Set in the Nolanverse.
I don't own Batman or any of the associated characters. Bob Kane and DC can claim that.
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"Thirty eight. Thirty nine. Forty."
Jennifer Tone hung down from the wall-mounted bar by her legs, finishing her last curl. She let her legs slip of and flipped over, landing on her feet. Jennifer's beauty was undeniable. She had the form of a goddess, tall, long-legged, with long, blonde hair. She carried herself with the self-assurance of someone who knew how good they were. And she was the best.
However, the dainty, high class exterior was less apparent at the moment than the fighter that lay within. Layer upon layer of sweat glistened on her skin and soaked her sports bra and gym shorts. Her golden locks were tied back in a pony tail. The few strands that would have hung loose were plastered to her skull.
She strolled over to the small table in the center of her personal training area, dry towels on top of it. Various weight-lifting machines and other exercise instruments littered this padded room, all state of the art. Something no one would know from walking into this two-story building, the second floor of which contained this facility. The building also happened to be placed about a block away from Viti's bakery, the front for his entire operation. It stood as a well-disguised hideout for the favored pet of an old mob hand, a man who looked more and more like he might be the one to step into the vacuum at the top.
As Jennifer wiped the sweat out of her eyes, she thought of all that made it possible for Johnny Viti to rise up the ladder. Harvey Dent's crusade, the Joker's elimination of Gambol and the Chechen, the death of Sal Maroni at the hands of the Batman, and the Batman's capture of the Joker, highest profile resident of Arkham Asylum. A fortuitous set of circumstances for Mr. Viti. Those which placed her here, however were not as fortuitous. Neither were they pleasant to think about. The thought-
Screeching tires interrupted her train of thought. Jennifer pushed out through the door. The training room had no windows, or at least none that could still be used as such. She moved to one of the ones in the dirty hallway, looking out of the cracked glass onto the road below. She could see nothing down in front of her. But there were some lights off to the side that she couldn't quite make out.
Jennifer ran back inside the room and threw on her black leather jacket and pants and corresponding boots. She looked at the motorcycle helmet next to them and thought about taking it with her. The lights didn't look too far off though. She wouldn't need her motorcycle. They were probably only about a b-
"Oh my god," Jennifer gasped.
She grabbed her helmet and sprinted down the stairs. The front door had been sealed long ago, so Jennifer ran to the back, bursting out into the alley. Her slick black Suzuki leaned against the rear wall of the building. She dropped her helmet on the handlebars and turned to run down the alley to the street. Jennifer slowed down as she approached the street, peaking around the corner.
Three black sedans sat, engines running, outside of the bakery. Four men stood alongside the cars, smoking and talking amongst themselves. Jennifer slowly moved forward, straying away from the light, her black clothing providing camouflage against the harsh night. Despite the boots, she made no noise, a wraith slinking down the street. Feeling around in her pocket for something, anything, she found nothing. She had nothing but herself. Hopefully, that'd be enough. Jennifer ran low across the opposite side of the street and slid behind one of the cars, close enough to listen in.
"How much longer?" One of the men, a clean shaven man and the youngest, asked.
A man with a broken nose shrugged and tapped his cigarette, ashes dropping to the ground. A third man, this one with a large scar across his right eye, spoke up. "Long enough to give that old man hell."
The final man, the oldest, sneered. "Shouldn't be too long."
The others laughed. Jennifer gritted her teeth. "How'd they know he'd be here? Who told?" She whispered to herself.
Clean Shave looked at Broken Nose, "So when do we get paid?"
Broken Nose took another drag. "Don't worry, kid, you'll get paid."
Scar spoke up. "Yeah. Alberto's not gonna stiff you. He's good for it."
"Alberto Falcone?" Jennifer made a mental note. She'd look up Mr. Falcone sometime soon. But there wasn't any more time to collect information. She couldn't wait any longer.
Jennifer leapt the hood of the car and landed at a full sprint. The four men barely had time to react when she was upon them. Clean Shave went down without much effort. An elbow to the stomach, palm to the face. She fell to the ground and quickly swept Old Man's feet out from under him, dropping him down with her. Rising, Jennifer disarmed Broken Nose, in turn using the pistol to bludgeon Scar, and put him down as well. Broken Nose tried to grab her, but she simply flipped him over her shoulder and gave him a swift knockout kick to the chops.
With the others down, Jennifer turned to Old Man. His trembling hands grasped for a pistol in his belt. She promptly stepped on his wrist freeing the gun. She used her other foot to send it skittering away. "That's a good way to get us both killed," Jennifer sent her boot down to meet his face, assuring that he wouldn't be getting up. But time was growing short. She ran for the bakery entrance.
Jennifer pushed through the glass door and leapt over the counter. She turned into the back hallway and dashed up the steps quicker than ever before. Second floor. He wouldn't be here. She kept climbing. The third floor. Silence. She ran across to the office, Johnny's personal office. The door was ajar. She stepped in. And covered her mouth.
He was dead. They killed him. Johnny Viti, next in line to the Falcone family crime operation, lay dead, sprawled across his desk. It hadn't been a bullet that did him in, but the large red pool beneath him told her the story of Johnny Viti's end. Johnny, the man who had taken in. The man who had saved her from that world. The only man who truly knew she existed. The man who had been more than a father to her, was now face down among his papers and cigars. His office, for the longest time a source of refuge for the man from the demands of his family and the family, was now a tomb. Words couldn't explain the rage she now felt. They would pay.
Jennifer turned and looked around. Where was Johnny's bodyguard? Whoever it was, he would be by Johnny's side wherever he went. She stepped into the hall and walked down it, searching the other rooms. No one at all. The bodyguard wasn't here. So he was a culprit as well, part of Alberto Falcone's plot. Whoever it had been tonight, he would be found, also.
She made for the stairs, but the familiar sound of tires stopped her, and turned her back to the front of the building. Staring out the window, she could see a car peeling away from the building. The four men were no longer on the ground. If they were in the third car, she couldn't tell as it was now on fire. Two men stood behind it and began to push it. The flaming sedan rolled forward, now a giant bomb on wheels, into the lobby of the bakery. They hopped into the other car and took off.
"Oh no." Jennifer ran downstairs to the bottom floor. A fire now raged in lobby of the bakery. No way out there. She turned to retreat into the actual baking area. Bread, flour and baking equipment had been strewn everywhere. The oven had been tampered with. It was set way too high. A gas line above it wiggled, trying to fight free from its bracing and spew its flame bearing contents into the air. A death trap for anyone caught in here when it went.
Jennifer jumped for the back door. The burglar bar was still snugly locked in place, blocking her exit and keeping the door in place. Jennifer threw herself against it. The door refused to budge. She hit it again. Futile. Another glance up at the gas line told her what she needed to know. The line shook more violently by the second. At this point, it had almost shaken itself free of the bracing holding it to the wall. She couldn't hope to get through the door anymore.
The entire first floor of the building was in flames now. Jennifer dove through the flames and charged up to the second floor. She coughed violently, the suffocating black soot forcing its way into her lungs. Staggering forward, Jennifer looked out through her last hope. The second story window. She pounded on it. The glass cracked. She hit it again. Same result.
Another fit of coughing hit her. Dizziness had begun, her oxygen supply depleted. She needed to get out. Jennifer stepped back and threw her arm across her face. Flat out, she ran at the window and jumped, hitting it with her shoulder. The old, fragile glass gave way easily enough and Jennifer was free. For a moment, she only thought of gasping for fresh air. However, in the next instant, her instincts reminded her she was quickly falling to earth from two stories up. Jennifer pulled her head in and lead with her shoulder again, landing and rolling. She tried to roll to her feet, but pitched forward again to fall face first and palms on the pavement.
Jennifer cast aside the pain and flipped over. The building before her burned brilliantly in the night. The flames had leapt across and engulfed the adjacent buildings along the street. Soon, it would make its way to her block. Maybe burn her shelter down.
Jennifer stood and wiped the soot and ash from her face. Calmly, almost casually, she walked down the street and down the alley to the back door of her building. She entered and ascended the stairs, entering her personal fitness room. Jennifer forcefully tossed the table across the room, the expression on her face remaining neutral and uncaring as she knelt down to a floorboard with a large black knot. She punched it. Once. Twice. Three times before the board shattered. Blood covered the ends of the board still in place. Her blood. She reached in.
Once hidden beneath the floorboards, a large back pack now occupied her hands. Jennifer unzipped a small portion and peaked inside. A seemingly endless supply of bills and promissory notes. Viti's personal fortune, his personal bank. Now hers. She zipped the pack up and slung it over her shoulder. She ran from the room.
Outside, her bike waited for her. The blaze was spreading. It had jumped the street, now attacking the first building on her block. Gotham FD wouldn't make it in time to save these buildings. Who would want them to? Not her. Not anymore.
The helmet fell into place on her head, feeling snug and familiar. She revved the engine and kicked off the side of the building. The bike tore out of the alleyway, out of the street, out of the neighborhood. Jennifer Tone was gone. But she had never been there. No one would know. She had been Viti's precious secret. His little pussy cat.
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Not exactly what I wanted, but I've been writing this story for months and needed a beginning. Things get much better.