The dull white wall of a high-security cell slid open, three trained officers advanced into the bright space beyond, two with guns held tightly, the third with a taser and a pair of handcuffs. A small form was sitting on the edge of the white bunk, hunched over her hands, she turned sharply observing the three men, each dressed in dark blue, she smiled grimly. The tallest officer flinched as she made eye contact with him, her huge gun-metal grey eyes cold and sunken into her white face.
"To what do I owe the pleasure of your visit, officers?" she said, her voice raspy.
None of the navy clad men responded, they simply set about their work, handcuffing the woman carefully, checking her for any weapons concealed on her person and escorting her out of her cell for questioning.
"Now, you aren't going to be like this are you?" she smiled at the tall officer.
He grunted.
The prisoner's chapped lips turned higher into her grin, cracking and bleeding, she pressed her lips together momentarily, when they curved back into a smile they were cherry red with blood.
"Awe, now, Adam, can't you talk to me?" the woman said in a silky voice, she moistened her bloody lips with her tongue. "I just want someone to talk to. A little comfort. Being in that cell month after month gets rather lonely, you know."
"Miss, we can't," the wider officer said sharply.
"But you just did Jimmy," the dark haired woman nearly sang.
Jimmy shut his lips tightly, glares emanating from his partners.
"I see how it is," the woman said, using the back of her hand-cuffed wrist to wipe a trickle of blood from her chin as they reached a secure door. "Thank you for your excellent escort services, I appreciate them, but I think Mr. Gordon can take it from here. And so gentlemen, I bid you adieu."
With that, the girl was taken by Jim Gordon and led into the little interrogation room; she smiled at her three escorts, a glint of hysteria in her gun-metal grey eyes.
The interrogation room was small and stuffy, one flickering light and one reflective glass window where people could watch from the other side, two chairs, one on either side of the dingy metal table and a faint smell of camphor or formaldehyde.
"Miss Nightingale," Mr. Gordon said, putting his glasses on, carefully adjusting them on the bridge of his nose until he was satisfied that they were on properly. "Do you know why you are here?"
"I was informed that I was a computer terrorist," the woman said blandly, blinking twice.
"Yes, Miss. Nightingale-," Jim began.
"Please, call me Milo," the girl who sat across the little table from Jim Gordon.
"That is neither here nor there," Mr. Gordon replied professionally.
"I think you'll find that it is," Milo grinned, scabs on her lips re-opening and fresh blood trickling over her bottom lip. "But really, why am I here, in this particular room being interrogated? Can you tell me that?"
"As a matter of fact, I can," Jim Gordon said, adjusting his glasses again. "We have a proposal for you."
"Again?" Milo asked, a smile on her lips but ice in her eyes.
"Yes, Miss. Nightingale," Mr. Gordon sighed. "Again."
"Well shoot then," Milo instructed, leaning back in her chair, shaking the sleeves of her orange jumpsuit back and placing her constrained hands on her crossed knees.
"We would like to offer you a post here," Mr. Gordan said hesitantly.
"A post? Like a job?" Milo asked, her eyes narrowing.
"Yes," Jim Gordon replied. "It would seriously reduce your sentence."
"Okay," Milo murmured. "What does this…position require?"
"We need someone to find out what the computer chips that are being left at various crime scenes mean, we need someone who has a rather strong knowledge of computers and an-er- illicit background. Someone like you, no morals."
"Uh-huh," Milo said, brushing back a strand of long tangled hair behind her ear. "There's something else you want, isn't there?"
"We would need you to tell us how you managed to make the majority of Mr. Wayne's fortunes disappear, all without leaving your cozy little apartment," Jim said, disconcerted that Milo knew when he wasn't telling her something.
"I told you I didn't do it," Milo said, grey eyes slits in her thin face now.
"How do you explain it just vanishing?" Jim snapped. "No one else could have-."
"You're right," Milo interrupted. "No one else could have, so it must be me. But it wasn't. You have no evidence that I stole this Mr. Wayne's money, you cannot charge me and therefore you cannot ask me what I did with it because as far as the court is concerned, I didn't steal any money from Mr. Wayne."
"But you have committed similar crimes in the past," Jim stated.
"That's why I'm here," Milo sneered. "Or do you not bother to read your own reports?"
Jim's eye twitched in irritation.
"If you didn't take Bruce's money, who did?" Jim said, instantly regretting using Bruce Wayne's first name.
"On first name terms are we?" Milo laughed. "Fraudulent checks, yes, that was me, extorting money and other valuable items, me also, hacking Mr. Wayne's accounts, no, not me."
"Mr. Wayne is of a different belief Miss. Nightingale," Jim said harshly.
"So are all the other people on the street, why does Mr. Wayne care so much?" Milo snapped.
"Because it's personal, it's his money that's gone, he needs it back," Mr. Gordon hissed. "In fact, he's here to speak with you personally."
"Absolutely lovely," Milo beamed. "Send him in and he can tell you that I said the exact same thing that you've just heard. Won't that be a great waste of your time?"
Mr. Gordon stood abruptly, his chair clattering, pushed onto its back legs, it tipped backwards and halted. Milo looked at it with a bemused expression on her face as Jim Gordon exited the cinder block room, running his hand through his grey and black hair in frustration, hunched slightly beneath the fabric of his wrinkled suit.
He was replaced quickly with a tall, dark haired man dressed in an immaculate suit; an expensive watch glinted on his wrist as he stepped into the room, black loafers clacking on the floor. He set Gordon's chair back up and seated himself carefully.
"By all means," Milo grinned lopsidedly. "Take a seat, please, I insist, No really, it's fine, do sit."
The man tilted his head slightly.
Milo imitated him, her gun-metal grey eyes glinting in the harsh lighting.
"I am Mr. Bruce Wayne," the man said smoothly.
"I know who you are," Milo snorted. "Mr. Wayne, Gotham's shining star, Mr. Playboy himself, come to pay little old me a visit."
"You could say that," Bruce replied.
"I just did," Milo quipped.
"Very good Miss. Nightingale," Bruce said.
"Please, call me Milo," the dark haired woman asked.
"Alright then, Milo," Bruce Wayne said, trying Milo's name out in his mouth. "I have a few questions for you, before you can begin work for this establishment."
"Ask then," Milo said.
"Why won't you admit that you stole my money?" Bruce asked sharply.
"I knew this guy once," Milo began, causing confused expressions to appear on the faces of everyone who was listening. "Real nice guy, good kid too, his name was Tommy. Can't remember where I met him, but he and I, we go way back.
"So one day, Tommy was carrying out business as usual, and I'm sure you all know the business I'm talking about, just going about, not bothering anyone, well, except the people he had to 'see', if you know what I mean.
"But anyway, he was just going along, back from a meeting, when he gets pulled over by a police car. Tommy, the good kid that he is, pulls over, it's dark out, late, and the cop comes to his car with a flashlight.
"Tommy rolls down his window and says hello to the cop. The cop doesn't say hello back, just asks for license and registration. So Tommy gives the papers to the cop and the cop reads them. Tommy doesn't know what he's done wrong, he wasn't speeding and he didn't whack anybody. So he says to the cop, what's wrong officer?
"The cop doesn't answer, just keeps looking at the papers. Tommy gets real worried now, the car wasn't stolen but the cops, they weren't any good, bad guys, thugs, hired by the other side sometimes. The cop hands Tommy his papers back, Tommy puts them in the glove box and thinks he's getting off, that nothing is wrong.
"He turns to say good-night to the officer because he's real polite, but the guy pulls Tommy half-way out the window, telling Tommy to admit he killed the Italian mob boss. Tommy says he didn't do it, that he's innocent, but the cop just keeps pounding on him. The cop tells Tommy that it would be better if he just admitted what he had done, it would go better in court, so Tommy does what the officer says, admits to killing the mob boss, which is something he didn't do. So the cop pulls out his gun and shoots Tommy right then and there.
"Turns out it wasn't a real cop."
Milo took a deep breath after finishing her story.
"And the moral of the story is?" Bruce said impatiently.
"I don't want to get shot in the face," Milo said.
"Do you know who did steal my money?" Bruce Wayne asked, hoping he didn't accidentally set Milo off into another story.
"Now, this is where the story gets interesting," Milo grinned, propping her chin in her cupped hands, elbows resting on the metal table. "You see, Tommy didn't kill the Italian's boss, but he knew about it, knew who did it, it was his brother, Kevin, Kevin used to be good, but he got into drugs, can't control himself, you know? Anyway, the cop who isn't really a cop tells Tommy that if he squeals on the guy who did kill Louie, the Italian mob boss, then he'll let Tommy go.
"Tommy knows that the guy is lying, he wouldn't let Tommy go, he'd kill Tommy and Kevin and they'd both end up in oil drums in the bottom of the river, so Tommy doesn't tell, gets shot, but Kevin's still alive. He's getting the help he needs now, Kevin is."
"Moral please?" Bruce sighed.
"If you screw someone over, you're both going to end up dead," Milo said carefully.
"So you won't admit you did it, and you won't tell us who did?" Mr. Wayne asked.
"Bingo," Milo giggled. "You've got it!"
"You're associated with the mob?" Mr. Wayne asked.
"Now, that's a real big accusation right there," Milo said, grinning.
"It's true isn't is?" Bruce questioned.
"I knew a few guys, some girls too, that's not 'in'," Milo said.
"So you know the crime lords in this city?"
"No, I met Tommy in a different city, Phillie maybe, I can't remember," Milo replied.
"These mobs, they'd help you, the ones from wherever Tommy was?" Bruce asked.
"You're pretty worried I'll get away," Milo stated. "Don't worry, I'm just a computer geek, I can't do any of that other stuff."
"Answer my question," Bruce said.
"Yeah, they'd help me," Milo said, lacing her fingers together. "If Tommy was still there, or some of the other guys I knew."
"Tommy's dead," Bruce told Milo.
"I never said he died," Milo spat. "I said he got shot in the face."
"Okay," Bruce said. "Here's the deal, you don't need to tell me who took the money, because as far as I'm concerned, it never happened, you take the job, but when you get out, you work for me."
Milo stared at Bruce, he stared back, the corner of Milo's mouth twitched and she burst out laughing.
"You've got yourself a deal!" Milo exclaimed. "Now do you mind telling me exactly what I'll be doing?"
"There have been certain…disturbances of the peace here in Gotham City," Bruce said carefully.
"Like always," Milo scorned.
"And there are certain clues left by the perpetrator," Mr. Wayne continued. "The Gotham Police Department needs someone to decipher them, someone with experience in the criminal world and someone who is clever enough to see things that everyone else missed, someone like you."
"You flatter me," Milo fawned. "But I will need to see these clues to tell you if I am able to solve them. Otherwise, you might as well just put me back in that cell, because we all know that's where I'm going if I prove to be useless."
"I'll talk to Mr. Gordon, see if we can't get you an upgrade," Bruce said.
"Much appreciated," Milo thanked Bruce, "but how do you know about all this, you're not a police man and you're sure as hell not batman."
Bruce was stung.
"I know things," Bruce replied.
"And that's probably what gets you into trouble," Milo told Bruce sagely.
"Thanks for that little miss jail-bird," Bruce said, standing, "Mr. Gordon is going to come in and tell you about your assignment."
"So it's just Mr. Gordon that uses first name terms between the two of you huh? You're too embarrassed to admit it?" Milo said.
"Admit what?" Mr. Wayne growled.
"That you're gay!" Milo taunted, standing and dancing out of Bruce Wayne's angry hands.
"You little-," he snapped.
"Ah, ah, ah, be a good little boy now," Milo laughed as Jim Gordon entered the room.
"Thank you Mr. Wayne," Jim Gordon said hurriedly, directing Bruce to the door, fuming, Bruce left.
"Touchy isn't he?" Milo grinned.
"Mr. Wayne isn't one to be mocked," Jim said.
"Just call me a mockingbird then," Milo said, re-seating herself. "So, how about my assignment, so to speak."
"What do you need?" Mr. Gordon asked.
"To be let out of this cell and get my life back," Milo mused.
"I mean for the case," Jim snapped.
"Of course that's what you meant," Milo snickered, savoring her own private joke. "I need to see the evidence."
"Yes, of course," Mr. Gordon said. "But I need your word that you will not tamper with the devices or purposefully destroy them."
"Okay, a girl's only as good as her word," Milo agreed. "Show me this evidence."
Jim Gordon signaled through the reflective window for the evidence, a small, fidgety woman brought in a series of small yellow card paper envelopes and deposited them on the table between Milo and Mr. Gordon.
"Thank you," Mr. Gordon said, obviously dismissing the woman.
"Wait," Milo said as the woman started to walk out.
"Yes?" the woman asked timidly, turning to face Milo.
"Do I know you?" Milo asked, gun-metal grey eyes glinting like steel, her voice losing its lilting accent.
"I-I don't believe so," the woman stuttered.
"Oh, I must have been mistaken," Milo grinned, her accent just as firmly in place as her false smile.
The woman hurried out of the room.
"Why do you do that?" Mr. Gordon asked.
"What?" Milo wondered.
"Make people nervous like that," Jim replied.
"It's a habit I've never quite kicked," Milo shrugged.
"I expect you to stop immediately, I can't have a department full of frightened officers," Mr. Gordon explained. "Now please open the envelopes and tell me what you make of their contents."
Mr. Gordon leaned back into his chair as Milo reached for the first yellow envelope, her eyes not leaving Mr. Gordon's. The envelope wasn't heavy, it was light, and Milo could feel a small object within, she tipped it carefully into her cupped hand, her bindings gone for the moment, removed by Mr. Wayne.
She turned the little square over in her hand, practiced fingers running deftly across the ridges and depressions that snaked across the little green and gold object.
"Beautiful," Milo breathed.
"It's a micro-chip," Gordon filled in.
"I know damn well what it is," Milo snapped. "I've never seen anything like it; it's advanced, far more powerful than anything that we have now. For the amount of information that could be stored on here, it should be called a nano-chip."
"There's nothing on it," Gordon said. "We've scanned it, searched it and reproduced it, it's absolutely blank."
"No, it can't be," Milo said, still turning the nano-chip between her fingers. "There's something there, you can almost feel the information thrumming inside it, trying to escape. Maybe you just don't have the equipment you need to read it."
"Perhaps," Gordon agreed through his teeth, irked that someone else might have technology stronger than the GPD's.
"I need my own equipment," Milo said, "I might, just might, have something there that I could modify to read this chip."
"I can't do that," Gordon said.
"Why not?" Milo asked.
"Your equipment would be a security breach, you could have anything on it," Mr. Gordon explained.
"I guess you don't really want to find out who did this," Milo said. "If you did, you'd get me my things back."
Mr. Gordon gritted his teeth.
"Fine," he hissed. "I'll get your equipment, but you must give me your word that you will not use it for illegal purposes."
"I'm only as good as my word," Milo said. "I agree to your terms."
"Excellent," Mr. Gordon said. "I'll have your equipment transferred to your work room by tomorrow. That is all."
Seconds later, the same three officers who had escorted Milo from her cell returned to the questioning room, guns and tasers in hand, prepared to remove her and return her to her cell.
"Whoa there fellas," Milo grinned, "I'm going to come quietly, there's no need for those guns."
The three police officers stayed perfectly silent this time.
"One of these days, boys, one of you is going to crack," Milo said thoughtfully. "Just you wait."
A shudder ran down Mr. Gordon's spine.
Milo grinned through her cracked lips as she was led out.