A/N: Hey, guys! I just got back from a long hiatus and will be updating both of my stories pretty soon. So be on the lookout. This story is kind of an experimental type thing that I'm not sure I'll continue. I was bored the other night and started coming up with a bunch of OCs and this was the outcome. Either way, enjoy!
Title: Cry of the Wolf
Rating: T
Chapter One: The Urge
It isn't the resounding claps of thunder that stirs Danielle Black from sleep, nor is it the chill of the unheated motel she resides in, but it's the familiar itch. Before she can even open her eyes she recognizes it. The urge is pulling her back in to its dark embrace. And this time she won't refrain. No, Danielle will cave at its slightly prodding insistence and put on the costume once more.
She didn't ask to be like this; a criminal with an insatiable taste for blood. But when you're the only living member of your family and when you live in a city like Gotham, it's fight or flight. And she isn't too big on choosing the latter. It's a good thing the Batman only knows her alias or she would've been fried in Blackgate by now. Not too many criminals in this town have the luxury of being able to outsmart Batman. Nor do they know his true identity, like she does. Years of covering birth and identification documents have given Danielle an advantage on the caped crusader. She refuses to let the doctors at Arkham send her blood tests to the hero, as well as any form of DNA. Jervis Tetch assists her in that field in return for her protection and alliance to him. But he knows better than to ask for Batman's identity.
Ironically, she had discovered the truth atop the Wayne Tower. Batman had fallen to the ground, having been grazed by a bullet from Wolf's Shepherd. She carried that gun purely because of the joke in it. Saying a Wolf owned a Shepherd was like saying Satan held God's very soul in his clutches. Not that extreme, but hey. She's on her own she can say whatever the hell she wants. Weakened by the pain was Batman lying on his side only a few feet away from her. The Joker had applauded her slowly and stepped beside her, nudging ever so slightly.
"Go ahead," his sickly sweet voice had encouraged. "This one's on you."
The white-skinned man had turned on a polished heel and walked away from the black hood of the Wolf. She grimaced behind her shroud as she kneeled next to Batman. The hero groaned, reaching for his utility belt slowly. Nothing could be heard over the piercing wind deafening the three souls atop the building. With trembling hands, Wolf reached down and took hold of the pointed tips of the Bat's cowl. Blue eyes peered up at her. Unchallenging, trusting, almost welcoming blue eyes. She began to tug.
A whizzing right past her ear caused her to jump back a little, letting go of the ears. A groan sounded from behind her and she turned just in time to watch the Joker stagger backwards and off the side of the tower, clutching the batarang lodged in his stomach the entire way. She turned on Batman, who was now on his feet. The tall figure stood at the opposite ledge of the building looking over the Gotham City lights. Snow fell all around the vigilante, topping his grey-clad shoulders in white. The Wolf stared at his back as he readjusted his mask atop his face.
"Wolf," he says, all gravel disappeared from his now executive-like tone. His profile is illuminated as he turns to cast a sideways glance at the lone villain. "I will find you someday."
And then, with a swooping sound and a gust of breeze, he was gone, leaving a dumbstruck criminal in his wake. She had heard that voice enough times on the television and the radio to know who it belonged to. She just couldn't believe she hadn't known sooner.
Playboy billionaire Bruce Wayne had a secret.
A curious furrow creases her brow as Danielle walks the bare room. So many problems to solve; so little time to deal with them. She made herself a mental note to share that line with Eddie. He does enjoy such matters after all. Which brings her to problem number one: paying Mr. Nigma his winnings. Of course she doesn't have to pay him in full. He reserves that consequence for the villains who genuinely piss him off like Joker and The Penguin. But not for his favorite villainess. Even so, the discounted amount was still a hefty price to pay for something as silly as a bet made to pass time in Arkham.
Said bet was on which staff member would crack first. Endless weeks of taunting and ribbing the guards and doctors resulted in a moderate jackpot for one Edward Nigma. Danielle's bet had been on the head physician, Dr. Martenez. As fate had it, though, Eddie was a certified antagonist and wore away at a guard's sanity until he ran from the yard nearly pulling his hair out.
The harsh light of the motel bathroom flickered on and Danielle stared down the person in the mirror. Rubbing absent-mindedly at the J-shaped scar on her forearm, she observes her disheveled appearance. Black hair swooping across her left eye. Seafoam irises darkened by dilated pupils, accentuated by dark circles below. High cheekbones and a set jaw gives her a defiantly independent air. Yep. This is who she is. This is Danielle Black.
With a sigh, the young woman retreats from the cramped space and flops back down on the mattress. The dull ache at the backs of her eyes lessens when she closes them. She can't do this for long, however. The itch still burns at the base of her spine, making its way up to her heart and back down again. Damn, she wishes she could go back and change all the mistakes she's made. They say a Quantum leap would do just fine. But no one knows the true extent of her regrets. No one. Except for him.
Her neutral expression shifts to a scowl. That man is insufferable. With his god-damned hyenas and his laughing gas and his bone-chilling cackle. She'd rather be publicly executed than go back to his side. Anyone in their right mind would. The villainess would never wish someone's fate into the hands of Batman, but she would pay a lot of money to see that clown get his ass kicked by his worst enemy. And he deserves it, too, for what he does to that jester of his.
What's her name? It's a play on words... damn. H-something.
Lightning flashes, illuminating everything in the puny motel room fleetingly. Danielle sighs and rests her body and her mind once more. Everything would've been so much different, so much better if it hadn't been for him. But she owes him her life, seeing as he saved it.
Her body aches. The tears in her costume prove to not only herself, but to the rest of the judgemental thoughts in her head, that she failed. She will never live up to her father's legacy. She let him down. But what did she expect? She can't even meet her own standards, much less those of a dead man. Even as she bleeds out onto the cold, unforgiving pavement, she can feel shame overcome the pain of her wounds.
Danielle's eyes flutter shut. Her chest moves minutely. She knew this was a bad idea. She knew it! But something in her blood told her to try. Something pushed her out of bed that morning and dressed her in a vigilante outfit, ordered her to make something of herself.
That 'something' was hope.
And even though it was just a glimmer, a faint speck in the darkness, it was enough to actually pull her from her reverie and give her the confidence she needed to do something with herself.
The next thing Danielle knows, she's nestled against a muscular chest, the erratic breathing preventing her from falling asleep like she so desperately wants to. Sudden darkness encloses her. She's laying on someone: who, she doesn't know. And frankly she doesn't care. A hand combs through her loose hair, caressing her bruised scalp and making her feel instantly better, emotion-wise. She opens her mouth, lips cracking as she does so, to say something to the person, but is stopped by a gentle yet firm hand pushing her jaw closed.
"Shh..." a female voice soothes. Danielle's eyes open and she finds herself staring up at a white, grease-painted face and stark arctic eyes. A smile crosses the lips of the woman.
"Harley, be quiet." says a harsh male voice from the front seat of the car. The raven-haired girl smiles back at the clownish face hovering above her own. But the smile on said face has fallen slightly. Something about that man rubs Danielle the wrong way. The girl seems nice enough. He doesn't have to be a jackass to her.
"Sorry, Puddin'."
That's the last thing she hears before blacking out.
Who was that woman? The memory, though vague, is plaguing the young criminal. All she remembers after that is waking up in the emergency room at Gotham Medical with a playing card on the side table.
You owe me one.
- J
Those playing cards stopped showing up at her hideouts on the night she became the only one besides Mr. Wayne who shared Batman's secret. She owed him nothing. Not after what she did for him. That clown can rot in hell. She is done with him. He's the one who made her what she is today. In a sick way, she thinks she should thank him. Now she has the ability to retaliate.
Danielle shakes the thoughts from her mind and switches to her most prominent issue.
The persistent urge to don her crusader uniform and roam the streets of Gotham City.