Disclaimer for all forthcoming chapters: I own none of the recognizable characters, I own only my OC's and some of the story line. I am making no money what so ever on this, so don't sue me.
Tell me what has become of my rights
Am I invisible because you ignore me?
Your proclamation promised me free liberty, now
I'm tired of bein' the victim of shame
They're throwing me in a class with a bad name
I can't believe this is the land from which I came
- They Don't Care About Us, Michael Jackson
It was almost amazing how quickly the great metropolis of Gotham became a desolate ghost-town after the initial uprising.
The outer edges of the city, where the middle and lower upper-class lived and worked, were vacant and deserted almost all hours of the day, curtains and blinds drawn on all windows, doors locked – some even barred, cars dead in the street and no noise except the buzzing of tired street lamps and the occasional miserable yowl of a lonely alley-cat. Light seemed almost afraid to shine through glass into the night, the inhabitants scared that someone, anyone, would come for them for seemingly no reason, and haul them off to certain death.
The inner city, the downtown area, where all the greatest corporations and businesses had ruled and thrived before, were now littered with rubble, trash and the odd dead body in the mouth of darkened back streets. People roamed the roads, thicker crowds than out by the rims of the city, though one could never be sure of the intentions harbored by the group as they headed your way. Were they mercenaries, upholding the frayed and obscure guidelines that passed for law these troublesome days? Or were they a wandering gang of the newly released Blackgate prisoners, hard-cored criminals out for blood and the raping of innocents? Or was it simply a cluster of frightened individuals, finding safety in numbers when going out to look for desperately needed food?
Winter had not quite yet settled over the rooftops and street corners of Gotham. The temperature had plummeted over the first week of the so-called "revolution", almost in sympathy and homage to the lives sullied and lost in the deadly uproar, but still no snow had fallen on cracked concrete sidewalks and no ice had formed along the edges of empty windows, sparing for but a moment longer the homeless and unfortunate.
The faint roar of a large plane sifted down through the thick fog clouding over the sky. No one but those privileged with the information would know that the plane was military, a Hercules cargo aircraft, bringing the negotiated supplies to the broken city. It would fly over the skyscrapers and rooftops twice a week and drop multiple crates of food and medicine, meant for the hungry and hopeful citizens. But it rarely reached the starved, poor people that needed it, because of the gangs of depraved convicts and madmen. Or, if they were quick, the ever vigilant soldiers of fortune with the big guns and hardened eyes. At least about half of what they took went to the needy and sick masses. A dark shadow in the clouds became more pronounced as it descended from the sky, the noise of the Hercules peaking before fading slowly into the darkness of the night, a parachute slowing the fall of a supply-crate revealing itself as it neared the ground in its lazy fall to earth, swaying lightly from side to side. With a scraping sound and a thud, it hit the concrete, the light fabric of the parachute sweeping over it graciously. And for a moment all was quiet again.
Then careful footsteps echoed from a nearby alleyway and a shadowed face peeked out into the dimly lit street, looking both ways twice before setting eyes on the untouched crate. With a deep breath that turned into a light white cloud of exhale, the shade edged out into the open, leaving behind the safety of the close-quarter alley. With the hood falling low on a smooth brow, the face of the crouching figure stayed anonymous as it almost crawled across the pavement, staying out of the direct light from the streetlamps and moving with practiced urgency. There was no time to loose. Surely others had seen the descending package of goods, no doubt hurrying to its drop-off point.
The scritchy-scratchy noise of a walkie-talkie made its way out of a pocket on dirty, tan cargo-pants, "Come in Charley, this is Julius. Have you acquired the package? Over."
A calloused hand gingerly touched the crate while wary eyes continuously darted across the shadows along the buildings, desperate in their search for unwelcome guests. Gloved fingers reach into a large pocket to fish out the offending piece of radio equipment.
"Jules, quit the army talk, we ain't army, alright?" a scoff fogs the air for a second. "I've reached the crate," then with an indulgent sigh, "Over."
"Roger that, over."
The walkie goes back in the pocket before she yanked the pack from her back free. Another quick look around and a hard listen for unwanted sounds. Out of the backpack a folded-up duffel bag is produced and whipped open as she crouches in front of the crate, briefly fiddling with the handle. It's opened easily and the lid carefully lifted until the contents are in plain sight, ripe for the taking.
Time being of the essence, ration-packs and first-aid kits – among other things – are stuffed into the old, tarnished bag with calculated quickness. In the distance shouts and the roaring of engines could be heard, still far off, but close enough that the supplies get dropped into the bag too fast to arrange them properly. With the duffle bag full it's zipped up and put aside as the thief begins to stuff the spacious backpack instead, breathe coming out in quickened bouts now. It was a big crate, and would have more than enough food and medical supplies for several blocks of people, but the mercenaries usually kept two thirds of all the supplies regularly dropped throughout the city, and people were starving.
"Come in Charley, hostiles closing in, over."
Her face turned to the sky, knowing that the other end of the walkie-talkie is up on a roof, high above ground, a necessary look-out when dealing with such risky business. With panicked speed the rest of the rations are shoved into the pack.
"Charley, get your ass moving!"
The sound of engine roar drew nearer, too close for any kind of comfort as she sneered in annoyance and let the lid of the crate drop closed to hide the missing of items for a moment more, possibly buying the desperate woman a little more time for a close-call escape. Charley could see the lights in the distance then, heard the mechanical droning, and quickly the bags were hoisted up and with labored movements as she darts, still crouching low, into the alleyway from whence she came, barely making the comfort of the darkness before the high-tech, camouflage-printed tank pulled up not 10 feet from the half-empty crate, two motorcycles flanking it. Charley forced her breath to quiet, pressing her whole body tightly against the brick wall, trying to blend in with the weathered clay as the mercenaries dismount from their vehicles.
One, two, three, four… She counts ten walking armories in all, leering at the automatic weapons slung across their torsos. She wouldn't stand a chance at that kind of resistance, having only the humble Glock stuffed down the backside of the cargo-pants and the old switch-blade in her front pocket. Charley, fear trying to claw way into an already desert-dry throat, slowly edged along the wall as the mercenaries moved to secure the perimeter, one – luckily – briefly looking into the occupied alley before walking on, gun lowered unthreatened to point at the ground.
Out of the tanned tank climbs a rugged-looking merc, a scruffy short beard grazing his chin, messy, cropped black hair on his head and unfeeling dark eyes scanning the area with practiced accuracy before jumping to the cold hard ground. Their captain, the team leader, el general. He walked in front of the vehicle, hands confidently on his belt as he directed his men to the crate with a few short, foreign, words.
Charley knows she has to speed things up, that getting away alive was a window closing fast. Booted feet make little to no sounds as she speeds up, eyes never leaving the scene by the tank as she knows that they will start shouting in angry, loud voices any second when they find supplies plucked out from right under their noses… again. It wasn't like they didn't have enough already, they were greedy, enjoying holding the public under their thumb with high-priced necessities. Just as her fingers reach for the chain link fence separating the two halves of the alley, the barks and yells echoes down the walls and she hears the orders to search the area. The time to disappear was nigh.
Slinging the duffel bag over her shoulder she climbs the fence just as a merc makes it down her alleyway with his gun raised, ready to shoot and possibly kill at the first sound or sign of movement. "H-hey! Stop!"
She knows he's yelling at her, but it only makes her haul her ass over the top of the fence that much faster, hitting the ground as she launched herself away from it the moment she cleared it, the impact bringing her to her knees. A spout of bullets rain down around her and she scrambles desperately to her feet, head almost at her chest as she scurries alongside the wall, flinching as the bullets give of 'pings' when they hit the metal fence.
"He's down here, hey boss, over here!" she heard from behind her, not bothering to look back as she focused her line of vision on the mirroring alley across from the street she was heading out onto.
"Charley, there's two behind you!" the walkie-talkie screeched from her pocket and she straightens up to sacrifice safety for speed, sprinting across the deserted asphalt without as much as a turn of the head. Hearing their approaching footsteps and knowing sanctuary was at least another alleyway away she pulls out the Glock, firing a few blindly placed shots behind her, hoping to slow them down, if only a bit.
"Arh, my arm!"
Thud.
A grin stretches across her mouth. One down, one to go. More shots pelt the space around her and she hissed as one slices into the sleeve of her hoodie, nicking her upper arm. Hearing the thundering footfalls behind her, she ignored the bite of it and pushed herself harder, making it into the next street as she heard shouts from further behind her, guessing the other mercenaries just caught up to their wounded friend. Charley rushed into the next passageway, a profound sense of relief filling her when she spotted the grate half way down, a dumpster strategically placed on top of it. She knew that she'd have to dispose of her follower before she can get to safety, and to do it before the rest of them caught up.
She fired the rest of the clip behind her, daring a glance over her shoulder. Shit, he was much closer than anticipated. To her agony she missed him complete and swore profoundly under her breath as she stuffed the gun back down her pants and drew out the knife in her pocket. She finally reached the dumpster, having to duck under another row of shots, and she hurled her body, shoulder first, into it, dropping the bags on the grate as it moved back on its ruddy, old wheels. As the mercenary approached she managed to skim around the corner of it as bullets pebbled the wall behind the container, and rolled behind the huge box of stained green plastic before he could get another shot, ignoring the pain in her now sore shoulder.
The knife flings open with a 'sheek' and Charley lets out a calming breath, waiting for the merc to come around the dumpster looking for her. "Come on out, you bastard. I promise I won't shoot," he tried, panting from the little run she'd put him through. Charley resisted the urge to roll her eyes, knowing damn well that the fucker would have no problem pulling the trigger if as much as a strand of her hair came into view.
She could hear his ragged breathing, hear the way his feet hit the ground almost cautiously as all the muscles flexed in her body, getting ready to pounce. A reassuring tug secures the hood over her forehead and she nervously shifts the knife to her other hand.
Come on, you dumb fuck.
The toe of his boots peeked around the dumpster's side. With an angry cry she launched forward and up, catching his rifle with her shoulder to bring its barrel out of harm's way, counting herself a lucky woman that he doesn't pull the trigger right then, which would no doubt have left her deaf and vulnerable. Having anticipated some kind of surprise attack but still not being able to fully prepare for it, the merc stumbled back a few steps but kept on his feet, much to Charley's dismay. One of her arms pushed up, trying to disarm him as the blade, gripped so tight her knuckles had turned white, drove in between two ribs, the slick, sharpened edge easily cutting through jacket, skin and tissue. She tuned out his dire cry of pain, letting her mind go blissfully blank to do what she must, and gritted her teeth as she yanked the gun-strap over his head as he falls to his knees in pain. Charley threw the weapon behind her and backed away from him as he let out a hoarse groan. She ignored the rifle, opting for the silent blade, hoping that its quite killing-potential will buy her a few precious moments, after disposing of this one, to escape from the rest of the mercs. A few seconds pass by undisturbed, before she's forced to take a fighting stance, shoulders hunched and arms up and out, feet spread and knees bent, as the injured merc tried to scramble to his feet, wheezing and coughing. Good, she thought, hit the lung.
"Son of a bitch!" he cried, desperately pressing a heavy hand over the blood-oozing wound in his side. It glittered wonderfully in the light of a fluorescent tube hanging over an emergency exit not far off from where they stood. She could tell he recognized that coughing blood was not a good thing as he stared dumbfounded at the red smatter that colored his hand when he went to wipe his chin. She tried not to get too giddy when she realized that this may go much smoother than originally thought, knowing the bubbling in her chest would only serve to distract her. Pushing it down, determined to enjoy it later, she leapt forward to catch him – hopefully – unaware. A sluggish arm blocked her first punch towards the bloody weak point; an old and dirty trick in the big book of fights and very much predictable. But he doesn't see the fist coming at his face before it impacted, his nose blossoming with pain and a spray of crimson before spreading over his entire skull, his eyes blinded with answering tears as a howling cry lodged in his throat.
As he fumbled in the sudden dark of his vision a stray drop of blood lands on Charley's cheek, and she grimaced and gripped the knife impossibly tighter as she's brought back to the first time she killed another human being.
It had been amidst all the chaos that Charley had taken the mantel of killer that first week of utter disarray and turmoil, one faithful night when she had left her home when what little food she had stocked up had run out. She used to live on the edge of the Narrows, poor by city standards – she'd had the graveyard shift of one of the local gas stations before a flock of newly released Blackgate prisoners had looted and destroyed the place and killed the owner. That night, as her stomach had growled angrily at her for neglecting it so, she had dared venture out into the empty streets, shaking with both hunger and fright, armed with a meager can of pepper-spray and an old purse. Flickering streetlamps illuminated her path as she inched on, practically scuffing her dad's old leather jacket on the brick walls as she crept along them. Before she reached the supermarket at the end of the block a strangled cry crawled up her spine when she warily passed another dark alley. A whimper had her halting her steps and she slowly fished the pepper-spray out of her purse, clutching it to her chest as she moved into the darkness, following the sounds of soft sobs. Truthfully she hadn't known what to expect. She had heard the quiet calls for help and knew she'd had to do something, anything. So with her wildly beating heart in her throat she crawled down the passage, straining her eyes to see through the shadows. The crying grew louder as she came closer and then she saw the source of it as her eyes finally adjusted. A young girl was lying on the cold ground, being kept down by a man at least twice her size, holding a loose hand to her neck as he fumbled with the button on her pants. The girl cried weakly, having given up calling for help when no one had come. A fat lip was seeping blood onto her chin, a bruise already forming across her brow, evidence that she had fought as much as she was capable of. A seething disgust and a hopeless wrath started to congeal and thicken in the pit of Charley's soul then. She noticed the monster looming over the girl was wearing a dirty, grey jumpsuit, the bold lettering on the back reading 'Blackgate Penitentiary' on the back and realized this poor girl probably wasn't his first victim, not by a long shot. The anger took hold of her as the girl choked on another sob, trying to fend him off with feeble hands, and Charley aimed the can at his head, walking forward with determined steps.
"Let her go!" she yelled though her voice was shaky, from fear or rage she couldn't tell, as she stopped approximately three feet from them, the can of spray in her outstretched arm, finger on the release.
The brute finally noticed her and lifted his head with a scowl on his harsh face. When he realizes it's another frail woman threatening him, a bucktoothed grin spread across his mouth.
"Well well, another one wants to play. Don't worry sweetheart, I'll be done in a moment," his voice was filled with malice and cockiness, and he ignored her words, unzipping the girls pants. Charley looked to the girl, seeing her stare back at her with a plea in her watery eyes. Help me. She gritted her teeth and focused her glare back on the rapist.
"I said, let her go!"
When he didn't acknowledge her at all she pressed the button of the spray. It hit the side of his face and took immediate effect as he yells and falls on his ass, scrambling away from her while furiously rubbing his cheek and jaw.
"Go, get up!" Charley shouted at the girl, who doesn't hesitate to follow her order, not bothering to re-do her pants before climbing to her feet and running out of the alley. Charley looked after her, making sure she's reached safety before turning back to the offender to empty the can in his face.
A fist connected with her cheekbone before she even got the chance to look at him and a cry of pain mixed with surprise escaped her as she spun to the ground. The can flew from her hand and landed out of her sight with a rattle as her hands braced her fall, pebbles and sharp something's biting into her palms as she grimaced. A swift kick to the stomach sent her sprawling on her side, the leather jacket taking most of the damage.
"You bitch!" the assailant growled, standing over her, one side of his face red and swollen from the pepper-spray as he sneered and glared down on her curled up form, "You fucking bitch! You're gonna pay for that."
He kicked her again, this time in the ribs, and all the air that was left in her lungs rushed out, leaving her weak and breathless. As she gasped, trying to suck in just a tiny breath, a hand fisted in her shoulder-length hair. He pulled her up by that grip and she whimpered, hands clinging onto his as she scrambled up to stand.
"Let go," she cried, even though she knew there's no way he'd actually comply, "Please."
"Please? You trying to beg me, girl?" he laughed in her face, Charley cringing as the foulness of his breath hit her full on. Then he threw her against the wall, blanketing her body with his. Bile rose in her throat as the wrath let way to desperate fear, and she duck her nail into his hands as they closed around her throat. No, the word echoed horribly through her mind, no, no, no, no no no no no, NO NO NO, PLEASE NO.
But no one came to her rescue; no one heard her desperate cries as the monster fumbled with the weathered button on her jacket, his hands clumsy and heavy. This is what you get, she thought as another whimper escaped her, for trying to help someone. The one time you go out during this hell on earth, and this is what happens.
"Stay still sweetheart, and I'll let you live," he leans in to whisper against her neck, and she has to fight with all her control not to vomit and pass out. His stubbled chin is pricking the sensitive skin on her throat and she prays to whatever entities there might be that it'll be swift and painless when he kills her. Hope is a long gone memory when his thick fingers finally rip the last button, hands immediately groping her through the t-shirt underneath. Charley tried one more time to knock his hands away, slapping his cheek with as much force as she could muster. The hand around her neck loosened for just a tid-bit, and she took the chance, trying to dart off to the side. But another hard punch to her abdomen stopped her before she could move more than a few inches, the hand now gripping her throat to the point of choking.
"Fucking bitch, you think you can run?" he hissed, now unzipping her jeans, and she cried out again. She choked on her sobs and tears started tumbling down her face.
A cold, smooth object pokes the hand that she'd let fallen to her side. At first she couldn't really feel it, couldn't really register anything else than the despair and pain filling up her body and mind. The poking became more insistent and finally she let her head roll to the side, her face scrunching up almost painfully as another rough hand tried to yank down her pants before busying itself with his own zipper.
Charley's eyes widened considerably and a sob got stuck in her chest when she laid eyes on the girl she had saved not five minutes ago. The girl was shaking and her eyes were wild as she poked Charley's hand again. She looked down to see a large-ish wine bottle touching her skin. She looked, stricken, from the girl's gaze to the bottle a few times. And just as the beast – too preoccupied to have noticed Charley's saving grace - finished pulling down his own pants and grabbing for her breasts, a tremendous strength and an unquenchable spirit shot straight to her soul, that violent and magnificent fury returning through the haze of despair, and she wrapped her fingers around the bottle's neck.
"Hey fuckface," she whispered, shakily but loud enough for him to notice.
"Yeah?" the sneer on his face transformed to an awful grimace when she swiftly kneed him in the groin, taking advantage of his temporary lapse in attention, and he yelled and stumbled away from her, clutching his private parts. "Fuck!"
As the first full breath entered her lungs she lifted the bottle, vengeance burning in her eyes. He looked up just in time to see the hatred on her face and the glint of the glass as it came swinging for his head. It shattered against his skull, coming home right above his ear, and with a gurgling groan he dropped to the ground. Blood soaked through his greasy, choppy hair and onto the ground as he fell silent. For a second or maybe two Charley just stood and breathed, just focused on pulling the delicious, cold night-air into her lungs, let her system get use of it, before exhaling with a slight tremble down her spine.
"Is he dead?" The timid, almost shrill voice brought her out of her daze and she looked over at the girl-child who stood hugging herself. She stared at the fallen criminal, Charley's eyes following her gaze and warily crouched down beside him, the broken bottle still tight in her grip. She gingerly pressed two fingers to his neck, searching for a pulse. It was weak, but it was there. Fuck. Normally, she'd have run away, go home and pretend nothing had happened. But the festering wrath hadn't let go of her yet. She knew he was evil to the core, knew that if he recovered from this, he'd go about his merry way and continue to hurt others at his own behest, knew that two lives had been brutally defiled that night and that they wouldn't be the last if he lived. She looked to the girl again, saw the angry bruise on her brow, the clotted blood on her lip and the haunted look in her eyes, and she knew what she had to do.
So she tipped him on his back by the tip of her boot, and twirled the bottle in her hand, before crouching down. She jerked when his breath rattled and his eyes cracked open, and she almost backed out. Almost.
With a sneer on her lips and a deathly glare directed at the beast now at her mercy, she lifted the broken glass above her head, and then brought it down hard on his throat. Something told her she should feel sick and disgusted by the way his blood sprayed, the girl gasping and gagging behind her, but she didn't. She saw the light of life leave his eyes, snuffed out, rightfully, by her hand, but didn't feel guilt or remorse.
She felt… nothing. Sweet nothing.
"Now he's dead," she said, her voice devoid of emotion. Standing up she looked one last time at the dead and bloodied body, threw the glass bottle away and turned to the girl, "Are you okay?"
She stared at Charley for a long time, trying to decide if she had jumped from the frying pan into the fire; the woman had just killed a man in cold blood when he lay crippled and helpless on the ground. But then she remembered what he was, what he had done, and what he would most likely had done to her if this angel of wrath hadn't come along.
"Yes, I-I'm okay. I-I-I, h-he didn't, I-I mean, he didn't get t-to…" she couldn't go on as tears of relief and aftershock fell from her eyes and her whole body started trembling. Charley strode forward to catch her before she plunged to the ground, embracing her as sobs raked through her and she clutched onto the leather jacket.
"Shh, it's okay, you're okay," Charley cooed mindlessly as the fury simmered down and gave way to her inborn empathy, her mother instincts on high alert as she did her best to console the weeping child. She maneuvered them out of the alley, away from the gory sight and broken memories, and navigated them out into the lit street.
"Thank you," the girl murmured between sobs. A few minutes passed by before the tears ran out, for now, and she pulled away to dry her eyes, "If you hadn't-"
"No, don't think about it right now," Charley said quickly, holding the girl by her shoulders, "You survived, we survived, that's what matters right now." Tears burned her own vision and she wanted nothing more but to be held by her own mom and sob until her body became dehydrated and weak, but right now she didn't have that option. For one, her mother was thousands of miles away. And second, she had to take care of this kid, had to take her somewhere safe and make sure she really was alright. She looked into the girl watery blue eyes, "What's your name?"
"Julie," she hiccupped and ran the back of her hand under her nose.
"Hi Julie, I'm Charley," she smiled softly, letting go of her shoulders and sticking out her hand. Julie shook it, sniffling and trying to smile through her puffy eyes.
"That's a boy's name," she hiccupped again, a huff of choked laughter bubbling out of her.
Charley actually grinned this time, "So I've been told."
The memory was over in a few seconds; Charley blinked and narrowed her brow. The merc was blinking his tears away, glaring at her, baleful. The knife switched hands as he came for her, fists raised and ready; she ducked under the first swing and punched the knife-wound between his ribs. He crumbled to the ground with a scream. A cheap shot, she knew, but right then she needed to end it; the rest of them were getting closer, the shouts becoming louder by the second.
This damned rebellion had left no survivors in its wake, had left no one untouched by its sweeping embrace. Many were forced to do things no man, woman or child should ever have to do, let alone be able to. It reduced the population of Gotham to nothing but beasts, animals, who had to give into instincts of survival if they wanted to live on. Unspeakable acts of cruelty and necessity happened frequently and unhindered, the Law trapped underneath the city and unable to help the people as they had sworn to protect. Mothers became murderers and children became orphans.
Charley stepped around him and jerked him up by his short hair. He groaned and tried to resist, but went still as a mouse when he felt the cold, sharp steel of her knife digging into his jugular.
"Okay, okay, chill, chill," he tried to negotiate, holding his hands up in a peace-offering, "I-I give up, I-"
He didn't get a chance to work out another syllable before Charley pressed the blade against his skin with force and dragged it across in one swift movement. Blood rushed down his front, soaking through his clothes as she let go off him, and he fell to the ground in an inanimate heap. As the last breath of air left him, gurgling in thick crimson liquid, she was already at the grate, opening up the hatch to reveal a dank, dark passage underneath. She shoved down the bags before climbing down herself, closing the hatch and drawing the container back over it by a string attached to the bottom of it. Halfway down the ladder she saw the flickers of flashlights and the shouts of the mercenaries as they reached their fallen comrade.
"Suckeeers," she sung under her breath and climbed the rest of the way down before hoisting up the bags once more and reaching into her pocket for the walkie, "Jules, come in. I'm in the clear… over." For an agonizingly long ten seconds the line was silent, and all of her worst fears started to bubble and sputter under the surface.
"Charley, this is Julius, roger that. Meet you at HQ, over."
A breath of relief rushed out of her at the sound of her partner's voice. She adjusted the straps on her shoulders and started walking along the tunnel, navigating by touch alone as the blackness engulfed everything around her.
Charley did not feel guilty. She did not feel regret or remorse. She didn't feel the need to repent or grieve over the life she had taken. Why should she? He would have killed her had she not struck first. It was kill or be killed. Gotham had turned into a dog-eat-dog kind of town, and she'd be damned if she ended up on someone else's plate. No, she would survive, as she always had. She would adapt, she would change, she would nurse the wrath and viciousness that festered in her soul, because it made her capable of these otherwise terrible acts, so others wouldn't suffer. She would become a vengeful spirit, and she was determined to carry on with her deeds as long as she could still draw breath.
No one should hurt the way she had. The way Jules had. Whenever that pesky ghost of reason and shame resurfaced in her she needed only think of how Jules had looked that night, how her young eyes glistened with a torment no woman should know – let alone a thirteen year-old girl, the crimson smear on her pouty lips that should have been upturned in a carefree smile, the uncontrollable shaking in her slim body. When she remembered that, all the unwanted guilt and regret melted away like snow in the sun.
She would kill, depraved of feeling, if she had to. When she had to. One more wouldn't hurt the growing count.
Hello there! So, this is my first fic in the Dark Knight trilogy. It's a fic I've been working in for some time now, it will be somewhat of a rollercoaster ride. The rating is for violence, language and mature content, so pretty much the whole shabang! So I hope you'll enjoy the story.
Tremendous amounts of thanks to my beta HarleyQuinn88, you da bomb!
Review if you liked it, thanks!
TBC