensation she had been denied all those years ago when her planet was destroyed and the last chance for its survival across the stars with it, or maybe…she felt pity for her. Regardless, Kara was softer towards this one, clearly making her something of a favorite and stoking the jealousy and hatred of the others.

Mad Harriet.

“Hehehehehe”.

She laughed, constantly. Not in an overt, grating way, but rather in a subdued, somewhat girlish way. As if she was constantly giggling at something she found humorous. But nothing was humorous in Harriet’s world. No. She was constantly on edge, which hinted at her incessant laughter being something more of a coping mechanism than an expression of finding humor in something. She was scared, and she had good reason to be. She’d always been scared. 

Harriet was the runt of the litter so to speak, and even from a young age found herself on the receiving end of all the cruelties that young children could mete out upon others. She was odd, even by Apokoliptian standards.

Her hair was green and her skin? A jaundice yellow, as if she was sick though she wasn’t. It was her natural coloration. She had a rather cute, button nose, upturned ever so slightly as if in a sign of royal parentage, though Harriet knew better than to try and think herself above anyone else. 

She was animalistic, even then, squatting down on her knees and palms, scraping against the floor and swaying back and forth, waiting for prey. “Hehehehe”. Her lips were black, again, their natural coloration, and yet still pouty, even while stretched out in a wicked smile across the lower half of her face, exposing the pearly whites of her teeth which were clenched tightly together.

Her eyes were green, matching her hair which flowed outwards and downwards at the same time with no rhyme or reason, furthering her reputation and adding to her name. Mad. Everyone thought she was crazy. 

She was beautiful though, perfectly formed with perky, full breasts which were pushed up nicely by the corset she wore, leaving her shoulders open to view. She had wide hips and a pleasant rear end, which was emphasized by how tightly the pants she wore clung to her, though Kara knew the woman chose them for the maneuverability they gave her in place of any sense of wanting to seduce. 

The pants were green and the corset was silver plated, and on her hands? One of her most devastating attributes.

Her gloves which covered her digits and were in turn were adorned by four long claw like protrusions that Harriet used to slice apart her opponents in battle. While she was often derided, excluded and picked on by the others, Kara knew that she was one of the best warriors within the ranks of the Furies.

She stayed back, studying the battlefield, biding her time and waiting for the right moment. Many, many times during training sessions had she been able to gain the upper hand on one or more of her sisters and deliver a near killing blow that had she not been holding back would’ve sent the Furies into the next life, should such a thing exist.

She was a terror on the battlefield, cackling loudly and frightening her enemies, sending chills down their very souls and causing many to flee in terror. She was, in Kara’s view, the most gifted fighter out of the Furies.

Stompa was too single minded, too ignorant to lead, and Barda? Much was yet to be seen of her longevity as a battlefield commander. She stoked animosity needlessly amongst the ranks, strutted her superiority, and Kara wasn’t exactly thrilled with the discord such actions caused.

‘If only Harriet was a little tougher’.

While she was a lioness on the battlefield she was a kitten off of it, allowing the others to dominate and bully her out of the vain hope that one day they would be her friends. She always accepted the least important details and deferred to Barda or Lashina on everything else. In that way Harriet would never be a leader, not if she continued to act in such a way.

“Hehehehehehe”.

‘I’m gonna have to try harder with her’.

She pushes that thought to the side as Barda approaches, answering her summons and walking forward to stand at her side, Bernadeth, the final Fury, joining Kara at her opposite side. Bernadeth and Barda glared at one another openly, the hatred between them especially being palpable. Bernadeth was the exact opposite of Stompa in many ways. Conniving, scheming, fiercely intelligent, but an utter coward when she didn’t have an enemy completely under her control.

She’d rather torture than fight a fair war, which earned her Lady Darkseid’s ire more than anything else.

“Who's fighting today?”

Kara was watching the conflict below, the two impressive specimens of alien masculinity still brutally fighting each other for one sole purpose. Her body. Yes, a challenge had been issued and spread throughout all of the known universe. All would come and fight for the chance to bed the queen of Apokolips. They would kill, literally, to do so, but even should they prove victorious, Kara herself would decide if they were worthy of such a gift.

Right then the hardy gray skinned alien seemed to be triumphing, bringing up his steel hook attached to a chain at his waist into the gut of the other creature, who recoils in fear and pain, shouting out as bright, purple blood gushes forth out of his mouth.

“It appears that the fight is already over, my queen” Barda says firmly.

“That isn’t what I asked Barda”.

“O-of course Lady Darkseid. The one in the leather jacket with the hook is Lobo, a Czarnian” Barda explains quickly, wishing to rectify her mistake. “He’s the last of his kind apparently. Hardy, unbeatable. The one he just killed was named Mongul”.

“Ahh. Yeah, I know who he is. War World. Hmmm”.

The famed leader of the other warlike planet stared down at his stomach, which was now stitched open right across the middle, allowing his guts to spill out over the sand of the arena floor beneath him. He stood in disbelief, watching as the mustached Czarnian before him smiled wickedly, admiring his handiwork.

“Heheh…mess with the best and die like the rest you fraggin’ lug”.

Mongul falls to his knees, the life already leaving his eyes and soon falls forward, dead atop the sand. It was unbelievable really. For one such as him to be destroyed, and yet it had happened. The most famed bounty hunter in the galaxy had notched another kill. 

“LOBO! LOBO! LOBO! LOBO!”

And apparently? He was also the crowd’s favorite, as they erupted into cheers immediately after such a victory. Kara curls an eyebrow, studying the man who had come all this way for the attempt to be crowned king of Apokolips and gain the right to her body. He was impressive, she’d give him that. Rippling muscles set against a hairy, highly masculine body, covered by a pair of pants and a sleeveless biker jacket. His hair was wild and untamed, dark as night, while his red eyes were rimmed by blackened skin, which Kara could tell was actually the coloration in that particular portion.

She was studying him intently, far more intently than anyone could tell by looking at her. She was peering into his very cellular structure, watching how they formed and moved within. 

“He regenerates his cells really quickly”.

“Yes my queen. He does. Apparently, so he claims, he’s immortal”.

“Really?”

Kara found herself intrigued by that, and Bernadeth smiles, hoping that the queen had finally found a suitable mate. Of course…she had her own reasons for such a thing, though she’d dare not speak of them to anyone. 

‘The seed of your own destruction shall soon be planted in your own womb, your majesty’ she thinks to herself, already seeing that grand, beautiful day far, far off in the future. 

Lobo at that moment was basking in the adoration of the crowd, throwing his arms up to either side and stepping over the fallen body of Mongul, basking in their adoration and cheers. He was hamming it up, fist bumping and gleeful. Kara finds that her smile drops because of that.

“Ugggh…he’s just doing this for the glory, isn’t he?”

“My queen” Bernadeth begins cautiously. “For what other reason would anyone embark upon such a dangerous path?”

Kara stands up, ignoring Bernadeth completely and sighing, bringing her hand up to pinch the bridge of her nose. “I guess I should go down and at least talk to him, shouldn’t I?” 

“Hehehehe, no-not if you don’t want to, my queen” Harriet says, moving up cat-like on her hands and feet, scurrying along. “You should only do what you wan-,”

“Shut up, worm!” Barda snarls, turning on Harriet and clenching her teeth, her mega rod held tightly in her hands, clearly being used at that moment as a threat of what she wished she could do to the woman. Harriet hisses and yet, all the same pulls back, relenting. “She knows that. She doesn’t need your useless assurances!”.

“Enough Barda”.

Kara was moving towards the front of the royal box now, and slowly, without thought, lifted herself into the air, her feet taking off from the ground and elevating her a few feet. “As much as I don’t want to, the people want a show, and their queen will give it to them”.

“Allow us to escort you my qu-,”

“Didn’t you just say that useless assurances weren’t needed by me?” the blonde snaps, causing Barda to look away, down at her feet while their ruler floats over them, Lobo himself looking up now at the beauty he was sure he’d claimed for himself. Sure that Barda was sufficiently cowed, Kara turns away, looking down into the arena.

“Mad Harriet. With me”.

“Ye-yes my queen! Yes! Hehehehe!”

Like a loyal pet the woman scurries forward at a quick pace, grasping onto the side and crawling over it, dropping into the stands below where the residents of Apokolips quickly scurry away, giving her space to move. Lady Darkseid meanwhile floats over them, taking her time and allowing Harriet to keep pace with her.

The other Furies were left behind, each of them fuming in the box.

“Why by Darkseid does she favor that little runt?” Barda asks herself, apparently forgetting that she was not alone. “Heheh, because no matter what, your blood is stained by dishonor”. Barda whirls on Stompa and deploys her mega rod, the one end suddenly illuminating itself in light while the woman presses right into the underside of Stompa’s throat, causing the woman to blanche. She’d seen what this weapon could do in Barda’s hands.

“Say one more thing Stompa. One more thing”.

The woman doesn’t rise to the occasion, and instead just grimaces, allowing Barda to relent, if only slightly. 

“She pities her. That’s the only reason,” Lashina fumes. “She pities the pathetic little creature”.

“Lady Darkseid pities no one” Bernadeth warns, gazing down and watching as the clawed woman jumps into the arena after her mistress who was just about to touch ground once again. “She has plans, plans that are far reaching that not even we are aware of”.

Lashina smiles.

“You would know wouldn’t you, you conniving little snake? When you lack both beauty and courage, you most definitely try to attach yourself to someone more powerful. It’s pathetic Bernadeth. How you grovel and beg for the scraps from Lady Darkseid’s table and how jealous you are of what Harriet gets. Do you want a leash?”

Bernadeth scowls as the other Furies laugh at her and she says nothing. She says nothing because she knows doing so would be useless. They were right. She would not face them in open combat. She would take the abuse and pretend to be aloof from it. But all the while she was plotting. And much of it depended upon what happened next.

‘By Apokolips let her be seduced’.

Down in the Arena

“Hehehehe!”

“Stay at my side Harriet”.

“Always my queen”.

The loyal Fury trots alongside as Kara’s sandal clad feet finally touch down on the sand a mere ten or so feet away from Lobo, who waits triumphantly, licking his lips in utter desire. His eyes, naturally, were first drawn to the woman’s tits which bounced in her dress with each step she took.

“If it isn’t the big bad queen of Apokolips come down to meet the main man himself?”

“I am a goddess Lobo. Never forget that. Especially not in my presence” Karen warns, eyeing the man stoically, looking him up and down once again. Apparently Lobo took her gaze as a sign of appreciation and flexed his bicep, showing off.

“Hehe, I’ll call you whatever you want me to call you babe”.

“HISSSSSS!”

Harriet most assuredly did not like the way that the man was speaking to her queen, and she showed her teeth as a result, wanting to dig them right into the man’s flesh even while knowing she would lose. She would fight for Kara’s honor though. No matter what.

“Relax Harriet. I got this”.

“Of course Lady Darkseid…hehehehehe”.

“So, I fragged this bastich. That mean we get to bone yet?” he asks, kicking at the dead corpse of Mongol at his feet. “Because I’m interested in seeing how your tits would look wrapped around my cock”. Kara glares, her lip curling in distaste. “We can even do it right here if you wanted to. If you were into that. I know I’m fine with an audience. The main man always performs”.

“You’re immortal right?”

“Huh? Yeah, last time I checked” he says, confused by the line of questioning and quite frankly bored of it. He wanted sex, not conversation. “At least squeeze out of your dress for me huh? Give the main man a look at what-,”

ZZZZZZZZZZZZ!

It all happened so quickly, too quickly. Many in the crowd couldn’t exactly follow what had happened, but whatever it was had indeed happened. There’d been a quick flash of red which emanated out from Kara’s eyes. Heat vision summoned up quicker than the speed of sound which moved, oddly, in a zigzag motion through the air.

It had made a path right towards Lobo and specifically at his neck, where it disappeared as soon as it made contact. 

Kara didn’t keep up the beam for long, and soon enough she let it fall away, her eyes returning to normal as she places her hands on her hips and sighs. “He was boring, wasn’t he Harriet?”

“Yes Lady Darkseid”.

Lobo was still standing there, his face scrunched up in an expression of confusion, not understanding what had just happened. “What the-” Soon enough though, some key pieces of evidence began to introduce themselves. A line formed at his neck, one that cut across the entire width of it.

It grew more and more until…

The ‘main man’s’ head slid right off of the top of his body. The stump was fully visible to the shocked Apokoliptians, who had most definitely not expected something like that to happen. It stood there for a second, defiant and full of the same vigor that had carried it through the fight, but after a second or so more it began to lean back and then? Finally, fell completely, thudding against the ground.

Lobo’s head was an entirely different matter as it had separated from the body before it had fallen and landed to the side. Normal people? They would’ve been dead. Deader than dead. But Lobo was far from normal.

His eyes stared up at Kara as his head had landed on the stump of his neck, allowing him to view her and Harriet with shock and then finally, anger.

“What the frag did you do that for you bastich?”

Kara ignores him and instead gestures up into the air, waving down two waiting figures whose wings were flapping, apparently desiring an order from their mistress.

“GRAAAAAH!”

They both come down, revealing themselves entirely as what they were. Parademons. The hulking monstrosities that made up the bulk of the armies of Apokolips. They were insectlike, with tiny little faces covered by armor and snapping teeth, bulging eyes. Their whole bodies were covered in armor, and these two respectively held spears. Their wings ceased fluttering as they stood there, waiting for their mistress’ orders.

“I’m gonna frag you! As soon as my body grows back, I’m coming for you bitch! And when I do I’m gonna rip off your head and see how you li-,”

“Take him to Bernadeth’s not so secret little laboratory” the blonde says to the two parademons, already turning and making to walk away, her anger getting the better of her in the midst of her disappointment. “Have her see what can be done with him. Otherwise? He’s useless to me”.

“You just made an enemy of the main man, blondie! I don’t care how big your tits are, I’ll frag you! I might even have them mounted”.

“Sure you will”.

Kara had already put it out of her mind as she moved away, quickly followed by Harriet, leaving the shocked crowd to watch, unsure of why the man had been denied by their queen. It didn’t matter though. They wouldn’t get an answer. Not from her. They were not worthy of such a thing.

The parademons got to their jobs, one picking up Lobo’s still snarling and screaming head, which promptly tried to bite it, and the other grasping the Czarnian’s body, lifting it up into the air and tossing it over his back.

Kara meanwhile was off towards one of the only places she felt comfortable. 

She needed it after today.

The Pleasure Gardens Within the Palace of Woe, One Hour Later

The name of where the woman had wanted to go was misleading, at least if you compared what constituted pleasure upon Apokolips to what passed for it elsewhere in the cosmos. It was rather well decorated…even if the decor itself was…macabre.

Inlaid into the walls were sculptures, all of them being of creatures which had been felled first by the fallen Uxas who had first taken the name Darkseid and then by his successor who had proven him to be unworthy.

So many different kinds, male and female. Tentacles, claws, teeth upon teeth, third eyes. They ran the gamut of physical forms. One thing they all had in common though was the expressions of utter fear which dominated their faces. The horror that had somehow been sculpted into their eyes.

There were so many of them that they made the walls appear to be formed entirely out of corpses, and Kara takes a moment as she advances to admire them. Some she recognized, or rather most she recognized. Uxas had loved to boast and try to use his past victories to ‘teach’ her.

‘I’ve gotta work harder’ she thinks with a frown, realizing that only about a fourth of the creature’s likenesses on the wall had been killed by her personally. ‘I want to erase him and his stupid accomplishments completely’.

“My queen?”

“What is it Harriet?”

“Are you alright?”

“I’m fine” she grumbles out, continuing to walk forward, her eyes fixated on the large pool of water which was well placed at the end of the path they were taking. It bubbled upwards, calling to her with its innate warmth that didn’t even need to be questioned or thought of. It was warm, as she’d ordered it to be.

The hall was flanked on either side by a multitude of servants, all clad in black robes with the symbol adorned around her neck inlaid upon them. They kept their heads bowed, a common sign of reverence for their warrior goddess. 

“I…it…hehehehe…it doesn’t seem like it”.

“Are you questioning me Harriet?” she asks.

“Ye-yes my queen…hehehehehehe”.

Despite everything, Kara smiles, glad that she had decided to ask Harriet to accompany her as usual. “And what makes you think you can do that huh?”

“Even the lowliest being can offer something in the way of wisdom my queen”.

Harriet was walking upright now, apparently having tired of scuttling around like a cat, though she had the good sense to remain behind her, not daring to consider herself an equal. They were getting closer to the pool of water, and when Kara notices this she reaches up around the back of her head to her neck where the twin straps of her dress were joined together in a knot. Deftly she undoes it, and as a result the dress begins falling away from her.

The trail stops advancing and instead remains on the floor, and the fabric is pulled down her body completely, exposing her breasts for all to see as if it was nothing. It continues, falling off of her hips and then down her legs, allowing her ass to join her breasts in visibility, as well as her womanhood, which would only be viewed from the front. 

“You’re lucky you’re at least entertaining Harriet. Otherwise I’d kill you and not even think about it”.

“I-I know my queen. Hehehehe”.

“Don’t be nervous,” she says, trying to soothe her Fury as she gets to the steps that lead into the pool. She stops there, raising her hands and uplifting them, clearly a sign that the attendants were attuned too. The four that stood positioned around the pool itself begin to disrobe, pushing off the garments and revealing their naked flesh in the light of the flames around them. They were Korugaran women from the planet Korugar, all were red skinned and beautiful, the very images of supplication.

Harriet watches as they advance, their heads still bowed low and their hairy womanhoods exposed, though all were quite small breasted. She’d never asked Kara why that was. Perhaps she didn’t want to be seen to ‘compete’ in that area in regards to other women. Perhaps she liked it that way. It didn’t matter. It wasn’t Harriet’s place to ask.

They advance into the massive pool behind Kara who had ascended the final step, bringing herself into the water at about stomach deep. Her handmaidens follow, getting close. “Undo my shoes” she orders imperiously, and two lean down into the water, going under to begin the tedious process of untying her sandals. 

“You two” she continues, the water itself changing as if sensing the needs of its mistress, filling with soapy bubbles which lay at the top, floating on the water. “Wash me. Pay attention to my shoulders. Massage them, but Apokolips help me if you hurt me”. They were scared, as always, even though they shouldn’t be.

It was impossible to hurt their Kryptonian queen.

They move forward slowly, still reverently as well, and quickly scoop up some of the soapy water into their hands. They get close to her, one to the front and one to the rear, and begin massaging her body, lathering it up affectionately. Harriet stands guard, a bit unnecessarily but all the same she does, at the edge. 

“As I said” she turns, smiling while continuing the words she’d spoken to Harriet before. “You entertain me. Now…you want to know why I cut off Lobo’s head instead of fucking him, right?”

“I would not pretend to demand any answers of you, my qu-,”

“Right?!”

“Hehehehehehe…y-ye-yes my queen. I…I am curious. If you wish to answer, I-I-I would be honored”.

“Hahahahaha by Rao, Harriet” Karen says, her servants lathering her up, cooing as they knew their queen liked while they press their naked bodies against her, using their small breasts to assist in the act. “You’re too much fun. You should calm down around me. Relax. I’m not being serious”.

“Of course my queen”.

‘Never in a million years’ she thinks inwardly, knowing that she worshiped this woman beyond all others but would never think she wasn’t being serious when she said she demanded people’s love and respect. But beyond that? She commanded their fear, and Kara Zor-El would lose the latter two before the former.

“My answer is…he bothered me” she says, hissing a bit as one of the women washing her moves onto her breasts, lightly groping and allowing her thumb to move over Kara’s sensitive nipple. “He didn’t have anything interesting in his eyes. His whole goal…was to fuck me”.

“You are beautiful my queen” Harriet says, fighting her chuckle that always wanted to come forth. “What man wouldn’t?”

“True, but still…he bored me”.

“What purpose will he serve now?”

“I’m not sure. I think Bernadeth can come up with something”. At that moment the two servants she’d sent below to work upon her sandals rose up, signifying that they were done. They breathed deeply, needing the air, but it was clear they would’ve drowned themselves before not achieving the objective that their queen set out for them.

“Wash my ass cheeks and you? Go to the front and get my thighs” she winks, watching as the woman blushes and scoots around the front, her face mere inches from Kara’s pussy, topped by a thick forest of now soaking wet blonde hair. “Lather my bush too while you’re at it. I want to keep it soft”.

“Yes my queen” the servant murmurs, taking to massaging the woman’s flesh, lightly squeezing the muscles beneath. 

“Maybe his genes will be useful, not in the way he thought. A new parademon or something”.

“That would be something for sure”.

It goes silent between Kara and Harriet now, the two obviously at a crossroads. Kara decides to break it with further honesty. “I’m getting bored Harriet. I’m thinking about breaking the peace we have with New Genesis”. The Fury’s eyes widened in fear at that, knowing what it meant. Not fear of war of course, she lived for that, but defeat? Not so much. She knew one thing above all others. New Genesis? It was prepared and any attack would be suicide. It would only bring forth a counterattack as well, and Apokolips would be destroyed.

She definitely didn’t want that to happen.

“Well? What do you think about that?”

“If…if my queen wan-heheheheh”.

“Bullshit. You and I both know it’s a shitty idea. We shouldn’t do it at all…mmm…you’re doing a good job back there” she says, stopping to congratulate the woman who was massaging her ass cheeks, who remains silent and bows, thankful for the praise. “But the fact remains…I’m bored”.

“Maybe…maybe you should search out a husband a little more seriously then” Harriet suggests. “I’m sure that would alleviate the boredom”.

“I’ve literally put out a call though the entire universe and they all come to me. And yet, every time, they fail”.

“For the same reason”.

“For the same reason,” Kara confirms. “There’s nothing interesting in their eyes. They’re all the same. Would-be conquerors. I’m the only conqueror that should exist Harriet. Me, and me alone. It’s only Darkseid. Mogul, Highfather, Lobo? They’re insults to my greatness though…hehe…two are at least dealt with now”.

“Hehehehehe”.

Harriet’s lips split again, something that was usual, but this time it wasn’t out of nerves It was out of wicked delight. She’d enjoyed watching Lobo be decapitated and she’d never hide it. She lusted for violence. Loved it. She’d never turn down a chance at it.

“But again, they’re all boring. Ugh. I just wish there would be something interesting in a man. Some…spark, something. Some inner fire. A cause or a belief. I don’t know. It might sound stupid”.

“My queen…may I be honest?”

“I order you to”.

Harriet nods, knowing that the woman could never allow herself to not feel in power. She had to seize the initiative, always. It was who she was. “I believe what you want is…passion. You are searching for something more than a partnership. You want lo-,”

“HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA!”

Harriet stops instantly at Kara’s raucous laughter, the blonde throwing her head back, the green haired woman gulping, suppressing a slight giggle. “Heheh”. 

“You need to stop reading those cheesy romance novels. Granny Goodness would run you through the gauntlet if she knew about it”.

“Lady Darkseid! Please I-,”

“Calm down. I wont tell her. But you’re wrong Harriet. I don’t want love. I just want something…more”. She seemed unsure even on the first part, as if, maybe she wasn’t telling her underling the full truth, that maybe she did want love. Maybe love was that elusive ‘more’ she was speaking about. The women continue to wash her as Kara sighs. 

“But that’s eighteen thousand failed fighters. None of them sparked an interest. Is there nobody in the cosmos who is at least interesting to me?” Harriet was thinking. Thinking of telling the woman something that…she possibly shouldn’t have. Most likely because admitting to doing what she did would mean an immediate death sentence.

However…there was something in Kara’s eyes. Some deep..sadness that couldn’t be countenanced on the face of a goddess. ‘Your life…is worth her happiness’. She doesn’t hesitate much more beyond that, and with a nervous giggle she begins.

“Hehehe…m-my queen?”

“What?”

“I…I have something to suggest”.

“What is it?”

“Why not…hehehe…bri-bring an interesting man here?”

Kara turns her head and stares at the woman fixing her eyes upon her intently as if getting ready to tear her apart. “What are you saying Harriet? Do you somehow, some way, have information about an interesting man?”

She nods.

“I do my queen. Hehehehe. Y-you’ll kill me for te-telling you b-b-but…it is worth it if you might be ha-happy”.

Kara’s face was unreadable, her emotions locked behind a closed door as she continued to glare. “Tell me and I will decide if you live or die”.

“I’ve been looking through the Boom Views” she says, getting the most treacherous portion of what she had to say out before anything else. “Ahh. An act worthy of the worst possible death imaginable. Death by Hellspore. But anyways, continue while I contemplate your fate”.

“There is a city my queen” she says aloud, continuing on and lowering her head, already readying herself for her death. “Hehehehe on a little mudball called Earth.”

“I know of it. Backwards and completely useless. I haven’t even thought about it. What makes it so special to you that you would risk angering me?”

“It’s filled with violence and war, Lady Darkseid. So much, and yet there’s one entire city, only one place…hehehehe…devoid of it. It’s at peace completely”.

“Impossible”.

“I swear by Apokolips my queen, it’s true. I’ve seen it. T-two men and their allies keep it that way. Hehehehe th-they are called the Batman and Nightwing. I’ve seen them. They are the most gifted warriors I’ve ever seen outside of Apokolips. Everyone fears them”.

“Hmmmm…I admit…I’m intrigued. Do you know why they do this? Why do they want to keep things peaceful?”

“At first I thought it was because of money. Money and power”.

“Of course” Kara moans, losing interest now as she bats the hands of her servants away and turns, moving back towards the steps as she believes her bath to be done. “It’s always something so bori-,”

“They are already rich, my queen, and neither seems interested in wealth. Hehehehehe. The-they hide in the darkness. They don’t like being seen. They don’t gl-gloat in their power like someone such as Highfather or Mongul would”.

“Really? Why do they do all of it then? They fight and yet they hide?”

“Yes my queen. I don’t know why” Harriet explains as Kara rises from the pool, stepping out into the slightly chilled air while two more servants rush forward and cover her in a robe. “You don’t know why?”

“No my queen”.

“Hmmm…you realize looking through the Boom Views is my right and my right alone, don’t you Harriet?”

“I do, my queen. Hehehehehehe I’m sorry”.

Kara says nothing at that and instead just looks ahead, looming over one of her older servants. The four who had bathed her remained in the pool, waiting for further orders should they come. Harriet meanwhile, was waiting to die. To be incinerated right then and there, which would’ve been a preferable mercy to being thrown into a hellspore. 

“I’ll give it a look myself. See what I can find that you might’ve missed. It sounds better than awaiting other challengers while we ready our armies for war against New Genesis. You!”

She snaps her fingers onto her main servant as she ties her robe in the center, her body already beginning to dry under the soft caress of the fabric. “You and the others are to bathe and relax Harriet. Massage her and then feed her. Make sure she’s comfortable”.

They scurry away quickly, moving towards the Fury and grasping her in their touch, gently pulling down on the corset she wore to expose her breasts, so different in hue and color to Kara’s own skin. Her nipples were black, like her lips, and stuck out boldly. She gasps and as usual, giggles as the servants begin to strip her.

“Heheheh m-my queen”.

“Relax and enjoy this little rest” Kara says with a dark smirk as she once again toyed with her favorite playmate, knowing inwardly she would never do anything to Harriet unless she betrayed her. She walks away though, keeping up the pretensions of anger. “It might be your last”.

Harriet’s pants were pulled down just then, with more servants disrobing and revealing their naked forms to the woman who blushed, always having been slightly uncomfortable with such things. 

“Give her the deluxe treatment as well” Kara calls out, one of the women already working on squeezing Harriet’s well toned asscheeks, spreading them slightly to reveal her puckered sphincter and womanhood. Another takes her by the shoulders as she steps out of her pants which were pooled around her ankles, shock still holding her at the quick turn of events. 

“I wish for her to be lavished and loved as if she was me. She’ll make me aware of any complaints”.

“My queen! I-oo-ohhh…mmmm. That…hehehehehehehe”. 

Kara moves on, smiling, inwardly happy that she’d been able to do something to thank Harriet for the thought at least. It might prove to be absolutely nothing, and if so? No harm done. But if not…if this ‘Batman’ and ‘Nightwing’ proved to be interesting? Then Kara had already made up her mind to reward Harriet with riches and power beyond her wildest imaginings.

‘Batman…hmm…what a strange name. I suppose I’ll be seeing if he’s worth bringing to Apokolips. And if he survives that? Maybe he will be interesting’.

She grimaces though and shakes her head.

‘A human though? I doubt it’.

Chapter Text

Paradise Gardens, Diamond District, Apartment of Stephen and Helena Mandragora

    Paradise Gardens could be considered exactly that in a city like Gotham. It was where the richest, most affluent citizens lived, those making six figures and above a year. It was the very definition of exclusive and even with money you weren’t guaranteed to be able to buy a home here.

A who’s who of different people, celebrities and business owners had been denied entry and it was a very long list.

Lex Luthor for one, the bald Metropolis based billionaire and senator was told in no uncertain terms that he was not allowed here. He’d thrown a fit and tried to bring a suit against the owner of the upscale housing development which was quashed right from the start. Their charter, their rules.

A few basketball players had tried their luck too, though all had been frozen out as well. 

It was easier to look into the people who were accepted rather than those who were turned away. It would save time at least. The quiet, reserved model Mari McCabe had been allowed to purchase a fourth story floor all for herself, the woman and two time Oscar winning actress valuing her privacy so much that she couldn’t stand having neighbors to her right or left. Eight million dollars bought her said privacy.

Oswald Cobblepot kept a room here, as did the Nobel Prize winning scientist Kirk Langstrom and his wife Francine, the man and woman’s work in the field of deafness winning them fortune and glory. They too were very private individuals, rarely seen outside of their apartment. When they were, the best you could hope for was a smile and slight wave.

Jason Todd made his home here on the tenth floor, the one with the admittedly best view of the Gotham River as it was facing right towards it. It truly was a beautiful sight to behold now that the five year cleaning and dredging project undertaken by Wayne Enterprises was nearing completion. 

Many species of fish were beginning to come back and lobsters? Never more plentiful in the river and the body of water it emptied into, Gotham Bay.

Paradise Gardens was well positioned to take it all in. The ever growing and constantly evolving city, a city that was knocking it out of the park in terms of nearly every metric of human growth. GDP, clean air, safety. Gotham was the place to be, to live…provided you accepted the rules that had been set down to follow.

Yes, Paradise Gardens was quite a beautiful place to live, and the reason for that was because those who lived there kept it that way. Exclusive, quiet.

Out of the public eye.

This place housed the entirety of the ‘criminal’ empire, though he’d hate it being put in those terms, of Bruce Wayne. He had even purchased an apartment for Doctor Harleen Quinzel, a woman who could afford it all on her own, last year.

‘Cagna’.

Which was something another woman who lived here in Paradise Gardens absolutely loathed. Helena Mandragora was in the middle of walking out of her bedroom and across the wall of glass that looked out over the city streets below that served as their windows, her hair done up in an intricate bun at the back of her head and her body adorned in a flowing, purple cocktail dress which tastefully showed off her feminine assets. 

She was freshly showered which would be noticed due to how utterly delicious she smelled, the woman bathing in the luxurious, massive Italian imported marble bathtub with the finest soaps money could buy. Her towel, still wet, was hanging upon a golden towel rack, waiting to be picked up by the maids who’d come in like clockwork to tend to their jobs. 

‘Fucking bitch’.

She was angry though. Despite her wealth and the opulence she was surrounded by, she was angry. Infuriated even. She kept walking, her Gianvito Rossi heels clicking against the equally marble floors of the apartment she shared with her father.

She keeps walking, moving right down the hallway that was tastefully decorated, paintings hanging on the walls that were worth more than some people made in an entire year. Paintings of emperors and cherubs, religious moments and military triumphs.

Despite her sour mood she smiles, shaking her head and slowing for a moment to admire them as she passes. She’d always liked them for some reason. They gave her comfort, a show of class that she hadn’t felt like growing up as a little girl in another household.

She keeps walking and as she does so more is revealed. More items of beauty and wonder. Antique vases perched atop mantles and stands, showcasing an even more refined taste.

Eventually though the museum-like walk through the hallway that led from the left portion of their quarters to the right ends, and Helena finds herself opening up into a massive, high ceilinged living room which when she’d first seen it at the age of eight years old had taken her breath away.

It was amazing.

It reminded her of Saint Anthony’s church where her family had taken her every Sunday with the ceiling being so high up and intricately decorated that she almost felt like she was looking up at heaven, the paintings of angels and clouds all surrounding a golden throne never having helped dissuade her of that notion. The living room, she would admit, was slightly different in a few regards.

There weren’t just angels on it.

No. The ceiling of her father’s living room was different and always had been. Of course there were angels, but unlike at Saint Anthony’s they were not just sitting around indulgently serving the Lord. No, here on the Mandragora ceiling they were much more warlike. They donned armor and held spears and swords aloft, flying forth on wings to charge at their enemies which dominated the opposite half of the space available. Those had frightened her once upon a time.

The red skinned demons gushing forth on fire and flames unlike the angels who came out of clouds. They charged at the angels with their own weaponry, wickedly curved blades and snarling teeth, wanting to rip into the flesh of their foes with reckless abandon. Evil incarnate.

Two figures stood out more than the rest, and these figures were those that Helena Maria Mandragora knew by heart.

Satan the deceiver, the demon that had once been an angel, had fallen from grace down to the very bowels of existence, into hell where he now ruled. He was fearsome here, the very worst of the demons that came to try and topple heaven. He was muscled and evil, fangs dripping out over his lips and spittle flying about due to how he snarled in rage. He had horns which curved wickedly upwards like a goat and his eyes flashed red with rage.

He did not have a sword, and instead relied only upon his hands, clawed and sharp, reaching out towards one figure in particular.

His opposite, Saint Michael the archangel, the one who had taken his place. He stood there as a beautiful contrast to Satan the deceiver, with flowing blonde hair and piercing blue eyes that peered ahead at his enemy. He wore a breastplate over his chest and held a spear in his grasp, a spear which was pointed out directly at Lucifer, ready to pierce his heart. The battle was pitched and on account of being painted neverending.

Helena was always slightly bothered by that. Not knowing how the battle would end and only having faith that good would triumph over evil. Or…maybe that had been her concern in the past…before life happened and dissuaded her of such notions. The painting was immortal and would remain there, imprinted upon the plaster above with no side gaining victory.

‘I feel like that can apply to my life’ she thinks mournfully, looking away from the ceiling in fear as she feels a strange sensation begin to bubble up within her and cause her no small degree of discomfort. ‘It applies to Bruce too’.

She begins to walk away, finding her thoughts pulled right back, as they always were, to the man who had built modern Gotham. Of course he’d done it with help, but at the end of the day none of it would’ve been possible without him.

And Helena often worried for him.

She didn’t love him, not like a woman loved a man or should, which was odd considering how often it was that they took carnal pleasure from one another. She loved him like a dear friend, and probably always had. He was one of the few who could understand her and speak to her without saying a word. She feared for him, and often thought about the painting in the ceiling as a metaphor for herself and him, maybe all of them, this…thing of ours as they called it. 

A war for the soul. Good and evil yanking and pulling, trying to find a purchase and never quite able to dominate the other. None of them were one thing or the other fully, none of them, and it was undeniable that they did evil to preserve good.

‘Is it worth it?’

She’d asked herself that question so many times it almost felt useless to do so now. Like an academic experiment that never went anywhere. It was worth it. It was undeniable, and yet she still couldn’t help but feel filthy.

‘Bruce is slipping’ she continues on, more concerned for him than her at that moment. ‘Everything’s darker for him. I can see it in his eyes'. 

She frowns to herself, turning her head downwards and looking over the rest of the apartment as if to see if anything changed despite the fact she knew it didn't. 

The kitchen was still right where it always was. To the right of the living room, resplendent in the very best that money could buy. A massive fridge, a dishwasher, an immaculate sink. 

She even knew what she'd find if she looked inside the fridge. Pre-prepared meals, all packaged and made ready for her father by their chef Cecilia. She smiles at that knowing that not one of them would be what her father really liked. 

No these were all vegetables and boiled chicken, measured and doled out according to dietary needs with not one calorie being more than what he needed in a day. 

Of course there was still the locked cabinet off to the side which led into further culinary necessities, at least for Helena. It was a wine room which contained racks filled with all different kinds of wine. 

In the back in yet another refrigerator, Helena stashed the food she would make for herself and eat, usually out of her father's sight so as to not be cruel. 

There was mozzarella and capicola, bruschetta and all sorts of other delicious deli meats. The finest breads and hanging cloves of garlic and other dry meats that were kept salted and dehumidified. 

Occasionally, when Cecilia wasn't looking, Helena would make her father a little snack. A tasty treat that would be a little gift. Tomatoes and mozzarella in oil and parsley was his favorite, and they would sometimes sit before the massive big screen television and watch a show while sharing it and a bottle of wine. 

Those, Helena would easily admit, were some of her happiest moments. 

The living room itself was just as beautiful as the rest of their home. Decorated tastefully with large statues, copies and some original though highly illegal to own, statues and busts of Roman emperors and Renaissance sculptures. 

The floor itself was covered by an ornate rug which was quite massive in terms of its size, extending out a solid twenty feet in length and width. Atop it was the furniture of course. Italian leather couches straight off the boat from Italy and a massive oaken table that served as their coffee table. 

Of course there was the television, and to the side of that, built into the stone wall, was a fireplace, the smoke of which was funneled out through the side of the building and hidden as best as possible. 

Building codes and such things as them could be overlooked when you had wealth, and the Mandragoras? They had wealth. 

"Papa". 

Helena smiles as her eyes land upon the figure of the man seated on one of the couches, who had looked up at her as soon as she'd entered, his face quickly split by a smile. He was wearing a robe around his slight frame, something that never would’ve been conceivable in the past for anyone who knew Stephen Mandragora. They wouldn’t believe that this old man who seemed as if he was wasting away, his pink eyes and pale skin, a result of his albinism, clinging to his body and scalp was THE Stephen Mandragora.

The man who had spread terror and fear throughout the entire criminal underworld when his massive bulk stepped onto the scene. He’d once been four hundred and fifty pounds of deceptively strong muscle, able to intimidate and break anyone into submission.

And now?

He was barely two hundred pounds and aged, his skin wizened.

The hardened mafioso who had pressed his gun to the back of rats and traitor’s heads and pulled the trigger without mercy, was now smiling widely at his daughter, raising his arms and making to get up.

“Tesoro, vieni qui”.

“No, no, stai lì papa”.

Helena hurries, rushing across the slight distance that remains between her and the couch and gets there quickly enough, kneeling down upon it and reaching out for her father’s shoulders, pushing him back down. “Ahhh Helena” he groans, frowning at being so effectively manhandled.

The woman just smiles and leans in, pecking his cheek as she sits down besides him, smiling herself now. She always felt better around him. It didn’t matter what was going on, her father made it better. That’s just how he was.

He breathes deeply, sighing and turning to look at her, peering at him through eyes aged with care.

“How do I look, papa?”

“Bellissima principessa. Bellissima”. He reaches out and takes her hand in his own, bringing it up to his lips and kissing it, an act that causes Helena to blush. “Where did the time go?” he asks, continuing on with their conversation. “Not too long ago you were a tiny little thing always asking me to ride on my shoulders…of course I was strong enough then to carry you. Now? Pfft. I couldn’t manage it”.

“I got bigger papa and you?” she teases, reaching out to poke his stomach through his robe. “You got smaller”.

“Don’t remind me”.

“Papa” she chides lightly. “You know you had to. All that weight. It wasn’t good for you”. Stephen lifts his arm upwards as if to showcase it, pulling back the sleeve and exposing the arm beneath. Admittedly the skin sagging was not an attractive sight, but it could’ve just as easily been chalked up to age. Other than that it was the perfectly normal arm of a seventy nine year old man.

“I’m wasting away principessa”.

“Papa…come on, it’s not that bad. You said you loved Cecilia’s chicken” she reminds him. “Baaaah fungool. I want capicola. I want eggplant and pasta. I want bread, and lots of it”.

“It’s not good for you. Remember what the doctor said? And besides, it doesn't look bad at all. You look healthier than you’ve ever been. Your diabetes is under control, your blood pressure is just right. You’re seriously telling me you don’t feel the least bit better?”

“No. I don’t. You’re sentencing me to death figlia”.

He was pouting now, and Helena clucks in disapproval at the sentiment. “I’m sentencing you to live papa”.

“Without all the things I love? For an Italian it’s a fate worse than death”.

“Ugggh….you’re such a child”.

“I used to be as strong as a bull” he laments, though a smile was etching its way onto his lips to make it clear that he was joking and was secretly in good spirits, something that Helena always needed to know in regards to him. “Now? I’m a laughingstock. I know what they say behind my back. All those…youngbloods in our family”.

“No”. 

Helena suddenly grows firm, a strange and fiery intensity overtaking her as she cuts him off. “They wouldn’t dare talk about you negatively. And if you hear anything, you tell me papa…I’ll handle it”. She knew to a degree it was true. The associates and soldiers of the Mandragora family, the so called ‘youngbloods’ who had been filling their ranks as of late, though late in regards to the aged mobster, meant the last ten or so years when he’d been forced to pull back from the life.

And right when Helena had forced him onto his very strict diet.

He’d lost the weight and many assumed the power as well. Behind his back he was referred to as nothing more than a consigliere, the advisor to the don or in this case donna. The illusion was maintained though, by none more so than Helena, that he was still the boss.

But Mandragora saw through it himself. He understood it better than she did, and even accepted it. Slowly the father reaches out for his daughter’s hand and takes it, stroking it lightly and smiling.

“No. Let them talk. They need it. Wise guys need to talk. It makes things easier”.

“I won’t let them talk badly about you papa. I-,”

“It must be hard for a little girl” he says, cutting her off, clearly fixed upon some tangent or other of his own. “Seeing her father grow old. Weak. To watch as he leans on her more and more and even begins to truly let go of the reins. Harder in this wife….Donna Helena”.

Helena blushes and looks away, not used to that fact even still. Ten years she’d been the de facto street boss. Ten years and yet…it still didn’t feel right to be called that.

“I’m not upset by it. I’m glad it was you that displaced me”.

“I’d never displace you papa”.

“Yes. You did. It’s only natural though. The way of things…ohh if your mother could see you now” he continues, bringing his other hand up to stroke at the woman’s cheek, taking in her beauty. Helena closes her eyes and turns her head slightly to the side in embarrassment as her father continues to caress her cheek.

But neither were smiling now, some of the magic of the moment being broken as the woman’s memory is invoked. Helena would never forget that day….the day she became who she was.

“Brutta puttana!! YOU FUCKING BITCH!!”

That’s how you could tell the man was angry. He repeated himself twice, once in Italian and the second time in English. Franco Bertinelli was one of those men who had certain tells beyond the rage that played across his face.

“GAAH! AHHH! FR-FRANCO! FRANCO!! PER FAVOR-AHHHHH!”

Maria Bertinelli, Helena’s mother, screamed in agony as the man responded to her pleas for mercy only by turning and slamming his hand across her face as hard as he possibly could, all the while continuing to drag the struggling woman across the floor by his other hand grasping her hair. The slap only added to her pain as she was already a mass of black and blue, both her eyes swollen shut, her nose broken and her lips bloodied.

A few teeth had even been knocked out.

But Franco? He didn’t care. He just kept pulling her across the floor, moving over towards the cabinets and sink in the luxurious home he’d bought for his family. A family he thought wasn’t keeping any secrets from him. But Maria, even so battered, had revealed one. A secret she never should’ve let slip. Why? Who would ever know. She had though, and it was turning out to be the worst mistake of her life.

Maria Bertinelli was a beautiful woman, and it showed even through the horrific abuses that had just been meted out upon her. She was fighting for her life, throwing her hands up behind and over her to grasp at Franco’s hand, trying desperately to free herself as he used his strength to dominate her.

She struggled, kicking her legs out against the tile floor, but it did nothing.

He was still taking her where he wanted her to go.

And trailing behind the two? Was a tiny little figure in a dress, clutching a teddy bear to her chest as she sobbed, trying to reach out for her mother.

“Mama! Mama! Papa! S-stop!”

She couldn’t get much more out than that, and regardless it was pointless. Franco Bertinelli wouldn’t be moved. He ignored the little girl, a little girl that up until about fifteen minutes he had utterly adored and smothered in love and attention. A little girl that inwardly was now as dead to him as the woman who birthed her.

He fully entered the kitchen then, and when he did, bringing Maria all the way to the opposite side of it, he slammed her as hard as he could into the lower cabinets, bouncing the back of her head off of  the cabinet and causing her further pain.

He releases her, allowing her to slump forward miraculously still conscious.

“Papa! St-,”

“YOU SHUT THE FUCK UP!!!”

He had turned so rapidly, snarling like an animal and looking at Helena as if she was a monster that the little girl could be nothing other than shocked. She couldn’t believe it. The same handsome face of her father, mustachioed and always laughing joyfully over some inside joke he felt he shared with his little girl, was now cursing and screaming at her. 

All little Helena could do was stand there in fear, clutching her teddy even harder as she shook. Water begins to trickle to the floor from down her thighs and between her legs. Helena had peed herself in her fear.

But Franco?

He could care less. He just turns and looks at Maria, who was crying herself while on the floor, her body beaten, battered and bruised to such an extent that it was a shock that she could keep it together enough to raise her head and glare up hatefully at Franco through the slits that were now her eyes.

“Do-do-don’t…ta-talk to her…l-like…that”.

She could only get her words out in gasping, short breaths, all she could manage at that moment, but even still she does it, trying to defend her little girl. “Don’t fucking tell me what to do in my own house” he says quietly, taking a deep breath and seeming to calm himself as he brings his hand up to his face and rubs over it.

In addition to that he paces, moving back and forth in front of the sink.

“PUTTANA DEL CAZZO!!!”

He screams again, insulting the woman as he turns and kicks her in the ribs, forcing whatever little control on her breathing that Maria Bertinelli had left out the window. She gasps as the sickening sound of her ribs cracking could be heard throughout the room and she falls to the side on the floor.

When she does, a clear line of sight is made between her and the petrified Helena who keeps standing there, unable to do anything.

“He-he-Helena..r-r-”

She couldn’t get much more than that out. Just her daughter’s name. That’s all she could do. As it turned out, her name would be the last word that Maria Bertinelli ever said. At that moment Franco Bertinelli yanked open one of the silverware drawers, sending the items scattering slightly as he searched for something.

“All of it…all of it! Wasn’t fucking worth it! The clothes, the jewels, the cars and the fancy fucking mansion you just had to have! All of it wasn’t enough to stop you from hopping onto his cock huh? Wasn’t enough”.

All Maria could do was pant, her ragged breaths forcing their way out of her mouth, whistling through the canyon of her broken teeth. Above her Franco was rifling through the drawer, looking for something, and it didn’t take much to guess at what it might be. 

“The kid ain’t mine. The fucking kid isn’t even mine!!!! YOU GOT UP IN THAT CHURCH IN FRONT OF MY FAMILY!!!” He was snarling again, spittle dribbling down his chin as he lost complete and utter control of his emotions, whatever had remained at least.

“AND YOU PROMISED TO LOVE AND OBEY! HONOR AND ALL THAT BULLSHIT AND WHAT DO YOU DO?!!”

He pulls out a large steak knife, so sharp that it gleamed in the light of the kitchen such was the intensity of it.

“YOU FUCK THAT FAT PEZZO DE MERDA!!”

If Maria had been able to speak back at that point she might’ve spit back sardonically into the man’s face that she didn’t feel a need to keep that part of their vows when he’d already broken his. His consistent string of ‘goomars’, mistresses.

She knew them all by name.

Some stripper from one of the clubs he managed, a schoolteacher and even a GCPD police officer on the take. She would’ve thrown that all back at him had she been able to. Gangsters had more loose lips than they wanted to portray.

She knew all about Candy and Mrs. Watterson, Officer ‘Tits’ as they called the officer. She knew, but she’d never said anything.

And right then she realized she should’ve kept her mouth shut right from the beginning. But Maria Bertinelli was, at her core, good. The secret was burning her up, and when she’d gone to confession the priest had told her to tell her husband of her sin. That god would protect her and the man would forgive her.

And now?

Now she was here. 

“You made an idiot out of me you fucking bitch”.

Franco lowers himself to his knees, peering down at Maria with murder in his eyes as he balances the knife in his grasp. “And now? Now I’m gonna make you look plenty fucking stupid”.

Maria struggled a bit but at this point was far too weak, barely hanging onto consciousness. “And after that? I’m gonna take the little girl upstairs” he says, growing even more livid as his nostrils flare and his rage keeps growing. “Run her a bath and drown her in it. You fucking bitch”.

“Grrrk!”

Helena wasn’t able to make sense of this. It was almost like she didn’t see it, that…or her mind didn’t want her to see it. Regardless though, it happened, and Helena at nine years old watched as her father plunged a knife into her mother’s stomach, into her womb which had caused him such disgrace.

A flash of crimson is what Helena sees, which is repeated over and over again, the man bringing the knife in and out of his wife, slicing and cutting her flesh and opening her body, blood spewing out over the floors that Maria had always kept immaculate for her family. He doesn’t stop, not even for a second, animalistically letting loose all of his utter rage upon her body, all in front of Helena’s shocked eyes.

The little girl stared open mouth in horror, looking at her mother as she was being stabbed to death by her very own father. She didn’t understand this, none of it. It was all confusing and frightening to her. It shouldn’t be happening!

But it was, and through it all a single thought wormed its way into Helena’s mind.

‘I have to save mommy’.

It was an intense thought for a little girl to have, to be saddled with, but all the same it was there, unyielding in its insistence. She needed to save her mother, and despite her fear she looked around, desperate to do something. Time was moving slowly, as if at half speed, allowing the now panicking and hyperventilating little girl to study things closely.

Soon enough, her eyes land upon the kitchen table.

And the gun that laid right on the edge.

It was convenient, perhaps too convenient. It was as if fate was at work or, more likely in her mind, the hand of a higher being. God, the person she prayed to every night. Who she adored due to her mother’s sitting down with her and reading from her well used children’s bible. And at that moment stories about God delivering those who worshiped him from their enemies never seemed nearer.

The scared little girl waddles forward as quickly as she could on those shaky legs of hers, moving towards the table and reaching up, still clutching her teddy bear in one arm. “Eh! Eh!” The table was high, always very high, so high that she needed her father to help her into her chair. Helena was still very small for her age. The ‘runt’ as her father had sometimes good naturedly called her.

She sees nothing left of her father now. Just a monster. A monster who had to be stopped.

She jumps a bit, reaching for the gun that sat just at the edge, her father having placed it there when he’d gotten home that evening. He was always a bit irresponsible with the tools of his trade. 

“Eh! Eh!”

The sickening sound of multiple stabbings could still be heard as Helena hones in on it, the grip so close and yet so far away from her. She jumps with all her might and in an instant feels her hand touch the  grip. She clenches tightly in response, gaining a tenuous hold upon the weapon which she drags over the side as gravity brings her back down. 

She almost drops the gun, her tiny hand not at all suited for the weapon but out of sheer will manages to keep a hold of it. 

She was standing on the floor again, this time with a gun in her hand and despite her fear she showed no hesitation in turning and aiming it directly at her father’s back. Her fingertip was just able to touch the trigger, and she shakily held it.

“S-stop!”

She should’ve pulled the trigger right then and there. Part of her knew that, but she couldn’t. No matter what had just happened, he was still her father. So, the crying little girl did the one thing you should never do in this life.

She hesitated.

Franco Bertinelli did indeed stop, pulling the knife that was now slick with gore and blood from Maria’s stomach, which had been so opened up by his attacks that the innards were almost completely visible. She was still, unmoving and unseeing. She was already dead.

But Helena didn’t know that. Instead she believed her mother was still alive, so young, so naive and believing that bad things wouldn’t happen to good people no matter what. The hero would always win in the end and the good guy would triumph. 

Slowly the head of the Bertinelli crime family, a man of supposed honor, turns his head and looks at his daughter, who was holding his pistol and aiming it right at her. Her hold was unsteady and the weapon shook in her grasp but even still she aimed it at him.

This should’ve sparked some emotion in him, or at least something other than the rage that had seized him up to this point.

Instead? It only seemed to add to it.

“So…the little bastarda wants some too huh?” he asks, getting to his feet completely, panting from the exertion of having murdered his wife. He was tired out from it, quite a lot of effort having gone into making such deep cuts. He looked like a madman, his face strewn with blood and the knife in his hand.

He towered over Helena who cut quite the opposite picture.

He was frightening, in control and fearless. She? She was scared, desperate and covered in her own urine. But she had the gun, an item that her daddy had told her a long time ago when Maria wasn’t looking, was the greatest tool in the world. It gave you power beyond understanding. It made you strong.

‘I’m strong. I’m strong. Sono forte’.

Thinking it in Italian made her feel it more, so that’s what she did. She aims the gun right at her father, her face becoming more serious, more calm, a fact that hid the maelstrom inside of her. 

“You wanna know something Helena?”

“St-stay back daddy!”.

“I’m not your daddy,” Franco says mockingly. “I’m not. Hahaha. Tua madre? She was a troia. Your real daddy? He’s a piece of shit. Just like you”.

“It…stop daddy! Stop!”.

“I’m not your daddy Helena. Hehehe…you’re a bastarda. You don’t have a father…or a mother anymore. Hahahaha”. He was deranged, and the knife? It wasn’t doing anything to calm Helena. He was getting closer, walking towards her as if he was assured she wouldn’t dare use the weapon. 

“S-stop!”

“You’re gonna die now Helena. You’re gonna die, just like your cagna madr-”

BLAM!

Shock. 

That’s what they both felt. Shock as Helena feels the pistol go off in her hand, sending her flying back and falling to the ground, hitting her head against the floor. It hurt, and everything went black for her, the pistol clattering to the ground. Shock, pain, it all caught up with her and Helena passed out.

It was for the best honestly.

She didn’t find out until later but she’d shot her father. Right between the eyes. The bullet had drilled its way neatly through the flesh, bone and then into his brain, killing him. He died not understanding how he had miscalculated so badly.

She didn’t see her mother’s body, not again. Not like that.

Only a week or so later would she see her mother, after she’d been cleaned up and displayed at her wake prior to her being interned in the family mausoleum. With one act of murder and one of self defense, Helena Bertinelli had become one of the richest orphans in Gotham, second only to Bruce Wayne.

She missed the gun fight that erupted upon the grounds of the Bertinelli compound between the remnants of the men loyal to Franco Bertinelli and the invading forces of Stephen Mandragora. It was good she missed all that, the memories she had being bad enough as they were.

The one thing she was later upset about missing, once all the facts came to her, was how Stephen Mandragora had walked into the kitchen after the battle was over. The anguish on his face as he saw the body of the woman he loved upon the ground, obviously dead.

The hate as he looked at the corpse of Franco Bertinelli lying a few feet away from her.

…How he fell to his knees in desperation beside Helena, reaching out for her with his hands and bringing them to her neck, ensuring that she had a pulse, that she was alive. How he clutched her to his chest and sobbed in mixed joy that she was and sorrow at what she’d endured.

How he rose and carried her away from there, all under the watchful eyes of his men who were fanatically loyal to the man they managed to love and fear in equal measure and the little girl whom they now knew was his daughter.

Those were some things she wished she’d have remembered from that night. 

“She’d be so proud”.

“We both know that isn’t true papa”.

“No. We don’t” he says in open disagreement. “Your mother would be overjoyed. You…you are in control. You’re the one pulling the strings and calling the shots. Our little girl rose to the very top of a world she was never meant to even be outside the periphery of. Your mother…she understood what this life was. What we are”.

He looks away at that, as if in shame, though Helena knew better. La Cosa Nostra? That was all Stephen Mandragora knew. All he’d ever known. He was a criminal, and he never pretended to be anything else. But he was also a man of honor.

His word was his word. You could count on it nearly as much as you could count on the sun rising in the morning. He never took too much, never left someone with nothing, and when possible he helped those he thought deserving of it. 

He believed in Omerta, right to his very core. He bled it almost, and he would die for it if it became necessary.

Stephen Mandragora was a man Helena was proud to call her father, and when he spoke? She listened.

“This thing of ours, Helena” he whispers, always speaking in hushed tones about the mafia. Using code. “It can be more than what it is. You’ve proved it through your partnership with him. It can be used for good. We keep things orderly, controlled”.

“I know papa. I know”.

She wasn’t in the mood tonight. Not for more philosophical grappling with the truth and lies behind what they did. “I love you little girl. You know that right?”

“Si”.

“I’d do anything in the world for you. My own life would be given without a second thought”.

“Mine for you too papa”.

He smiles and leans in, kissing her forehead softly. “I’d never let you. Now…enough moping. You’re dressed up and beautiful. I assume you’re going out with…him, destra?” Helena nods, smiling a bit again as her father’s mood shifts, a clear disapproval of what was going on between her and ‘him’ evident.

“Si papa”.

“Hmmph. Why hasn’t he married you yet?”

“Papa it…it isn’t like that” Helena says with a chuckle. “Then tell him to make it that way. I don’t like it, principessa. He sleeps with you, uses your body and then what? Gives you no guarantees? It’s a sin and you know it. I hope you’ve been going to confession”.

“I have, si. And…I know but…we don’t love each other”.

“Then why do you sleep with him?”

“I…I don’t know papa”.

“Hmmmph”.

His disapproval only went so far with his daughter before it cooled, the man rubbing her upper arm. “I guess I understand. This life…it can be hard. Lonely. Sometimes you need someone to…alleviate it. But don’t lose yourself in it Helena. Don’t give so much of yourself when you’re not getting anything back”.

“I…I-,”

“Being young is confusing isn’t it? Especially when you’re beautiful”.

He was smiling in a dazzling way at her, reminding Helena of how he looked in older pictures. Charismatic, strong. She could definitely understand why her mother had fallen for him. “Deeedeededededeeeeeee!”

“Ohh madon!”

Her phone goes off and without a thought she reaches into her purse which she’d brought with her and thrown onto the couch. In seconds she’d picked it up and answered it, sliding her finger across the screen so as to answer the call, sighing as she realized who it was from.

“What do you want, Harley?”

“Ya ready?”

“Yes”.

Her father remained quiet but it was clear that he was displeased as well at hearing the blonde’s voice. He’d never liked Harleen Quinzel, nor the way that she acted around his daughter. “Good. Bruce is comin’ ta gets us. Be in the lobby and try an’ look pretty huh?”

“You fucking bi-”

Beep.

The call ended before Helena could finish her insult, leaving the dark haired Italian to fume in anger. Eventually though she slips the phone back into her bag and sighs, shifting to the side and leaning in to kiss her father’s cheek.

“Ti amo papa”.

“Anch’io aim principessa” he says back, patting her shoulder. “Remember what I said. If he isn’t willing to buy the cow, stop giving him the milk for free”.

“Papa…I…I know”.

She still hadn’t told him. About the other night and the fears she held that maybe, just maybe, she’d already made a mistake. ‘Please God…don’t let me be pregnant’. She rises off of the couch and picks up her purse, heading over towards a closet positioned in the side of the living space which she opens up with ease and reaches in.

Her hand closes around something, and when she pulls it out her silvery sable fur is revealed. Mandragora smiles from the couch in appreciation as she drapes it around her shoulders.

“Classy. A beautiful choice Lena”.

“Grazie papa. Do you need anything before I go?” she asks curiously, watching as the man’s eyes brighten up in hope. “You’re going to the Iceberg, si?”

“Yes papa”.

“Can you bring me back some-,”

“I’ll have Oswald pack you a small serving of lobster bisque, si, but only a small serving. And yes” she says, stopping him mid sentence as he opens his mouth. “He’ll slide in two slices of garlic bread for you to dunk it in”.

“Grazie mio angelo. Grazie”.

He leans back on the couch again and looks towards the television, reaching for the remote. “Have a good night. Dance, be happy and young. You deserve it my love”.

“Buona notte papà.”

“Hey! Donna or no donna, you still have a curfew. One thirty, no later. Or else I’ll send Christopher and Paulie after you”.

“Hahaha. Si papa. Si. Ciao!”

She begins to walk away as the television is turned on, the sounds of gunfire and a narrator speaking over it reaching Helena’s ears. 

“The Germans held their positions until May thirtieth, when the arrival of fresh Soviet troops forced them-”. He was going to be fine for the night, and Helena keeps that thought with her as she rounds the corner and comes face to face with two men who sat at the front of the apartment in two leather armchairs on either side.

They were the very same men Mandragora had just named, two made guys in the Mandragora crime family.

The younger one to the right, with dark hair and an excessively, often derided large nose, was Christopher Moltisanti, a soldier. To the right? An older man with a salt and pepper slicked back haircut and a no nonsense attitude. He was a capo known as Paulie Walnuts to everybody. 

Both were immediately standing in respect to their Donna who smiles cheerfully at them before turning serious.

“Make sure he’s comfortable. He needs something? Get it”.

“You got it,” Chrissy says. Paulie just nods. “You can count on us, skip”.

“Good. Here”.

She slips Paulie a key which she’d already palmed in her hand before she looks at the clock, judging the time. “Around nine? Let him have a bit of capicola and bruschetta a little, and I do mean a little, bit of cheese. Easy on the wine too. Make it seem like a secret. Help yourselves to it too”.

Paulie takes the key with a smirk, pocketing it quickly enough.

“You’re the boss”.

“Alright, anything happens and-,”

“You’ll have our balls, we know” Chris says, mouthing off as usual and drawing himself a scowl from both Helena, who didn’t appreciate his tone, and Paulie who was always looking to garner favor with the boss. He backed down, averting his eyes, and the issue was settled just like that.

“Have a good night boys”.

“You got it boss”.

Paulie beats Chris to the punch and reaches out for the door, opening it up and allowing the woman to slip out of it into the hallway outside. It closes behind her quickly, and both men return to a restful position.

“What's a matter with you?”

“What?”

“Mouthin’ off to her like that. Ya got a death wish or something?”

“I’m sorry Paulie, she just says the same shit over and over and-,”

“And you’ll take it. Because that’s yer job, you peon”.

“Fuck you Paulie”.

That didn’t go over well with the older man who quickly pushed forward, getting right into Chris’s face. “Lemme tell you a couple of three things. I’m a Capo. And you? You’re just a soldier. You show me respect, little boy, or you’ll wind up with a much shorter career here than you wanted. Capisce?”

“Yeah. I got it, Paulie”.

“Good. Now get the fuck outta my face for now. I’m gonna go talk to the boss”.

Just Outside the Iceberg Lounge, Half an Hour Later

 VROOOM! VROOOOOOM!

The revving of the bike’s engine attracted the attention of many of the well dressed men and women who walked on by, all disturbed, annoyed, but unwilling to say a thing about it. After all, this wasn’t the sort of man you spoke up against. Not if you wanted to remain conscious.

Jason Todd cuts the engine on his bike and quickly engages the quickstand, balancing it up upon the road abutting the sidewalk that was carpeted, leading into the entrance of the Iceberg Lounge. On either side of the entrance were two guards, each one massively muscled and no nonsense, clad in suits.

Jason himself was wearing a suit, an odd choice while riding a motorcycle, but one he made nonetheless. He removes the helmet from his head as the nervous valet approaches. Jason throws his leg over the side, his custom made Armani suit not even crimping, the color black and his tie red, as he does so.

“Just roll it into the garage man”.

Wordlessly he slips two twenty dollar bills into the man’s pocket, and moves past him, almost as if he didn’t even exist. “Tha-thank you Mr. Todd!”

“Don’t scratch it!”

He wasn’t being rude, he really just wasn’t in the mood to really speak to anyone tonight. ‘Wish I didn’t even have to come here’ he laments to himself, moving forward as he begins to scan the crowd of faces, looking for the ones that were familiar. As it turned out he wouldn’t have to wait for long.

“Jay Bear! Ova’ here!”

He turns his head and despite himself he smiles, Harley’s boundless enthusiasm, even when it wasn’t warranted, somehow always buoying his spirits. Her childlike enjoyment of things was rather cute…even when he knew of the secret sadism she hid behind that innocent veneer. He made it a point to stay away from Arkham as often as he possibly could, not wanting to see anything that happened inside.

If it did, it very well might ruin the friendship he had with Harley, and on the flip side? If he didn’t see it he could more easily pretend that nothing bad was happening there. It made him feel better even when he knew the truth. 

He smiles and opens his arms, allowing the blonde woman to rush forward and throw her own around him and Jason immediately after to bring his own down around her, squeezing her by her midsection.

“I missed ya!”

“We had lunch together three days ago”.

“Still don’t mean I can’t miss ya Jay Bear” she teases, kissing his cheek and pulling away, but not before reaching down and grasping the man’s hand, yanking him off of the street entirely and pulling him towards the others, which he soon realized were actually four.

Three that he recognized, Bruce, the smirking Oswald and the ever stoic Helena who never really seemed at ease at these things, and a fourth that he didn’t. Another woman wearing a dress that left very little to the imagination.

It was green and form fitting, a tube dress that lacked any coverage of the shoulders while seemingly hiding everything else. Her breasts were pressed up tightly in the fabric, making them one of the first things that Jason saw. And they were certainly a sight to behold. Round and succulent, full though without any of the telltale signs that they were unnatural or fake. 

He forces his eyes upwards a bit, away from her green dress and ample chest, and over her lithe, feminine neck and shoulders. The flesh there, like on her tits, was a light, mocha color, indicating that she was most likely Hispanic. Despite his sullen mood he smiles.

‘Os…you bastard’.

He’d only really been half joking when he told the pint sized mobster that he wanted a busty latina. He hadn’t expected him to actually do it and yet, here she was. When he looks up even further his eyes land on an absolutely angelic face, high, aristocratic cheekbones, warm, piercing brown eyes and dark hair tied up in a tight bun at the back of her head, a single red rose tucked behind her ear which only enhanced her beauty. 

“Oswald gots someone he wants ya ta meet Jay Bear”.

“Ohh yeah?”

He was pulled into the group now, forcing all eyes onto him with most of them lighting up. Even Bruce lets out an imperceptible glimmer into his normally so cold, apathetic gaze. Harleen lets go of his hand and shimmies off to the side with a naughty smirk, clinging to Bruce’s left as Jason extends his hand for a shake.

“Hey Bruce”.

“Jason. It’s good to see you”.

“Come on. You know I wouldn’t miss this for anything” he lies seamlessly, hiding it all behind a smile as he pumps Bruce’s hand and releases it quickly, turning onto Helena and bowing, reaching out for her hand and grasping it, pulling it up to his lips and kissing it.

“Godmother”.

“Ahh, stronzo”.

There was no venom at all in the woman’s words, and instead a smile graced her lips as she said it, making it clear that it was just a joke and nothing more. Jason rises up and smiles at the woman, nodding. “Good to see you Helena”. He meant it. All of it. It was good to see them. Too often they worked separately, rarely together and he didn’t even realize until now the sort of toll that had started to take on him.

Oswald was next, the club owner waddling forward with the unnamed Latina’s hand grasped in his own flipper, the very image of beauty and the beast and yet she didn’t seem to mind at all, an instant plus in his book for her.

“And here’s the wanka’ of the hour”.

“Hey pipsqueak. You haven’t been eaten yet huh? Amazing. Figured a pigeon would’ve flown off with you”. Jason shakes the man’s hand and they both share a laugh, the two of them possibly enjoying this meeting the most. But it didn’t last long, Oswald’s excitement being far too overbearing at the moment.

“Allow me to introduce you to your date tonight Mr. Todd.”

“Ohh?”

She’s pushed forward, the Penguin giving her a little shove on her rear end, just barely resisting the urge to smack it as he did. She didn’t even seem to notice though, and her brown eyes bored into his blue ones. In no time at all she reaches out for him and places her hands upon his shoulders, lightly caressing him through the suit.

“Hola Mr. Todd”.

Her voice…it was sensuous. So damn sensuous, and every syllable spoken almost seemed like it was an arrow piercing his heart. He wanted to take her into his arms right then and there, but he settled for placing them on her hips.

“Hehehe, hook line and sinka’, eh puddin’?” Harleen asks as she reaches around to Bruce’s front, caressing his chest through his suit while the three of them watch what is happening. “It’ll do him some good,” Helena calls out. “Maybe Oswald will actually be a good matchmaker this time”.

“Just call me Jason if you don’t mind”.

She giggles.

“I don’t mind at all”.

“What do I call you?”

There was a naughtiness in her eyes, playing about as if there was some great secret he wasn’t privy to yet. “Jessica. Jessica Cruz”.

“Wow…”

“Que?”

“It’s just…a beautiful name for a beautiful woman”.

“Hehehehe”.

“Well…how ‘bouts we go inside huh?” the blonde asks, turning and rubbing her rear end against Bruce, a bit far too openly for the man’s liking as he grimaced but makes no move to stop it. “We wants ta get our groove on”.

“I have ta say it’s an excellent idea!” Oswald agrees, turning to begin welcoming the now fully assembled party into the Iceberg. “Afta’ all. We gots ta mix business and pleasure tonight now don’t we?” Nobody questioned what he meant by that. It was an unspoken thing. They all got it, and all responded to it, following off after the Penguin.

Never a dull moment in Gotham, that was for sure, but at least Jason found himself pleasantly surprised. Jessica slid her arm through his own and walked at his side, smiling up at him as if she was proud to be there at his side.

“So, tell me about yourself Jason. What’s a handsome man like you doing here at the Iceberg Lounge?”

“Well…I guess we’re gonna have to find out, won’t we?”

The night was looking up.

GCPD, Office of Lieutenant Gordon

Knock! Knock! Knock!

“Huh?”

The red haired police officer turns quickly, not having expected the interruption that came in the slightest. He’d been working at his desk, pouring over files related to possibly the only thing that mattered in this city right then and there.

The Batman.

A menace who controlled the crime and kept the city peaceful, but did so at the cost of its freedom. He was a one man firing squad who left nothing but death and destruction in his wake, and for the upstart lieutenant who’d finally returned home? He was his next target. 

Jim Gordon was young, bright eyed and idealistic, something that was rarely seen in the GCPD, and when it was? It definitely didn’t last long.

So far he hadn’t found anyone like minded to him, desirous of pursuing the Batman. He was an outcast here, every other officer preferring to leave him alone unless they absolutely had to speak with him. Which is why he was surprised to see two detectives standing at the open door to his office, peering at them through his glasses.

Detectives Montoya and Bullock, the former being closer into his office.

“Sorry lieutenant. Didn’t mean to interrupt you”.

“It’s…fine Montoya. Fine”.

He was wary, and he was only wary because it seemed like Montoya was wary. Nervous. She was twitching it seemed, and constantly looking over her shoulder, wanting to ensure that she wasn’t overheard. Bullock? He was as still as a rock, serving as some sort of lookout. After a few seconds of the unspoken question lingering in the air, Gordon manages to get it out.

“What’s going on?”

“Listen…lieutenant?” Montoya asks, moving forward and keeping her voice low as she gets closer and closer to the desk, still wary about being overheard or even seen. Jim was wary, but interested. ‘What the hell is going on?’

“What?”

“Me and Bullock” she begins, reaching the side of the desk and peering through the window of his office out into the rest of the bullpen, where numerous other officers were hard at work. Satisfied that she wasn’t being eavesdropped on, she looks back towards the well built, young, redheaded man who’d been making waves.

“We’ve been thinking…about what you said about…you know”.

He did know.

Who else could they be talking about? He remembered speaking with Bullock and Montoya about the Batman. He also remembered being rebuffed and being warned to ‘leave it alone’. Advice he hadn’t heeded of course. ‘I’m working on building a force up…dammit, why can’t any of these cowards stand up for this damn city?’

“Yeah?”

“We’re in”.

“Huh?”

He hadn’t expected that. Not in the slightest and yet here was a nervous and obviously scared Montoya telling him that it was so. “You…you really want to help me take down the ba-,”

“Shhhh! Shut the fuck up pendejo!” she hisses, causing the man to relax and not speak further, realizing how stupid it had been to start opening his mouth like that. “You wanna get us iced before we even get off the ground? But yeah” she says after she relaxes. “We wanna help”.

“Why?”

“Because we’re tired Jim. Tired of being scared. Tired of being under his fucking thumb. You’re right. It’s time to fight back. Make a change. Be cops again dammit. We wanna help”.

Jim Gordon’s eyes lit up right then and there and his heart soared. Finally, FINALLY someone was stepping up besides him. Someone was offering to help. He stands up and without a word reaches for Montoya’s hand, fervently shaking it with a smile.

“Renee…I promise. You won’t regret this. Neither will you Harvey” he says towards the larger detective who’d remained quiet, his silence taken for caution by Jim who turns back to Montoya who’d taken to shaking his hand in return.

“Yeah…I know”.

She smiles and nods, seemingly agreeing with the lieutenant. “Good news too? We know exactly where to start”.

“What do you mean?”

“We know a guy,” Harvey says, interjecting for the first time. “An informant of ours. He works fer a gang in the city that kicks up ta the Bat. Guys a junkie, but his intel’s usually good. Knows his shit and has access ta a steady supply o’ it”.

“What’s his name?”

“George or some shit?”

“Georgy” Montoya corrects, turning towards Gordon. “Georgy Mishtikoff. Russian. People call him Needle…you know. On account of the heroin”. Gordon had initially been suspicious when he asked the fat man what the informant's name was. He was testing them so to speak, at least slightly, hoping for a slip up. But it was seamless the way they covered for one another, picking up what the other was putting down.

To Gordon? That was proof they were telling the truth.

“Where is he?”

“Dixon Docks. Lives there. Ya can find him there wheneva’. Junkie losa’ like I said, but we can get him ta talk with threatenin’ him on the dope he’s carryin’. He’s always carryin’. Dope”. Gordon nods, seeing this as his step in, his step towards getting something actionable on the Batman. At least a first step.

“We should go now”.

“Sure lieutenant. Want me ta drive?”

“No” the redhead man says, moving across the room to grasp his coat off the hook, throwing it around his shoulders and getting ready to move out. “I will. You just show me the way, alright?”

“Sure Lt. Sure”.

Montoya and Bullock both follow after the man who had turned and began walking with purpose, feeling as if this was the point where the tide would turn completely, where victory would be won and the first strike against Batman and his organization struck. They followed behind him, knowing that none of that would be the case.

Both Montoya and Bullock were gifted actors.

Very gifted actors.

Chapter Text

Iceberg Lounge, VIP Section

“Well what the bloody hell are we gonna do about it then?”

Oswald asks this question after taking a long drag upon his cigarette, inhaling the acrid smoke that everyone and their mother knew was bad for you and yet, for some reason, hadn’t been able to kick. He was posing a question to the group which was positioned around the table, all of them undisturbed by the party goers outside who moved and danced across the floor, knowing well enough already to leave them alone.

And if they didn’t get the hint the first time, the two massive guards that flanked either side of the massive alcove would get the point across fully. 

Bruce sat there right in the middle, his eyes positioned at the exit and entrance to the booth, the circular single seat extending around the circumference all the way and allowing them all to sit. Harley was ensconced on one side of him, her head lazily lying atop his shoulder, while Helena was on the opposite side of him, her eyes focused on Cobblepot, already in business mode.

“What do you mean? We pick up right where we left off”.

“It isn’t that simple and you know it. Sionis’ operation was damn well complex. He kept everything in his bloody head, a head that unfortunately ain’t in any shape to spill any of its secrets anymore”.

“He went against us Os”.

“I ain’t complainin’, I’m just sayin’. We’ve got his money but with all his men dead? What the hell does that bloody well mean?”

The conversation was happening around Bruce, with him not really being a part of it. He just kept looking ahead into the club where numerous people were going about their daily lives. Well dressed men and women who were happy, dancing with one another, drinking, eating and living their lives. They fell in love, got married, had children, squabbling about little things, and all of it without an ounce of concern for crime. It was nonexistent for them, something that wouldn’t have been possible without him.

And him?

He wouldn’t have been possible without that day in the alley.

BLAM! BLAM!

“THOMAS NO!”

BLAM! BLAM! BLAM!

“MOMMY!!!”

He could see it as clear as day. It had been ingrained into his memory. It wasn’t what you might think would be the fixation of an eight year old boy at the moment his parents were murdered, their lives cut short and taken from them, and him as well.

He didn’t rush to their bodies nor desperately try to force them back to life by clinging to them. He didn’t look at the face of the robber who’d stepped out seemingly out of nowhere so as to take what they had. He remembered all these things of course, nothing could prevent that.

The bodies of Thomas and Martha Wayne upon the cold, dirty cobblestones beneath him. The acrid, coppery smell that overtook the air and then his sense of taste with its overpowering stench. The face of the man who’d killed them, tucked away under the brim of his flat cap.

He’d always remember those things.

But right after the gun.

It was the defining moment for the young Bruce Wayne, who fell to his knees between his parents and stared up into the blackened muzzle of that gun which had just belched forth fire and death with only the slight pull of a trigger. It had been aimed at him afterwards, the man turning the gun onto the little boy who did nothing to stop him. He just sat there…waiting, and in that moment he took it upon himself to commit every sleek angle of the weapon to memory.

He would find out later that it was a Smith and Wesson model thirty six. A snub nosed pistol that held a thirty eight special caliber round. It was small and squat with a short barrel, and ugly gun objectively and yet…it captivated Bruce like nothing before. 

The man stood there saying nothing, his hand trembling slightly as he continued to draw a bead upon the little boy in his suit, tears staining his face and running down his cheeks like the tracks of a mighty river. Bruce could see it in his eyes. He didn’t want to do this. Why? Who really knew.

Maybe he didn’t want to kill a child or maybe he hadn’t set out to kill anyone tonight. Maybe it had been a mistake, a fluke that the Waynes would walk down this alley way so as to save time. Or maybe it wasn’t.

Maybe it was meant to be. An act of God, fate, destiny or some other higher power. And if it was the case for the latter Bruce would later muse on what had been the point. But, then again, he had his own hypothesis on it.

The gun.

He’d needed to see a gun.

Of course he’d ‘seen’ guns before. Pistols and rifles, all matter of different weapons. But those were only in movies, not real life. Both Martha and Thomas Wayne were very anti-gun, and neither would ever even think of allowing one into the manor, especially not with how their son might be injured should anything happen.

They campaigned for gun control, put their money behind politicians who promised to increase the already stringent laws in place in Gotham. They campaigned, put money towards charities and yet? Not a single bit of it worked.

It didn’t change the fact that they were killed in an alleyway by a man with an illegal handgun. It hadn’t done a thing. It meant…nothing. Less than nothing. 

Something happened in the man though Bruce never would find out for himself. Whatever it was caused him to lower the gun and then pocket it, abruptly turning and running off, the sound of his feet slamming into the very same cobblestones that his parents’ corpses were growing cold upon. Like a monster, he disappeared into the mist, and Bruce turned his head to look after him, watching until he disappeared.

The gun. That pistol was still in his mind though. He could see it perfectly, its outline and shape. The light glint of the steel under the streetlamp and while he wasn’t aware of it at that moment, a realization was beginning to take shape.

What he’d just witnessed was power.

Raw, unbridled power. The power to take life in an instant. The power that held this city in a vice and was working on slowly choking the life completely out of it. The power that oppressed some and freed others.

It was power…

Power made of copper and lead, steel.

And before it? His parents had no power. They could do nothing as the bullets ripped through their flesh and forced their lifeblood out onto the ground below them. Nothing. Nothing at all. They were powerless, and not even their money had protected them.

The only thing that would’ve stopped him would’ve been another gun. If another man had been in that alley, if he or his father or even his mother had been holding a gun of their own it would’ve been equal. They would’ve been able to fight back.

“Heh…eh…eh…eehhhhh”.

He begins crying in full force now, the sobs of anguish, fear and pain released from his lips as he finally turned his head to either side of him, peering at his parents. Neither of them moved a muscle, and their eyes stared up at nothing, unseeing, at least in his mother’s face. His father was on his chest, pressed down into the dirt, mud and grime of the floor of Crime Alley. 

And Bruce was left alone to cry.

It could’ve gone differently. If they’d had a gun. Maybe it would be the robber lying dead on the floor, and what then? Would Bruce feel bad about the loss of life? Mathematical logic said no. He’d killed two people, two people who enriched the lives of hundreds, maybe thousands in this city, his especially. He’d killed them without a thought.

If he’d have been killed, who would miss him?

He was scum, human garbage and the only people who would’ve been adversely affected by his death would’ve been those who’d have been saved from the privations he next would’ve inflicted upon the innocent of Gotham.

Killing the Waynes had hurt more than just them and their son. It had hurt thousands. He’d KILLED thousands. With a few bullets, five to be exact, he’d hurt this city. Made it bleed. If one single bullet had made its way into his brain? Spewed his brains out over the wall of the alley?

What would’ve been lost?

It was math. Simple math. Math so simple that even Bruce, in the midst of his agony and grief, could understand and in that moment even fixate on. ‘They…they didn’t deserve to die’. He lets that thought percolate in his mind, forming as his tears keep coming, the sound of far off sirens letting him know that the police were coming. Far too late to do anything other than bag up the bodies of his parents like trash to be removed, but coming nonetheless.

‘I…I wish I’d had a gun’.

He could imagine it in his mind. Holding up the pistol, pointing it at the man and firing, getting the drop on him and preventing him from killing his parents. Like in the westerns. His tears kept coming, but something else was happening…something…strange.

He grits his teeth back and forth and clenches his eyes shut, his lips opening up a bit to expose the pearly whites of his well maintained mouth. His face scrunches up in anger, utter, unceasing rage, and he clenches his fists so tightly that they shake. 

“I…I…I wish…I had…a…gun”.

He speaks quietly, whispering in the loneliness of the alley, saying it only for himself. “I wish…I had…a gun”. He says it again, firmer this time, and just a bit louder, and when he finishes that sentence, he opens his eyes and turns his head, looking down the rest of the alleyway out of which the man had fled. He was gone naturally, but through the mist he could almost pretend that he was still there, watching him and waiting, seeing what he would do.

He raises one leg, planting his foot on the ground, and then the next, bringing himself up to  standing position with ease.

“I wish I had a gun”.

He was breathing heavily now, but not in sorrow. In rage. It was unfair. They had guns. They used them to hurt and steal, to kill dreams and people all in one. And nothing was stopping them! Nothing was working!

“I wish I had a gun…because if I did? I’d kill you”.

His nostrils flare and his shoulders rise and fall as a result of his heavy breathing. He says it, and thinks on it, and in no time at all realizes something. He could get a gun. He could. He had money didn’t he? Guns cost money. So did bullets. But the Waynes…he…he was rich now.

He could afford a gun.

He could afford lots of guns.

“I’M GONNA GET A GUN!!!”

He screams that down the alley, letting loose with a horrific roar, his hands held out to the side as he does. “I’M GONNA GET A GUN! AND I’M GONNA FIND YOU!!! I’m-I’m-I’M GONNA SHOOT YOU UNTIL YOU’RE DEAD!”

Crime Alley was the only witness to this vow, this childish, but deathly serious all the same vow. The sirens got closer and closer, and later reports submitted to the GCPD for the purpose of record keeping would indicate that Bruce Wayne had been shouting the same phrase over and over again when they found him and hadn’t stopped until they’d reached the police station.

“I’m going to get a gun. I’m going to kill you”.

He spoke it over and over again, so consistent in his ramblings and shouts that officers were sure that the traumatic experience that the boy had witnessed in Crime Alley had driven him insane. They didn’t know it but Bruce Wayne would consider himself the sanest individual who’d ever lived.

He’d gotten a first hand look into the world and how it worked. How it should work.

He’d realized everything he needed to know in that alley.

All that mattered was power. Power and strength. It was the only thing that truly mattered. The power to enforce your will, be it for good or evil, on the world around you. You couldn’t pray evil away. You couldn’t lock it behind a cell door for a while and let it out when it promised to be a good boy.

You couldn’t legislate it away. Make pretty, fancy laws in flowery language beneath the lifeless statue of a blind justice weighing the scales of human deeds. You couldn’t make deals with it. You couldn’t debate it and change its mind.

You destroyed it with prejudice. You killed it any way you can.

Stab it, shoot it, set it on fire.

These were the only means through which you could successfully control crime. It was the only way. Everything else had been tried and everything else had failed. Evil was evil…and Bruce Wayne vowed to eradicate it as best as he could.

He pulls himself back from his daydreams and reaches forward, grasping up the ice filled glass of whiskey that had been sitting before him, neglected until now. He holds it in his hand and swirls it about, watching as the cubes clink together against one another, making a light tinkling sound as they did. 

He doesn’t waste much time after that and brings it to his lips, tipping it and his head back to allow the stinging, brownish liquor into his throat. He swallows with ease, well used to the taste of whiskey.

“Ya okay puddin’?”

“I’m fine Harleen” the man says, biting back his irritation with the woman and responding as kindly as he could. “Just thinking”. Side conversation at the table had ended with that sentiment. After all, Bruce was the boss, and if he said he was thinking then it meant he had something to say. He reaches out and places the glass on the table, leaning back against the cushioned rear of the seats they were in and forcing himself to extend an arm around Harleen’s shoulder.

The blonde woman was ecstatic at such an action, and she beamed up at the man while nuzzling in closer, seeing this as a sign of affection. But Bruce was doing it for one reason and one reason only.

‘Stop. Relax. Breath deeply’.

He could feel it pressing up against his side, bulging out against his suit as it rested in his holster. His pistol, a nine millimeter that he had honed his skills with to perfection. It was always there, his safety blanket, and there was rarely a time when he didn’t want to draw it and start pumping slugs into everyone he saw.

‘Control yourself..they’re good people. They’re not him. They’re not him’.

“Forty million dollars is what we retrieved from Sionis, right?” he asks, causing Helena to nod. “We already kicked you up your cut Bru-,”

“I know, Os. That’s not what I’m talking about. Shut up and listen for a second.”

The diminutive man instantly clams up, refusing to get himself into any trouble by pissing off his easily frustrated employer. Harleen glared at him as if she was barely resisting the urge to serve as some sort of hype woman for the billionaire and add her own warning for Penguin to shut up.

He and Helena wisely remained silent.

“His heroin went up in smoke though”.

“Now don’t go blaming me fer that mate” Oswald says, needing to get that out there despite the fact that he’d already been slightly cowed for speaking somewhat out of turn. “Ain’t my fault yer boy in tights blew it ta kingdom come”.

“It’s fine. I don’t really care about it”.

He closes his eyes and shakes his head, once more releasing Harleen to reach out for his glass of whiskey, unable to even take comfort from the woman’s touch at that moment. The blonde gets the memo, backing off but clearly not being happy at all about it.

He found that he didn’t care when he probably should’ve.

“The heroin? It was always a problem. Too hard to get people off of. We’ve been weeding it out of Gotham slowly and now? We’re just gonna step up the process. Some of the proceeds from the heist are going to go towards the purchase of a new type of mushroom I read about not too long ago”.

“Yeah?”

Oswald was the most interested, as was usual for the business attuned man when the prospect of a new revenue stream came up. But Helena was as well, leaning in a bit so as to hear the man more clearly as he spoke.

“Mhm. It's a hallucinogenic. Harleen and I did some looking into it and its adverse health effects? Negligible. It’s more natural, less toxic and nowhere near as addictive as heroin. In fact it might even have a few medicinal uses off to the side that can make Wayne Enterprises some money”.

“Genius. Bloody genius. And yer sure it works out alright?”

“Yeah, ya questionin’ me, pipsqueak?”

“Not at all Quinn. Just makin’ sure ya know what yer doin’. Ya do have a habit of…well, lousin’ things up”. While things ‘mostly’ went well between them, sometimes? There were issues. And this time? It was going to be one of those issues. Harleen was already fuming, glaring at the Penguin as her hand reached out to the table, pointedly settling on the knife that had been provided for her to eat with.

“What are ya sayin’ Oswald?”

“Enough”.

Bruce wasn’t having any of it though, a fact that essentially put any chance of inter-family conflict to an end right then and there. “It’s all well in hand. The mushroom will make a good addition to what we have to offer and we can start selling lots of it quickly. It’s a party drug so Oswald? You’re on point in distributing it here”.

“You got it Wayne”. 

He was able to forget about the insult doled out upon him by Harleen rather quickly due to the fact that he was far too busy seeing dollar signs at that moment to care about anything else. “Helena? You are going to take over Sionis’ section of the city. Extend your operations there and build from the ground up. Understand?”

“Si”.

“Then it’s all settled” Bruce says, falling back into the seat a bit and sighing, relieved that it had gone as easily as it had. ‘They always want to make it worse with their asinine squabbling’.

“Harley, what’s going on at the asylum?”

“The usual puddin” the blonde says with a smirk, happy to be discussing what she knew the most about. “The Class A inmates aren’t a problem anymore, only a few left ya know? Series o’ bad accidents”.

“Bad luck on their part” Helena says while reaching for her glass of wine and taking a sip. Harleen nods, agreeing openly for the first time with the woman thus far that night. “Yeah…real tragic. It’s almost enough ta make ya cry”.

She faux sniffles, an act that was made clear in its lack of conviction by the fact that she was smiling as wide as could be, like some sort of Cheshire cat gloating over the mayhem she’d been able to cause.

“Class B are nice and docile, the way I like ‘em, and Class C are continuin’ on with their treatments. Even been able ta make some progress in curing a few of ‘em. I’m happy about it honestly. We’re really helping people there”.

It was true and none of them, not even while in the midst of an argument or disagreement, would contradict that. As cruel as Harleen was to the men and women who entered her Asylum for their acts of evil, she was twice as kind to the broken souls that made their way through the doors looking for a cure for their broken minds.

Nobody would take that from Harleen. She did care about others.

How could you really justify everything that they did if that wasn’t the case?

“That’s good Harleen. Nice work”.

“Thanks puddin’”.

“Ey, waitaminute” Oswald interjects as he looks around the table, seemingly noticing something for the first time. “Where’s Todd? Ain’t he supposed ta be at this little sit down?”

“Let him live a little Os”  Helena pleads, looking down a little morosely at her glass of wine, pondering if she would have to cut it out of her life soon enough due to what had happened the night prior. ‘And how do I tell him?’ she ponders to herself nervously, looking over her shoulder at Bruce who already seemed to have partially checked out of the conversation again.

“He’s been doing most of the work in keeping things running smoothly”.

“Fair enough. Ain’t like we really needed him ta square up the business we had to talk about,” the monocle wearing pseudo aristocrat says with a sniff. He smiles right after that though, nodding his head. “Hope he’s snuggled up somewhere with that hot little tamale”.

“Yer a pig Os”.

“Ohh get stuffed” he retorts, not wanting to take Harleen’s insults. “The lad deserves it. A little R&R deep in a hairy taco”.

“Ohhh! Knock that off!”

“Like I said, a fuckin’ pig Os”.

Bruce wasn’t joining in on the conversation, nor did he say anything. Instead he was thinking again. ‘All of this could’ve been done by phone’. He didn’t want to be here. In this club where everyone could see him, surrounded by people and yet all the same feeling like he was a thousand miles away from anyone. Like he was in space, untouchable, aloof.

‘I should talk to Jason’.

He regretted that he hadn’t done that more, maybe had never done it enough.

Jason had been one of the few people he didn’t actually mind being around. He was quiet when he needed to be, not forcing conversation or words into the air needlessly without any thought. He was skilled, talented beyond words, and unlike the others knew what it was like to work in the field.

And yet, even with this other man, his son in all but name and blood, whom he’d taken in all those years ago and taught him his ways, felt like he was unreachable. And Bruce wouldn’t dare think of blaming anyone but himself for that fact. He’d let that distance build when he refused to talk to him about what was on his mind, to let him in.

“Mr. Wayne?”

“Yes?”

He snaps out of it, finding that at the opposite end of the table was a woman in a rather scanty outfit, a legless, sleeveless unitard that did much to bolster her highly feminine attributes. She wore a top hat and a bow tie around her neck. She was one of the waitresses at the Iceberg, and at that moment she was smiling vibrantly at the billionaire.

“Are you ready to order sir?”

“I don’t see why not” Oswald interjects, answering for the man to whom the question had been posed. “All our business has been concluded, ain’t it? How ‘bouts we have a little celebration, and like all other good celebrations let's start it with food”.

“All ya think about is food ya fat little-,”

“We should wait for Jason and Jessica. Do you want me to go and find them Bruce?” Helena asks, drawing a quick shake of the head from the man. “No. Oswald and Harleen are right” he answers, still fighting against his rising frustration and anger. He was alone, and yet there were voices. Always voices infringing upon his mind, battering him down and trying to take everything he had to offer. It was suffocating.

He didn’t want to drag him into that. He didn’t want to start to hate Jason. Not him.

Maybe that’s why he kept him at arm's length now. So that he remained a concept, an abstraction and less of a person in his mind. Bruce Wayne was suffering from a severe case of misanthropy, a hatred for mankind.

“I’m ready to order”.

The waitress smiles, eager and ready to take it down on the notepad, no doubt thinking about the massive tip that was coming her way. He hated her too, and the thought of putting a round right through her forehead was very appealing.

“I’ll have the porterhouse with a side of mashed potatoes and carrots”.

He was holding it together. Just barely, but holding it together all the same. And that was enough.

The Bathroom of the Iceberg Lounge

“Ahhh…ahh…ah…yeah…yeah”.

“Glkkk! Gllkkk! Gllkkk! Glkkk!

Jason throws his head back and closes his eyes, relying only on sensation at the moment to ascertain what was going on. The chill of the marble countertop that held the sink as his palms balanced upon it, fingers gripping the sides intensely.

The cool air battering against his exposed legs, his pants having been yanked down to his ankles.

The warm, wet orifice that was at that very moment wrapped around his hardened member and moving so incessantly and constantly that he could barely get a grasp on it. Jessica was on the floor before him, kneeling down so as to give her better access to what she wanted at that moment.

His cock being her target.

Her pouty, full lips were wrapped tightly around it, causing waves of saliva to coat the hardened road and some to even drip off of it down onto the tile below. ‘Os is gonna have to get a janitor in here’ he thinks with a slight smirk, raising his head up and looking down, watching as the woman fellates him. 

“Yeah baby…yeah…right there. Like that-ohhhh!”

His back arches a little bit, pleasure shooting through his brain as Jessica pulls back along most of his cock and settles with his tip being the only thing in her mouth at the moment, which she begins to worship with her tongue.

The mouth-based muscle reaches out and teases along his foreskin, pushing it slightly with an impressive strength and exposing more of the pink cockhead hidden beneath the natural hood.

She wasn’t fully able to do it though, not with just her tongue, and quickly enough switched tactics. While she kept up eye contact, those beautiful, chocolate brown eyes locking onto his as he looms above her, she purses her lips tightly around it, hollowing out her cheeks as her suction gets more intense.

“Ohh shit…shit…”

Her tongue continued the assault upon his tip, dipping in towards the slit that existed there and lightly teasing up and down it, giving him immense pleasure despite the fact that there was no hope of entry. All his nerve endings were on fire with her physical attack, and more of his cockhead was exposed as she pushed the skin back more and more, allowing a wider expanse of area for her tongue to pleasure and glide over.

“You’re doing that so damn good”.

She rubs her hand up and down his toned stomach, raking her nails against his abs as she had slipped her hand under his suit jacket and button up shirt, having done so nearly immediately after she’d gotten his pants undone and on the ground. Her other hand was equally as hard at work, grasping his testicle sack and squeezing them, palming the two masculine balls in her hand and alternating.

His entire manhood was being stimulated not only physically but also visually.

This woman, this near perfect specimen of femininity kneeling before him, was beautiful. And he lets her know that by lowering his hand from the top of her head to her cheek. She leans into it, managing to keep his cock in her mouth as she does so, and Jason thinks inwardly about how insane this was. 

They’d barely gotten into the Iceberg when Jessica had yanked him away to the bathroom, a naughty smirk on her face as she did so. It didn’t take long for Jason to understand, and in no time at all his dick was being sucked, leading to all complaints effectively going out the window. 

‘They don’t need me…they got this’.

More of his cock was being sucked now, Jessica forced to abandon her tongue’s assault upon his head due to how much of his shaft was now in her mouth, about half of the seven inches already inside.

“Ohh…ohhh”.

He was embarrassed but Jessica’s oral skills were a bit better than he was used to, and after an especially long dry spell? Lets just say it wasn’t all that easy for him to hold it even this long. He was already close to finishing, so damn close, and even while he was embarrassed about it there was nothing he could do about it.

“Jess…Jess…fuck…I…I’m gonna cum”.

He could feel it, and with a defeated tone of voice he admitted it to the woman, not wanting to just surprise her with such an eruption. He half expected her to pull off, maybe yank him into a stall like they should’ve done originally, though he had to admit the idea of doing it so openly with the attendant risk of getting caught, only made it hotter, and jerked him to completion.

But instead of that? She keeps going, and even pushes further forward, gagging again as he goes in deeper, his shaft sliding against her tongue on its path to the back of her throat. Spittle and the pre-cum which had liberally poured into her mouth and mixed with it spurt out around the edges of her lips and his cock, small bubbles being blown as she grows teary eyed, something that causes her mascara to run in dark black streaks down her cheeks.

“GLLLKKKK! EKKKKK! MMMFFF! MMFFF!”

‘Fuck it! Don’t quit! Don’t quit baby!’

He reaches down for the back of her head and quickly threads his fingers through her hair, getting a firm grasp upon her head. There was only an inch or so more, just an inch or so, and Jason needed to see her take the entire thing. He begins pushing forward, grunting and gritting his teeth as he does so, his balls beginning to tighten, his seed preparing to gush forth through his urethra like a mudslide down a mountain.

He was going to cum right down her throat, and there wasn’t a force on Earth that could stop him at that moment.

“URGGGHFFF! MMM! MMM!”

She taps against his stomach, though any such effective communication between the two was no longer feasible. Jason was completely and utterly lost to his lust, and as he buries the woman’s face in his pubic hair, forcing her to inhale his masculine scent, he lets loose.

“GAAH!”

A spurt of white hot man chowder bursts forth from his cock head, propelled forward by the intensity of the pleasure he was feeling and the long time since he’d last felt it. It took a large amount of effort to fill the shocked woman’s mouth, who goes wide eyed in disbelief at just how much had been present. She wasn’t expecting it, and her cheeks puffed out in response to it, needing to make space for the semen. 

A good amount of it was shot right down her throat and into her belly though, giving her a heady appetizer to start the meal with so to speak.

Jason though? He wasn’t aware of any of this and just kept pumping his waist forward, not finding it all that odd that he’d only met this woman not too long ago and was now pumping his essence into her mouth.

He keeps going for a second or so further, the first burst being way more powerful than the second that followed it and out of a growing concern about literally choking the woman to death, her face turning redder and redder by the second, begins to pull back.

“Gaaah…heh…heh…heh…hehhh…shit…”

He was covered in sweat now, panting as he tried to catch his breath, all the while pulling his cock from the woman’s mouth, his shaft teasing against her lips as it exited and depositing the remnants of his seed upon their now smudged but formerly ruby red lips. 

“GAAAAHHH! Gaahh…ahhh…ahhhh…”.

He wasn’t the only one who needed to breathe. With her mouth thus released from what it was doing Jessica was able to breathe, and she took deep lungfuls of air as she coughed, spittle and semen flying from her lips and dripping onto the floor. But, to Jason’s surprise he took notice of the fact that most of his cum was nowhere to be found.

She’d swallowed it, working quickly to gulp the salty treat down.

“Fuck…”

Jason leans back against the sink, completely spent, his balls noticeably dropping lower than they had before Jessica’s oral ministrations upon him. He collected himself easily enough, and Jessica followed along soon after that.

“Damn Jason…are you trying to kill me?”

“Sorry” he says sheepishly, a smirk on his face as he watches Jessica bring her hand up and rub her fingers against her now cum stained lips, grasping up the remnants of his spunk with her fingertips and dabbing her tongue out against them to collect the remnants.

“Don’t be” she coos with a devilish smile. “I loved it. Fuck that was hot”.

After a few more seconds of ensuring that she’d gathered up all his cum, an act that almost got Jason ready to go again, she reaches out and grasps the hem of his pants which were around his ankle. “Pull me up”.

He reaches down and puts his hands under her arms, assisting her in getting up while the Hispanic woman pulls his pants up for him, hiding his saliva and semen covered cock beneath the cover of his underwear and pants. Within seconds Jason had released her and was redoing his pants, securing them tightly to his body once again. His hands were shaky.

“Tha-thanks for that. Really. I needed it”.

“No kidding,” the mocha-skinned woman says, leaning in and pecking his lips without a trace of hesitation, Jason kissing back just as eagerly, uncaring of the fact that remnants of himself were upon her lips. He wanted to take her into his arms at that moment and hold her tight, kiss her some more and maybe hike up that dress of hers to return the favor.

But all too quickly the kiss is over, and Jessica turns away, looking into the mirror behind them.

Her face falls and she shakes her head.

“You fucked me up pretty good. I gotta fix my makeup now. Not that I mind. Hehe”.

“Sorry”.

“Nah. Don’t sweat it” she says comfortingly, grasping down to pick up her pocketbook and depositing it on the side of the counter, opening it up quickly. “I love getting face fucked. But how long has it been since the last time huh? You squirted a gallon into my throat. How the hell am I gonna eat dinner?”

She was rifling around in her pocketbook now, undoubtedly searching for something though Jason couldn’t easily tell what it was. He just shrugs and laughs. “It’s been a while for sure. Like I said, I really needed that. Usually I don’t move that fast, I just uh…I want you to know that. Kinda just…happened”

“No big deal papi. I get it. Ahah!”

She’d found it, whatever she was looking for, and Jason watches as she pulls out a small pill container and of all things a credit card. Within the container was a white powder that he didn’t need help in recognizing at all. His spirits were…somewhat dampened by its appearance.

“Gotta get my head straight” she says, still breathing heavily as she twists off the top and tilts it towards the counter, pouring out some of the powder before stopping and replacing the top, putting the container off to the side. 

“Want a bump?”

“Nah. No thanks”.

Jason was used to drugs by now, though he had never partaken of them. It was impossible to not see them though, not in this line of work. Especially the Iceberg. You could find most of it here. Ecstasy, weed, heroin, speed. Coke. 

“Don’t worry” she teases with a wink, using the credit card she’d pulled out to form the cocaine into a straight line, and as soon as she accomplishes this, having done it with relative ease that could only come with incessant practice, she leans in and presses her nose to the right side of it.

“SNNNNNNNFFFFFF!”

In one go it was gone, and Jessica pulled back into a standing position, wide eyed and shaking, riding the quick pleasure down and gasping out. “Fuuuuucccccck yeah…love that. Holy shit…whew…whew…nothing better than blow and a blowjob”.

“I wouldn’t know”.

“Sure you don’t want some?” she asks with a smile. “Don’t worry, it wouldn’t be counted as extra. Os already paid me up for the whole night. Extra too. I’m not gonna bust your balls over some blow papi. Hehe…I already drained them anyway. But I do hope you’ve got some left in the tank. We’ve got all night after all”.

Jason found himself….well, he found himself feeling a lot of different things at that moment. Self loathing, disappointment, loathing and above all else? Utterly alone. It was stupid and he knew it, but for a moment, for one shining moment, he’d thought someone cared about him. That a connection had been formed. 

He’d been able to trick himself even while knowing that she was a call girl arranged for him by Oswald Cobblepot. And when she talked about money? The illusion was ripped away, and Jason felt even colder than when this all started.

‘Son of a bitch…’

He hated himself. He hated himself for being so stupid, so naive and forgetting what the real world was around him. He looks down at his feet, crossing his arms over his chest and saying nothing as the now high Jessica puts her items back in her bag only to retrieve others. Lipstick and a container of mascara which she places out before her.

“I can’t believe I actually got paid to fuck around with a hunk like you. Talk about a good deal huh?”

“Yeah. Sure”.

She didn’t pick up on his apathy, her mind too busy zooming through outer space at that moment, fixated more than anything else upon her looks. “I’m gonna give you my number though for sure papi. Hoping we can maybe make sure you don’t get so backed up again” she teases, unscrewing the top of the lipstick tube and putting it to her lips, spreading it over her flesh so as to redden them up once again.

“I know I’m probably a little upper end, but for you? We can work out a deal. Not that you can’t afford it from the start but still. Looking for a regular, and I’m willing to work out some sort of package deal”.

She doesn’t receive an answer this time, and she doesn’t think much about it, believing that he was thinking it over. She focuses on her reflection in the mirror only, puckering her lips and ensuring that she’d fully covered them.

“Let me tell you, I’m fun papi. Really really fun. Kinky stuff? I’m into it and I’ll never say a word about what you want me to do. Sexy schoolgirl, up the culo? It’s yours if you want it. I think we’ll both-”

She stops, turning to find that she was alone in the bathroom. There was nobody else there. Jason had somehow disappeared without her noticing it. For a second she was confused, wondering where he could’ve gone, but she turned to look at the stalls, wondering if he’d slipped into one of them to relieve or clean himself.

All the doors were open though and nobody was inside.

“Jason?”

He was gone.

Dixon Docks

CLINK!

The engine dies as the key is turned in the ignition, Jim Gordon looking warily across the open expanse of parking lot that led down to the docks themselves as well as a solid stretch of litter strewn beach. The waters of Gotham River slowly press against it, battering the shore in that timeless, methodical and constant way.

“You’re sure this is the place?” Gordon asks as he takes in the sight again, the lights of far off Gotham beyond the opposite side of the river being the only real illumination save for the lights of his cruiser and an aged lightbulb attached to a rotting telephone pole above.

“Si. This is the place. I get it. I fucking hate coming here too” Montoya says from the back seat, the woman undoing her seat belt and opening the door, somewhat alleviating the tension. “You just don’t like it because Needle always tries ta feel you up” Bullock teases from the passenger seat with a smile, opening his own door.

“Fuck you Bullock. You’d hate it too if you got your ass squeezed by a guy who ain’t showered in years”.

“Fair enough”.

Both officers step out of the car and place their feet upon the gravel, which leaves Jim with little option other than to get out himself. He opens the door and steps out easily, closing it behind him with a thud.

“Isn’t exactly a very hospitable place” the glasses wearing lieutenant says, looking around at the trash strewn lot and ramshackle buildings to the side, abandoned warehouses that had once been bustling with the activity of commerce. But over the years it had shifted north, a more convenient harbor having been built, and Dixon Docks were left behind.

Now there were just rotting piers and ghosts left.

It was quiet too, the far off sounds of traffic barely reaching them as the wind blew gently against them. “Come on” Bullock says, taking the lead with a cigarette in his mouth and his hands in his pockets, removing one to point towards the right side of the gravel lot where a run down camper was positioned. It looked abandoned, but Gordon had been told it wasn’t.

“Needle’s in there”.

“Probably working off a high or some shit. That or jerking it to some old panties he found”.

“Thanks for the image, Bullock”.

“You’re welcome Montoya”.

They keep walking, Bullock in front with Gordon and Montoya bringing up the rear, the woman herself nervously looking around in the same way she did while back at the GCPD, wanting to ensure that nobody was watching them.

“He’s gonna be our best shot at gettin’ some info though”.

“Yeah…pfft. It always comes down to a junkie”.

They were about halfway there now, right in the middle of the lot a solid ten or fifteen feet away from the water and maybe only five or six from the closed door to the camper. Gordon found himself excited, excited to finally have some sort of breakthrough, something that would get them closer to the Batman.

“You two are doing the right thing. I know it’s hard but whatever happens next, you’re doing the right thing. You’re protecting this city in the way it should be”.

“Yeah Gordon. We know” Montoya says, her hand in her pocket wrapping around something while out of sight of the man, slowly pulling it out to reveal the glint of steel of a piece that wasn’t her official sidearm issued to her by the GCPD, which remained holstered at her side.

She was smart and knew that even in Gotham with your ass being covered by the big bad bat you had to make sure your prints weren’t all over the place. That’s why neither of them had touched a thing while in Gordon’s car. 

“Gotta know though Gordo,” Bullock says, stalling the man, stopping him in the middle of the lot. “We take the Bat down? Everything else comes tumblin’ with it. Peace and order and all that shit. It’ll be like it was in the eighties. Smack on every corna’, bodies comin’ inta the morgue like a fuckin’ conveya’ belt. This city…it won’t be safe. Dontcha’ gots a little girl?”

“Yeah. And a son”.

Montoya closes her eyes and sighs, shaking her head.

‘Dammit Gordon…’

“Dontcha’ want them ta live in a safe place? Aint a safe place like that worth a few sacrifices? Ya know…fer the greata’ good?”

“Are you getting cold feet Bullock?” Gordon asks with his piercing brown eyes boring into the man. “Nah lieutenant. Just want ya ta know what we’d be giving up. Sure, we’d take down one bad guy, but we’d let out a thousand bad guys all ova’ the city. They ain’t afraid o’ us and they neva’ have been, but him? They’re afraid o’ him”.

“The law is the law, Bullock”.

“Ya sure?”

“I am”.

Bullock goes quiet, the corpulent older detective looking into Gordon’s eyes and trying to get a sense of what was inside. What he was thinking. He sees it quickly though. Jim Gordon wasn’t gonna budge. Not now, not ever. He was fixed on his mission, fixated on it to the point of madness. 

“We have an obligation to bring him in. To take him down. You can’t take the law into your own hands no matter what”.

“Even when the law is corrupt? Even when it ain’t helpin’ nothin’ and the guys on the force are just as bad, if not worse than the gangsta’s shakin’ ya down?” Bullock was pleading with him, begging him to understand. Unknown to Jim, he was also offering him a way out. A chance to escape all this. 

“It…it isn’t that bad”.

“It was that bad,” Bullock says firmly. “It was and it’ll go right back ta shit if we do this”.

“Bullock, I’m not debating it anymore. I’m giving you a direct order. Do. Your. Damn. Job and stop trying to take the easy way out”. Gordon was no longer being patient and understanding. “Let's get in there and talk to your associate and get the ball rolling so we can finally nail this bastard to the wall”.

Bullock sighs and nods, looking down at the gravel as he reaches into his pocket and retracts a cigarette, quickly lighting it up and placing it between his lips. “Alright then Gordon. Let’s do it”.

“I’m glad you’re finally-”

BLAM!

The shot rings out across the lot, a loud, noisy clang that reverberates through the empty space like a lightning bolt. The thump that came right on its heels was equally as audible, but right after that? Silence.

Jim Gordon laid face down upon the gravel, blood already dripping from the massive hole in the back of his head. It was quick, clean, and he died without even knowing what had happened. Renee Montoya stood there for a second, her pistol raised into the position it had just been when she took the shot.

Slowly though, she lowers it, and in a second or so after that it was hidden back in the pocket of her leather jacket.

Bullock takes a drag on his cigarette, acting as if nothing had happened in the least while Montoya takes a deep breath and shakes her head. “Real shame. He was a good cop”.

“Not fer Gotham he weren’t”.

“No. No he wasn’t”.

“Serve and protect Montoya. Serve and protect. That’s what we signed up ta do”. He pauses, taking a drag on his cigarette, deeply inhaling the smoke into his lungs before blowing it out in a long, protracted exhale. He had the eyes of a man who’d done this before and wasn’t too adversely affected by it.

And Renee?

She wasn’t much different.

“I laid it out ta him. All the sufferin’, killin’ and dyin’ that would happen if he went on through with it. I gave him a chance”.

“I know”.

“I wonda’ what it really was with him,” he ponders aloud, looking down at the body of the lieutenant which rapidly grew cold as the wind began to pick up, coming off of the river. “Did he want ta take in the bat because it was the right thing to do? Or because he wanted ta prove he could?”

“We’ll never know”.

“I’m going fer the second one”.

Montoya nods her head and shrugs her shoulders, looking down mournfully at the man she’d just killed with the same ease one might swat a fly. “There’s more than one kind of right and you and I both know that it isn’t always written in some law book. We did the right thing. We protected this city. He would’ve gotten a lot of people killed in the long run”.

“Sure. Or maybe we’re just telling ourselves that so we don’t feel like murderin’ pieces o’ shit who do what we do fer ourselves, dressin’ it up as if we’re doin’ it fer otha’s”.

She looks up at him and tries to find it in herself to disagree.

“Then we’re the same as poor dead Jimbo here, and if that’s the case? It doesn’t fucking matter. Nada. Not a bit. The whole world’s like that, and with us? At least people are alive”.

“Not Jimbo”.

“I’m willing to trade one for hundreds. If you don’t like that fuck you”.

With that Montoya turns and begins walking away, heading towards the exit of the lot while Bullock begins to walk as well, catching up with the woman. They were leaving Jim behind, relatively sure that nothing would happen to his body between now and when it was picked up.

“What about his kids?”

“Mierda pasa” she shrugs. “It’ll suck, but they’re not the first to grow up without a father. I did. And I turned out okay. Besides they’ll be getting a nice, fat fucking check as well as a full ride scholarship when they’re older. Thank Wayne for that”.

He nods, remembering the program put in place for the families of police officers who died on the job. Due to how rarely it happened now the pool of money was indeed quite generous. The Gordons were gonna be fine financially, but could money really wipe away the loss?

No. It couldn’t. But it didn’t matter.

“How we gettin’ outta here?”

“I called Fredricks. He’s running a patrol around here. He’ll pick us up. Unless you expected us to drive around in Gordon’s cruiser”.

“Nah. Rookie mistake”.

“Also paid Bennet to wipe any footage from the garage tonight. Nobody is gonna see us with him”.

“All bases secured huh?”

“Yup. Ain’t exactly like anyone’s gonna miss him. He rocked too many boats, put too much at risk. You don’t do that shit in Gotham. Not anymore. Poor cabron. Should’ve never come back to Gotham. Should’ve been a cop in Metropolis!”

They keep walking, Bullock saying nothing as Renee justifies what just happened to herself.

“Asshole. Dumb, fucking asshole. Couldn’t take the way out. Couldn’t be smart. No, no. Wanted to be a good cop. Look where it got him?” She was seething, putting all the blame for what had happened squarely on the shoulders of Jim Gordon who was far too dead to defend himself.

“Yeah…well…whatever. Put it outta yer mind. It’s ova’. Want a smoke?”

“Yeah. Sure. Gimme one”.

“Here”.

Their voices and figures receded into the night, leaving the corpse and the car in which he’d been driven to what was unknowingly his final destination behind. It was quiet again, with not a single soul around. The city kept moving, the people running along their lives, doing what they needed to do to prepare for the morning of work.

And yet his body laid there, unmoving.

Gotham didn’t stop for a single second.

Chapter Text

The Batcave Beneath Wayne Manor

    It was no exaggeration to say that he was always watching. Gotham City didn’t pass a single second by without being monitored by the man who sat upon his version of a throne, a large, high backed chair that was positioned in front of the batcomputer. 

It was an impressive piece of technology.

All the data from every street camera, be they private or public, on a storefront or a traffic light, filtered back to him here. With a flick of his wrist and the touch of a button he could also summon up nearly anyone’s phone or internet history. Police dispatch was, of course, also there, allowing him to respond to crimes sometimes even quicker than the police could. Numerous screens were splayed out across the massive station, all honed in on different points of interest.

Park Row, Diamond District, East End.

He was everywhere, always watching, like a man in some tower over the rest of humanity, peering down into their souls and judging them as either good or evil. Yet, at the moment? Nothing of note seemed to be happening. Nothing important. It was calm, as was to be expected in the middle of the day. 

‘Nothing’.

He remembered when he’d first set this system up, a system that he had labeled as Brother Eye, a mainframe capable of processing literally thousands of gigabytes of information at once. It was more powerful than nearly any other computer system in the world, possessing a limited AI that allowed it to process which information was most important and pass it on to Bruce. 

It had cost millions of dollars to create, and yet at the moment seemed to be nothing more than a glorified P.C.

Bruce narrows his eyes and brings his hand up to his chin, stroking it softly for a moment before letting out a sigh. “Brother Eye”.

“Yes Mr. Wayne?”

The masculine yet subservient computerized voice calls out as soon as it hears its operator speak, waiting for the orders that would come to it and give it something to do. ‘I wonder if machines can be bored’.

“Any reports of recent criminal activity within Gotham? All grids”.

It takes exactly a second for the computer to understand the command it was given and not only do that but also assemble the information that was being requested of it. “A speeding ticket was just issued by officer Hailey Groves to a man by the name of Thomas Boyle for speeding. He was doing thirty five in a thirty zone. Likely no points upon his license and a fine in the average of one hundred and fifty dollars”.

Bruce doesn’t respond though he does grunt out, making it clear that he could care less about this small, meaningless action. 

“Anthony Luselli has just been issued a citation for jaywalking in Park Row by officer William Rosano. Likely one hundred dollar fine”.

“Hmmm”.

“Samantha Jameson has just been stopped in the East End for failure to stop at a stop sign at the corner of-,”

“Forget it” Bruce says, leaning back in his chair and bringing his hand to the bridge of his nose, pinching it. “Make me aware of any crimes that fit the parameters I’ve set for you. Serious crimes. Theft, burglary, murder or rape”.

“Affirmative. I understand Mr. Wayne. There are no crimes matching this description occurring within Gotham at the moment. Nor do any open cases exist in which these crimes are the charge. Gotham is secure”.

“Thank you Brother Eye. Return to monitoring”.

“Of course Mr. Wayne”.

The voice had provided a momentary distraction and a strange feeling of company and now it was gone. Gotham was secure. Bruce hadn’t quite gotten used to hearing that, not yet. When he’d first started this mission of his, Brother Eye was incessantly going off, making him aware of crimes all throughout the day. It didn’t seem like he could go five minutes without being made aware of some crime or other.

The roaring river slowed to a crackling brook, and then finally to a trickle and now?

Nothing.

Gotham was secure, and he wasn’t ready for it.

He was alone again, the confines of the cave being the only thing to keep his attention at that moment, and he turned to look around, especially at the ‘trophy’ wall, the entire right side of the cave that held all that remained of so many of his villains.

Most pieces were hidden behind glass cases, taken out and occasionally dusted by the ever dedicated Alfred who sought to keep this ‘wall of victory’ as he called it clean. Bruce could remember them all, each and every foe.

KGBeast’s torn mask was plastered against one of the display cases, right next to the wrist mounted pistols of an assassin for hire named Deadshot. Copperhead’s vest was there too, tossed on top of a table like it was nothing at all, the man having had absolutely no respect for the assassin who’d been paid to come after him.

She relied on poison to kill her victims, not even giving them a chance and forcing them to die in excruciating pain.

He’d been very happy to get his hands around the cartel hitwoman’s neck, and the snapping sound it made as her spinal cord and vertebrae broke apart? Satisfying.

There were others of course, not all of them assassins who’d been paid extraordinary amounts of money to try and kill him. And not all of it was quite so simple. Some of it was downright macabre.

In the way some might mount the taxidermied head of a kill they’d made Bruce had also plastered something against the cave wall. It stretched out an immense distance, clearly having belonged to a very large and strong creature, though Bruce knew the truth. Waylon Jones had been a man with a very serious medical condition, one that gave his skin a hard and rather scaly feel and appearance.

It didn’t help that he was also of an immense size, towering over most other denizens of Gotham City by at least four or five feet. He had bright yellow eyes that he’d become accustomed to seeing through the dark with, and at some point in the past he’d sharpened his teeth to razor sharp points. 

He started to call himself Killer Croc, and in keeping with his new evil name he’d begun to attack civilians, dragging them down to his home in the sewers to cannibalize them. It took a few days for Bruce to track him down, and when he did it was a cruel and bitter fight, neither of them holding back.

In the end though there could be only one outcome, and the Batman rose from the murk stained by the sewage and blood, but all the same victorious.

Now?

Croc’s skin was plastered over his wall, arms and legs extended each way out to give the viewer a sense of how enormous he had been, and how hard Bruce had fought to kill his quarry. He’d managed to kill six people before he was put down, and Bruce often found himself agonizing over the one’s he’d failed. The ones who he hadn’t saved.

‘I saved more than six’.

He comforted himself with that. He didn’t save the six, but the possible hundreds that came after? He’d saved their lives. That mattered far more in the grand scheme of things.

The wall kept going on it seemed, more and more odd items packed onto it. A strange, triangular shaped helmet from an assassin named David Hyde that looked particularly frightening. One of the bulging red, insect-like optical lenses that served as eyes were broken, no doubt from when he slammed his fist right on through it, sending shards into the fleshy orb.

He’d also died in pain.

Firefly’s broken and bent flamethrower, Scarecrow’s mask and hat, bloodstained of course with a neat hole drilled right through the forehead. A knife that once belonged to the dreaded serial killer and rapist Victor Zsasz. 

At the very end was a straitjacket, one that was smeared with purple and green paint by design but also blood, which wasn’t intended to be by the creator of the article of clothing. Bruce still remembered that moment, and it gave him great joy.

“You won’t shoot me…you won’t…hehehHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA! Yo-Hahahahah! You see! You see? You need me! You do. I’m the only one in this city who can make this fun for you. Who can make it interesting? I complete you, Bats.”

“Bat-Batman…hel-help me. Please”.

“Ohh Doctor Quinzel. Sweet, sweet Harleen. He won’t help you. Because he knows that-,”

BLAM!

THUD!

“Hmmm”.

He smiles to himself. A genuine, open and honest smile that completely overtakes his face at the memory. It was a good one, most of them were good. He would never deny it. All of them felt good. Each and every animal that he put down had it coming, and he didn’t feel an ounce, not a single ounce, of guilt over doing it.

‘He never even saw it coming’.

“Daydreaming again Master Bruce?”

Bruce had long gotten used to the random and unexpected interruptions from his butler, and at this point only languidly turned in the chair, swiveling so as to lay eyes upon the man as he entered into the Batcave, having made it down the steps with a silver tray in his hand.

“Just thinking, Alfred.”

Alfred Pennyworth was an old man with a half balding head that was covered only by salt and pepper hair that clung to the sides of his head. He was of average stature and slight build, his face sporting a thin mustache and his eyes, a blue similar to Bruce’s own, were yet ever aware.

His appearance often fooled people into thinking he was nothing more than a butler. If you did think this then you’d be wrong on multiple counts.

Very few knew the truth, but Alfred Pennyworth was a man who in his heyday had been a stone cold killer. No hesitation, no remorse.

He’d been the one to teach Bruce how to first use a gun.

“Exhale before you fire Master Bruce” the man says, kneeling down besides the little boy as they stood outside, the hot June sun beating down upon them and making it sort of hard to see the target, a large and empty water cooler that Alfred had set up upon a cinder block for him.

Bruce was scared and he couldn’t explain why. Was it the weight of the gun? The cold steel pressing against his hand? The memory of the gun going off in the alley and killing his parents?

Maybe it was a mix of all three.

Regardless, Alfred was patient. Calm, and he kneeled down besides the boy, looking him in the eye and watching the tears that came forth.

“I-I-I can’t see it”.

“Yes you can Master Bruce” he lightly chides, not cruel but not willing to back up his claim either. “The sun isn’t in control. You are. You can see the target. I know because I can see the target. Force your way through the discomfort”.

“I-I can’t!”

“Then you’ll die Master Bruce”.

It goes quiet after that, the little boy letting out a tiny gasp at the butler’s words. He turns his head to look at the man who served him, whom he had asked to teach him in the ways of war, and finds him staring coldly back at him. “Your enemy will not care about the sun in your eye. Nor will he blink when it comes time to take your life as you are with his. Did that man in the alley hesitate?”

“No”.

Ice cold chills ran up and down his back as Alfred asked that and he answered, memories being brought back into his mind of the man firing the gun. He was so assured of himself, so firm in his conviction. There hadn’t been any hesitation. Not until he’d gotten to Bruce.

“He’s right there. Right now. Pointing a gun at us. You’re going to let him kill you Master Bruce”.

“N-no I’m not!”

“You’re already dead,” Alfred says, rising up and shaking his head, closing his eyes and looking away from the little boy as if in shame. Bruce looks after him, scared and upset, not understanding what he’d done to earn him Alfred’s disappointment. “He’s fired eight times. Bullets riddle your body Master Bruce. You hesitated, and you died for it. Come now, this is nonsense. A waste of time. Let us go back to the manor and-”

BLAM!

The pistol shakes in Bruce’s hand, the Webley Mark five going off in his hand. Alfred was surprised at being interrupted in such a way, not having expected the boy to actually fire. But he did, and despite the raw power contained within the pistol, Bruce didn’t drop it. Sure his hand was rocketed upwards by the force of the blast, but quickly he forced himself into action again.

The empty plastic container fell off of the cinder block, rolling onto the ground in front of it, and Bruce forces his arm back down, once again drawing a bead upon the target. He was crying still, much more heavily than before, but this time his face was crunched up in anger, utter rage. 

BLAM! BLAM! BLAM! BLAM! BLAM!

CLICK! CLICK! CLICK!

Bruce had advanced on the fallen plastic, his hand thrown off target each time he fired. He’d advanced though, without fear and with anger, rage. Intent to kill. The container kept bouncing, tossed into the air with each impact until it fell on the ground, still and unmoving now, while the crying Bruce continued to pull the trigger.

The revolver was empty though, and nothing more issued forth from the barrel. And yet, even still, he stood over the felled target wanting to do more.

“Well…I have to admit Master Bruce, that is something” the butler begins, moving up to be at the boy’s side, where he quickly reaches out for his hand and grasps it, snatching away the revolver from him. “I didn’t think you had it in you. Impressive”. He turns his gaze onto the empty water cooler. 

“You made every shot count. Not bad…for the first time”.

He was muted in his praise on purpose, knowing that he had to be so as to ensure the boy continued on giving it his all. But in truth? He was beyond impressed with the sheer control and ability that had been put on display. Bruce had advanced and moved in such a natural way that Alfred had rarely seen before and he’d spent a good chunk of his life around other hardened killers.

Bruce’s hand remained up in the air, as if he was grasping some phantom weapon that he still intended to fire. He was glaring at the felled jug as Alfred studied it, and found himself even more impressed.

‘By God…the grouping…’

The holes drilled through the plastic walls were right next to one another, grouped so tightly that one would almost think a trained marksman had done it. Of course it wasn’t hard at such close range, no more than ten feet, but it had been done by an eight year old boy who shouldn’t have even been able to handle the weapon itself. 

He turns and stares at Bruce, taking in his expression at that moment, watching how his nostrils flare and his eyes dart about, the adrenaline overtaking him. Alfred could see it in his eyes instantly, right then and there.

‘He has it’.

“Well Master Bruce. It appears that had you had a gun that night in the alley your family would’ve been quite safe. Your assailant is dead” he says, gesturing towards the fallen jug. “You killed six times over”.

“Train me more Alfred”.

“Of course Master Bruce. Of course. You have much to learn”.

He did train him. In everything he knew which, the young man would come to find out, was much more than he let on. He knew more than just how to most effectively sweep a house and make the best eggplant parmigiana. He had skills, skills which he’d accumulated over a lifetime, both for good and evil.

Shooting, infiltration, bomb making, lockpicking and even a rudimentary course of French were what Alfred Pennyworth had offered Bruce Wayne from the ages of eight to eighteen, a ten year period in which Bruce learned how to kill a man or woman with ease.

“And pray tell what were you thinking of Master Bruce?” the man asks as he comes closer and places the silver tray down on the desk area next to the man and before the computer. Bruce looks down and sees that a lunch had been prepared for him, something he’d come to expect.

A steak and potatoes au gratin, the cheese clinging to the sliced circular potatoes in an openly delicious way that made even Bruce’s mouth water. The liberal serving of broccoli to the side was just a delicious add on. 

To drink? A glass of whiskey, the ice clinking in the glass in an alluring, siren like way. 

He was most excited for that as whiskey, more than anything else, dulled the pain he felt. Without thought he reaches out and grasps up the glass, bringing it to his lips and tossing it back, sending the scorching liquid down his throat. He was so used to that that it didn’t even bother him anymore. He was just…used to it.

“Ahhh”.

He places the now empty glass down and wipes his mouth with the back of his hand, picking up the knife and fork to the side of the plate and beginning to dig into the steak, cutting swathes out of it in preparation for eating it.

“Thank you Alfred”.

“A pleasure as always Master Bruce” the aged man says while standing there, waiting for another chance to engage in conversation. Bruce knew he wasn’t going to get out of it, not with him, and thus resigned himself to it.

“I was thinking about how little there is to do now”.

“Wouldn’t that be a good sign?”

He remains silent on that, unsure of what to say even if he could speak, and instead uses the fork to bring a portion of gristle up to his lips. Alfred meanwhile turns his gaze to the wall that Bruce had been so vigorously looking at prior, nodding his head. 

“It appears that you are Ahab now, who has slayed his great whale”.

“I never had a great whale Alfred” he counters, swallowing the delicious and perfectly roasted piece of meat while reaching down below him into a cabinet that had been built into the lower echelons of the batcomputer’s stand. He knew exactly what he was looking for, and when he grasps it and pulls it out Alfred sees the glass bottle containing yet more whiskey.

Seamlessly Bruce pours himself more, adding it to the nearly emptied glass and filling it once more. Alfred says nothing, though concern was in his eyes. 

“None of them, not one, was a real challenge. A few got away once or twice, sure. But they never survived a third time”.

“Did I ever question your battlefield prowess so as to merit an appraisal of it?” he asks sarcastically, wanting to keep his employer’s ego in check even somewhat. “Regardless, you are correct. None were a challenge. But how could they have been? You were trained by the best that money could buy”.

It was true and Bruce would never forget that. In a way his trainers were substitutes for the family he lacked, the family that had been taken from him. Slade Wilson, Sandra Woosan, Ben Turner. A wide and varied group of people who had imparted upon him their skills.

Slade had taught him tactics and strategy, teaching him how to use the very environment against his enemies, how to deprive them of what they needed to survive and take it for oneself. He was an ex-Green Beret and tracking him down had been tough. But his persistence and desire to be taught under the man won out, and the crotchety veteran taught him everything he knew.

In a matter of months Slade had crammed everything he’d learned through years of trial and error in the jungles of Vietnam into Bruce’s mind, and when they finished Bruce Wayne was both a well trained guerilla and anti guerilla.

Slade had been dead for about five years now, cancer, but ever since then not a year went by without a postcard and a Christmas present, Bruce having paid for the man’s quiet farm in the middle of Wisconsin where he could spend his last years in peace. 

Sandra Woosan had been a trickier teacher to gain knowledge from. She was skilled in the art of hand to hand combat and the usage of nearly all bladed weapons.

She was resistant to taking on a student, the asian woman deriding him as nothing more than a ‘soft rich kid’. He’d proved her wrong when he’d killed an entire gang of Chinese triads in Hong Kong without even being so much as scratched.

She’d taught him from then on out, teaching him to hone his body into as razor sharp a point as a katana, teaching him all the ways that one could kill a person. He’d amazed her in his quick mastery of her lessons, and in no time at all she had precious little to go.

In many ways the older asian woman had become a mother to him in the short time he spent under her tutelage, she was harsh, unforgiving, but she cared for him. Otherwise why would she have taken all the time and effort? It wasn’t wasted though, and when it came time to leave she admitted, in a rare show of emotion, that she was sad to see him go.

He was saddened too, but regardless he had to. 

She was the one he spoke to the most. Phone calls from random numbers, the assassin never staying in one place for too long. She’d never even come to the United States though, regardless of how much money might’ve been offered for her to do so. She was too fearful of coming to blows with Bruce, not because she believed she would lose but because neither wished to fight the other.

It was a professional agreement, one that they both stuck to vigorously, the older asian woman having more than enough work, even at her ripe old age of seventy three, in other nations.

Lady Shiva was still very much in high demand.

Ben Turner had been the last one. The Bronze Tiger, another martial artist who had made his rage a hallmark of his fighting technique. Shiva and Slade had both tried to teach him to hone his anger, restrain it and control it. And for the most part? It worked. But even still, Bruce knew himself well. He knew that his anger, his rage, it was the force that drove him forward. Forced him to fight.

Without it he would not be able to exist, let alone continue his mission.

Ben Turner was the answer. He knew how to fight with utter, unceasing anger and yet not let it allow his opponents to seize the upper hand and use it against him. He crushed all those who stood before him, and Bruce needed his secrets. A fight had ensued, a fight that Ben had surprisingly won, shocking the young man. He would’ve killed him at the end had he not seen something in him.

In the end, Ben Turner trained him too, teaching him how to use his anger effectively.

The training carried on for months and months, and at the end of it both had agreed to fight again. They did, and Bruce won. Ben Turner was the one who he spoke with least, considering the fact that he’d killed the man by driving a blade through his throat, shocking the man in his last moments as his student stood over his dying body.

Ben Turner’s past hadn’t escaped him, and Bruce’s mission in coming to him was two pronged. First to learn what he had to offer and then? To end him for his crime. He’d raped a woman in the United States five years prior and fled abroad to escape the charges.

He hadn’t escaped justice though. Not by a long shot.

Memories of his past trainers, good and bad, flittered into his mind, and in a second he could’ve sworn he’d seen them standing besides Alfred, the man who’d started it all and who was still there. 

The spell was broken and their forms disappeared as Alfred began speaking again.

“I admit, I never quite thought this day would come. When you no longer needed to be out as Batman every second that allowed it”. Bruce keeps eating, having gulped down the rest of the second glass of whiskey he’d poured. “Then again…perhaps it was inevitable considering how brutal you are in your application of justice”.

“You taught me that Alfred”.

“Yes, quite. From experience. It almost makes me laugh, knowing what other so-called heroes in the other cities do. How they struggle to fight against an unstoppable force and how they fail. Green Arrow, the Flash. It disgusts me”.

“It always has Alfred”.

“You and I both know that they will never understand the true face of evil because they wish to obscure it from themselves. Pretend it doesn’t exist so they can deny what humanity is. Brutish, barely evolved apes that need to be kept in line, Master Bruce. Otherwise?”

Bruce smiles, finding himself cheering up a bit as Alfred continues the conversation with him.

“They’ll throw shite at each other” he finishes for the butler, mimicking his British accent.

“Exactly. Ohhh bloody hell it’s all so clear. All so present. The world…it simply refuses to see it. This?” he says, pointing at the numerous computer screens that panned out over Gotham. “It is an anomaly. An abstraction. Peace? It’s unnatural. And yet we have it here. Because of discipline. Discipline and harsh punishment for those who would break it. I read an article the other day. Did you know Gotham is now the most polite city in America?”

“Hmmm…interesting”.

“Order bleeds out. Chaos does as well. A bit like children. Children raised with no rules are like rabid animals waiting to be put down. Children raised with order? Regimentation? It is the greatest act of love Master Bruce. To care enough to set down rules. To set a high standard for a child to meet”.

“Spare the rod, spoil the child, right Al?”

“Exactly. A lesson I learned in Malaya”.

Bruce had heard this hundreds of times before of course, but that didn’t mean a thing. It helped to hear it again. Alfred could repeat himself all he wanted, because in the end it was always worthwhile for Bruce to listen. “The communists. They were naughty children. Misbehaving and getting into all sorts of nonsense. A spank…would no longer suffice. There’s a reason Malaya is the only example of a successful counter insurgency in the annals of modern warfare Master Bruce”.

Alfred’s eyes darkened, no doubt going back to those days when he was a young soldier, hefting a jungle carbine through the sweaty forests of Malaya. The gunfire, the sound of artillery and planes overhead. The death.

“We did not spare the rod. In Vietnam the Americans were far, far too focused on hearts and minds. So much so that the enemy pretended to love you in the day and at night crept out to fight you all the same. Love is inferior in every way to fear. Never forget that”.

“Ireland too right?”

“Bloody hell, Ireland. Pfft. What a mistake. A bloody mistake. Malaya was far away from the eyes of those sensitive weaklings in Downing Street. They stuck their noses up and pretended we weren’t doing what we were doing, able to keep up the facade due to how far away we were. But Ireland? It was in our backyard. They couldn’t be seen to be strong. To brush off the criticism that was necessary to brush off. We were reigned in. You cannot fight a war on a leash Master Bruce, and that? That was a war. Terrorists. I only wish I’d killed more like the pigs they were.”

“You hate them more than anything else, don’t you?” he prods further. “I do, Master Bruce”.

“You’d kill every man in the IRA if you could Al. I don’t doubt that”.

“Men? Hardly. Parasites. Parasites. They hide in the shadows, behind masks and use bombs, killing innocents and then cry when we don't play by the rules they so eagerly flouted”. He smiles after that, his mustache twisting ever so slightly as he does. 

“I still remember the fear in the eyes of that one IRA commander. A wily one who was gifted in making bombs. He blew up a school bus in Belfast and killed three children. He was fine with it because they were Protestant and he was not. A rather ridiculous reason to kill. He must’ve been proud of himself, giddy. Probably never thought we’d find him. Imagine his shock when three plain clothes SAS men burst into his apartment right in the middle of coitus with his wife”.

Bruce turns in the chair, ignoring his steak for the moment as he listens intently to this story, wanting to hear it again or maybe he just wanted to see the satisfaction in Alfred’s eyes as he told it again.

“Outside of seeing you return triumphant, it was my proudest moment. To see his fear in his eyes, the screaming of the woman who knew what he was, the monster he was and yet still loved him for it, probably cheered when those children were killed. I slapped her hard. Right across the face, but otherwise said nothing as we dragged him out of the room and tossed him down the stairs to the first floor”.

Alfred truly was in his element, speaking of the past in such a way, how he’d brought justice to a cruel, unjust world in his own way.

“He hit every stair as we threw him down, stark naked and landing in a heap at the bottom. Every part of his body was covered in bruises and he was moaning, crying. None of us were moved by pity. You can’t be when monsters wear human flesh. I do remember the wife coming out of the door, crying with a blanket wrapped around her, begging us to stop. I was at the bottom of the stairs so I’m not sure and never asked, but one of the others shot her”.

“Why?”

“You know why Master Bruce. To send a message. Cavorting with these people, these evil men and women…it carries with it a price. A price you must pay when the time comes. She had barely hit the floor when I was binding the sobbing bastard’s hands behind his back and moving onto his feet. Ohh he cried. Like a little girl. He seethed about the clear death of his wife and screamed at us for killing her, asking why we did it if it was only him we wanted. I simply told him he should’ve thought of that before he did what he did. He didn’t do much talking after that. My boot came down on the back of his skull too hard for him to remain awake. After that it became easy to toss him into the back of our lorry and the drive out into the country was peaceful, quiet”.

“The farmhouse right?”

“Yes Master Bruce. The farmhouse. We unloaded him into a field, and waited for him to wake up, dousing him with water so as to induce such a reaction. We wanted him to see what was happening to him. To watch. This is where I learned the skills I imparted onto you, at least in regards to bomb making, you know? In Ireland. Ohh it was euphoric Master Bruce. Watching the fear seep into his eyes as I knelt down and began to place the charges around his body, the very same kind I’d studied from the terrorists themselves. I remember mocking him. Laughing and smiling, telling him how much I enjoyed this while the others stood joining in”.

Bruce was waiting, eager for the ending to the story. 

“He begged. Pleaded, told me that it was war and this is what soldiers had to do. That he had names to give me and would surrender. I admit…I respected him even less for that. I would’ve commended him had he remained silent, spit in my face and stood firm to his beliefs, seeing himself as a martyr for his cause. But he didn’t have a cause. He was just using something as an excuse to let out what was already inside of him. He was evil, Master Bruce. And he deserved this. The charges were set and I scurried away, counting down on each second that passed. The charge went off and he was gone. Only a red blotch in the middle of a cabbage field. We left and got drunk at a local bar, saying nothing but clearly enjoying ourselves. Reports were filed, an investigation done, but nothing came of it. Nobody cared”.

“You did the right thing Alfred”.

“Of course I did, sir” the butler says with a smile. “I’ve never doubted it. It was always the correct course of action. Some men? They can’t be reasoned with, they can’t be bargained into a solution or brought to the negotiating table by flowery words. Some men? They just want to watch the world burn. How do you deal with that kind of evil? That horror? The short answer is…you don’t. You don’t tolerate it. You put a hole in its head at the first opportunity. You know this”.

“I do Alfred”.

“Then why are you filled with doubts?” the butler asks, getting to the center of the matter with ease. “Don’t tell me you feel bad about what you’ve done? That it was somehow…wrong?”

“I…I don’t know Alfred. Maybe. But it doesn’t matter. Results matter”.

“If the results are what matters then you should fixate on the results and none of the other nonsense that has been preoccupying your mind”. The butler moves forward towards the computer and reaches over Bruce, shutting off the screens and robbing him of his view of the city while keeping Brother Eye running, continuing the monitoring of the city.

“I know. It’s hard when a war comes to an end. You feel…lost, listless, like your entire life has lost its purpose. Your mission is done, and yet? You wish for more. You’ve come to love war Master Bruce, and now? You must come to love something else”.

“How did you do that Alfred?”

The man smiles, this time softly and caring, not nefariously as he did while relaying the memory of blowing up the IRA member. He lays his hand on Bruce’s shoulder and squeezes. “You find something else. Something equally as important. That’s what I did when your mother and father offered me employment after my discharge”.

It went unsaid that Alfred was discharged from the SAS in 1973 and had only become employed by the Waynes in 1992. There was a nearly twenty year gap between the two things, with a giant blank spot existing there for Alfred’s activities. There were…whisperings, rumors mostly. Of an Englishman who was not attached to the Crown’s service any longer and yet kept turning up in places of violence where the Crown’s interests were at stake. Zambesi, the Congo, the Ivory Coast. There were even reports that he was in Markovia in 1989 when the communist government there collapsed and all out civil war ensued.

Alfred didn’t talk much about those times, but Bruce was sure that they’d happened. He was a soldier, and soldiers? It was hard for them to stop.

“There was not a happier day in my life than when you first came to Wayne Manor. When your mother brought you home, swaddled in her arms, crying out in hunger…it was an honor and a privilege Bruce. And it still is”.

“Thank you Alfred”.

“Their deaths…they were hard to stomach. Hard to even fathom, but you and I both know that this world is not kind to the peaceful. Your mother and father were naive, wanting to believe in the best in people without preparing for the worst. They were incapable of violence, which means-,”

“That they weren’t peaceful, they were harmless. I know. You’ve told me”.

“Ahh, so my lessons do stick within your mind. Good. Very good. Now you shall undoubtedly understand that it is your time to be peaceful, all the while still being capable of great violence should the need arise. You are quite wealthy in case you have forgotten. Perhaps you can enjoy some of it”.

“Hmmm”.

“Or perhaps it is time to consider more than a series of one night stands with Doctor Quinzel or Donna Mandragora. After all, would family not be one of the highest callings?”

“I…I wouldn’t be a good father Alfred”.

“Nonsense. You raised Jason quite well”.

Jason.

The thought suddenly pops into Bruce’s mind, reminding him of his adopted son’s existence. ‘He disappeared last night at the Iceberg’ he thinks, remembering how the man had just slipped out, leaving behind a very frustrated Jessica Cruz who was unsure of what she’d done wrong.

“I’m going to call Jason”.

“Very good Master Bruce. Very good”.

Paradise Gardens, Apartment of Jason Todd

“Deeetdeetdeet! Deetdeetdeet! Deetdeetdeet!”

“Ahh, son of a bitc-”

Jason doesn’t even finish his sentence as he pauses the game he was playing, the man having been involved in the middle of an intense firefight in the tunnels of post nuclear war Moscow’s metro tunnels, a mutant jumping right at him at that moment, enshrined behind the gray pause screen.

He was wearing pajama pants and a t-shirt, not having had the urge to go out today and instead spending most of it in his luxurious, but relatively sparse apartment. Only a few bookcases filled with different hardbacks, broken up by some random series of comic books at different points, were of note, the rest of it being simply furniture.

He leans forward at that moment and snatches up the ringing cell phone from its perch on the table in front of him, bringing it up to his ear and sliding his finger across it so as to answer. 

“Hello?”

“Jason”.

“Ohh…hey”.

He hadn’t looked to see who was calling and had instead just answered, something he clearly should’ve done as things now felt very awkward. “What’s up?”

“How are you?”

“I’m…fine. Just hanging out”.

“Ohh”.

“Yeah”.

A moment of silence passes, the two men reaching a loggerhead when it comes to discussion. “You left the Iceberg pretty early last night. Jessica seemed upset”.

“Yeah…sorry. Just…wasn’t in the mood for that stuff last night. Was kinda tired, just wanted to go home and maybe play some COD or something”.

“You always did like video games”. 

“Yeah. Hehe. I guess”.

“Are you busy tonight?”

“Why?” Jason asks with interest in his voice, leaning up even more so as to listen more intently to what was being said on the other side of the phone. “You’ve got something going on?”

“No, everything’s handled. Gotham is secure”.

There it was. The codeword that neither liked to hear as it meant that they wouldn’t be able to throw themselves into the work both considered so important. “Ahh…damn. I guess I was expecting you to call me with something”.

“No…but are you busy?”

“Why, there’s nothing going on?”

“That doesn’t mean we can’t plan something Jason,” the man explains, allowing the man’s awkwardness to continue as he was in the same boat, neither one quite knowing how to connect on a level greater than that of crime fighting. “Really?”

“Yes”.

“Alright, I’ll bite. I’m not doing anything tonight” Jason admits, wondering if maybe, just maybe, this was some sort of way out of the incredible rut that he’d found himself in. ‘Should’ve just taken Os’ advice and went balls deep into Jessica’ he thinks, leaning on his own coping mechanisms in the wake of the night prior.

‘He’s right…it’s fucking stupid to think you can get your happily ever after’.

“Good. Let's go for drinks. Catch up. Talk.”

“Sounds…good”.

It did oddly enough. It sounded really, really good. But nevertheless it was odd. Bruce had never really just sat down and talked with Jason, not really. Why? Most likely because he was emotionally stunted and unable to easily form bonds with people.

The fact that he was even talking to Jason like this was proof that he cared. 

“Where do you want to go?”

“How about the Pleasure Spot? They’re the only place that can make a good Moscow Mule”. Jason feels his mouth go dry at that, the thought of his favorite drink, which was never made correctly elsewhere. “The strip club?”

“Mmmhmm”.

“Won’t…won’t Helena or Harley be mad at that?”

“I’m not with either of them. We have…an arrangement”.

“Which I kinda think is fucked up but hey…your life, your choice”.

“Hmmm”.

“Alright, I’m in. Sounds good” he says, tossing his controller down on the table as he feels a plethora of emotions, both lingering from the previous night and bubbling up now. “Let me get showered and dressed”.

“I’ll pick you up”.

“Sounds good”.

CLICK!

Just like that the phone call ends, and Jason’s smile at the fact that Bruce wanted to speak with him falls away, leaving him frowning as he sits back against the couch. ‘Why the fuck am I doing this?’ He felt guilt for things he shouldn’t have. For not having sex with Jessica last night and just powering through his doubts and misery. He’d had sex with escorts before. It shouldn’t have been a problem, but something just…made it one.

He puts his head in his hands and sighs, remembering how he had pointedly avoided talking to anyone who’d been there that night at the Iceberg, not wanting to take any teasing and mockery.

‘Be a fucking man you pussy. Be a man. Go out there tonight with Bruce and don’t fucking be a pussy. Be a man!’

He was shouting at himself inwardly, forcing himself to try and be excited to go to a strip club where both he and Bruce were considered beyond VIP. There would be booze on tap, unlimited, and all they needed to do was point at any one of the women on stage to have them in a private room for them, where all bets were off and anything was on the menu.

Sex and booze. It was how they buried it. Buried their feelings of deep inadequacy, and at the same time they’d pretend that that wasn’t what they were doing at all. That they were just being them…enjoying the fruits of their labor.

‘Don’t be a pussy. Don’t be a pussy’.

He takes a deep breath and raises his head again, closing his eyes and collecting himself, or at least trying to. ‘Don’t be a pussy dammit…be a fucking man…’

He was gonna have to start getting ready. Sometimes being Jason Todd required more acting than even being Nightwing did. 

Arkham Asylum, Operating Theater One

“Wha-what’s going on? What’s happening?!!”

He was frightened, and the tremors in his voice did absolutely nothing to hide it. He was petrified and yet he could do little about it. Nothing actually. Edward Nygma was well and truly trapped, secured as he was to the gurney in the middle of the room by a series of straps that were tossed over his body.

Two over his legs, his feet and thighs right above the knee, and a series of three or four moving up his body. His hands and feet were tied to the gurney themselves, and a particularly odious and uncomfortable strap was across his forehead, keeping his single remaining eye fixed upon the bright, sun like lamp that was raised above him, glaring down at him and giving him the feeling of being in some sort of tanning salon. 

The light was oppressive, evil even, and all he felt was pain.

He’d been stripped naked of everything save for his underwear, which were stained yellow due to the urine he’d been forced to let out in his fear. He smelled of feces and piss, and his body was covered by welts and scars, scabbed over wounds and dry blood.

All of this had been done to him by the guards who took malicious glee in torturing him. But all of them were nowhere near as frightening as the woman who had welcomed him here, who had started this series of awful beatings and intense abuse. One of his eyes was swollen shut, and his nose was broken.

All on her orders.

Creeeeeeeek! Thud!

The door to the right opens up and immediately closes afterwards, the sound of heels clicking against the floor heard immediately after, and yet Nygma couldn’t turn his head to even look. “He-hello? Pleas-please, let me out! I…I…I’m sorry”.

“Peeeyoo…fer sure ya are Eddy Boy. Ya smell like shit”.

“N-no”.

“Yeah. It's me. Ya miss ya dear Docta’ Quinn buddy? Don’t worry, I’m here ta helps ya as best as I can”. The sound of rolling wheels across the very same tiles as her heels had clicked across echoes out, and some sort of metallic cart is brought closer, the contents contained atop of not being visible to the man either.

He begins to struggle, fighting against his bonds in vain.

“N-no! Please don’t hurt me! I…I’m sorry! I…I want to be better! I do!”

“I know Eddy”.

“GAAH!”

He recoils in horror as the light above him is broken by the view of Harleen who reaches out and places her medically gloved hands over his chest, smirking down at him with that sickening, awful smile of hers. He was shaking, and if he hadn’t already emptied his bladder before he would’ve done so again. She was the very image of evil to him at that moment, laughing at his misfortune.

“Boo! Hahahahaha!”

She pulls back from him, shoving against his flesh pointedly to push off so to speak, her body turning to the cart at her side. And beginning to fiddle with the instruments.

“Are ya scared Riddla’?”

“Ye-yes!”

“Do ya think the little boys and girls ya killed were scared?” the woman asks, continuing on with her interrogation. “I’m curious. They were scared, weren’t they? And the motha’s that had ta watch ‘em die…they were probably scared as well.”

“I..I…ye-yes. They were. I…I’m so sorry”.

Harleen heard him but didn't say anything, far too preoccupied with the scalpel she had snatched up from atop the rolling table, and was now studying in the light. It gleamed, sharp as it could possibly be. “I…I promise to change! I need help. I need help and..and…you! You can help me! You can make me better, can’t you Doctor Quinn?” he asks, lowering his tone to try and sound more submissive, more caring.

“Uh huh. I’m sure I can”.

“That…that’s good! Therapy, talk therapy. Medicine. It…it’ll help, I promise. I’m smart. Very smart. I just need someone as smart as me to talk to”. Inwardly he was ecstatic, happy at the thought of finally having found an inroad with the woman who ran this asylum, and who controlled an immense amount of power in regards to the guards and general operations here.

‘Appeal to her ego…work on it’.

“I…I know you can help me. You’re the only one”.

“I’ve been havin’ some bad days lately”.

“Huh?”

He was confused what that had to do with…anything really. It seemed so out of place, so random that he couldn’t help but be utterly confused by it. But Harleen continues on, not taking note of his confusion. “Yeah. Really bad few days. Ain’t been gettin’ the attention I deserve, ya know? There’s this guy…a guy I’m head ova’ heels fer. Crazy fer really”.

She turns and once again comes into his view, allowing him to fixate on her face.

“He’s the one, ya know?” she says, further shocking the man. “The one I wants ta spend the rest o’ my life with. The one I wants ta put his baby inside o’ me. He…he’s perfect. Maybe the only perfect man in this city. An animal ta assholes like ya, but gots the capability ta be a lamb fer the right gal”.

She reaches out with the scalpel and teases it against the bridge of the man’s nose, bringing it up and down to chill his skin as she does.

“But I gots this otha’ bitch in the way…pissin’ me off. He mighta’ knocked her up…which, if true, will send me freakin’ CRAZY!” She shouts right into Eddy’s face, causing him to attempt to recoil, though once again without any real results. He was trapped and completely at the mad woman’s mercy.

She pulls away quickly, once more out of sight as she moves behind him. But he could feel her though, her hands reaching out for his head and holding it tightly in place, yanking it to the side painfully.

“Wha-what are you doing?”

“Helping ya. Ya wanna be helped right? Askin’ so nicely. But we ain’t gonna do it the way ya want it” she teases in that sing song mockery of a voice. “I met anotha’ guy like ya a while. Played with my ego, tried ta trick me fer himself. Then? He tried ta change me, and when I said no? He wanted ta hurt me. Ya wanna hurt me…dontcha’?”

“No! No! Never! I want you to help me! I-,”

“Lets begin solving the problem o’ Eddy Nygma then”.

Piercing, blinding pain cascaded down his entire body is all he could focus on, coupled with his inability to move in the slightest to escape making it worse. Blood and the scent thereof, filled the room as Harleen uses the scalpel to begin tracing a line over his scalp, one hand digging in with the scalpel and the other wedging her fingers in through the opening she was making, curling her fingers obscenely into the other side of the flesh, abutting the bone of his skull.

“GAAHHHH! AHHHHHHHHA!! AHHHH!”

“YA AIN’T MAKING NO FOOL OUTTA ME ASSHOLE!!!” she shouts, pulling and peeling away the flesh at the uppermost portion of the man’s scalp, even tearing hair straight out of it, right up from the roots. Suffice to say for the next few hours, all that could be heard from the operating theater were screams, and Edward Nygma’s treatment had only just begun. 

Chapter Text

Palace of Woe, Pleasure Quarters of Lady Darkseid

    “Hahahahaha! Did you see the look on that idiot’s face?” the blonde haired queen roars, sitting up in her massive, expansive bed as she points right at the yellow tube of energy that rolled in waves through the air. It was odd to the uninitiated, but to her? Simply another facet of her life.

The viewing tubes, an offshoot creation from the Boom Tubes, similar anomalies that allowed the forces of Apokolips to travel through the vastness of space. The viewing tubes, while similar, were different in their function though, and instead of allowing one to physically travel through it, let you instead look through it and ‘view’ things, hence the term Viewing Tube.

The added bonus to this was that you weren’t only limited to what was currently happening at any given moment. The Viewing Tubes allowed the one doing the viewing to look back through time, to any event that had already occurred. Not forward though, never forward.

Why was this? Not even the top scientists, which Kara didn’t put much stock in anyways, could figure it out. They’d only created the device, and only by accident to boot. They had not the slightest idea how it worked. Regardless, it was enjoyable for the goddess who ruled over Apokolips, and she spent much of her time simply laying in her bed and watching it.

At that moment her back was propped up against a horde of pillows, the woman who had felled entire planets and decimated species enjoying above all the luxury of soft comfort. The blankets that adorned the bed were all red in color and embroidered with the symbol of the once proud House of El of Krypton.

She laid, as was also usual for her, naked atop it, her large and proud breasts on full display though her womanhood remained hidden due to how she laid upon her side, legs crossed over one another.

Her euphoric outburst had interrupted the ministrations of one of her Korugarian servants, who kneeled upon the bed clad in only a loincloth, the rest of her body naked as was to be demanded of all servants who entered her quarters.

She’d been using a warm cloth, imbued with the calming and enchanting aroma of the Liliakar Bush’s leaves over her queen’s thighs, an effort being made to soothe her.

She instantly returned to it as the woman leaned back against the pillows again, settling into her previously restful position.