The first one is packing stolen cargo in a uniform that isn't warm enough for the weather, visibly shivering and slowly turning blue and numb. The snow makes a light dusting of his hair—he went to the trouble of stealing the jacket but didn't see the hat as being a priority. He likely wishes he'd possessed more foresight.
He stops, takes a moment to rub his arms, to rest a moment. If he isn't in decent condition at all times, he can expect to be tackled by the first do-gooder, police officer or no, that thinks it's worthwhile to take them down for the larceny.
She adjusts the zoom lens in her mask, brushing her fingers as lightly as she can for the sensitive equipment. It's boring to watch, but this is the closest she can force herself to get to a night off.
The man lets out a cloud of steamed breath and turns to his friend who comes crunching through the dirt and iced street. "Whatcha got for me?"
"Oh, not much…" The other sits down to make it clear he has no intentions of helping, leafing through a battered appointment book that was likely found in the trash. He's missing some of his lip, and slurs a little when he speaks. "With all the flying rodents starting to crack down people are getting tight lipped about what they need done."
The man responds in a harsh bark. "I don't need a disclaimer, man, just tell me what you've got written out."
"Okay, so there's an official notice been sent out, a miss Dr. Friitawa is working out a new chemical and needs hands to get the supplies." She tunes in with her radio.
"An official notice? Since when do people like us send out official notices?"
"She ain't like us, she's a doc."
Friitawa. She wracks her brain for what she knows of Gotham's non-supernatural underworld. Linda Friitawa with the alias of "Fright", generally falls under Batman's territory but obscure enough that any one of his other associates might choose to intervene instead.
But the case is worth running into interference. She stays and listens, easing off of her protesting legs and making a mental note to have Firebird do scouting work in Black Mask's territory.
"What kinda supplies are we going after?" He starts packing again, the muscles in his arms clearly straining with a workload heavier than he's used to, stretching out the tattoo of a snake she knows is under his sleeve.
"Hell, I don't know. Probably something in Ace Chemicals, what does it matter?"
"It sounds too high risk."
He's the type of criminal that hears about Gotham's more eccentric residents and opts instead to eke out a living with meager jobs like stealing a truck of silver eating utensils.
"That's your problem. No ambition or nothin'. You gotta apply yourself."
"Apply myself to another ten years in prison?"
The friend kicks at sludge and checks his appointment book again, squinting at his own bad handwriting. "Well, word has it Frosty is switching bases and needs some muscle to move his equipment," he offers finally.
"And get frostbite? No thanks." It seems the one packing boxes, despite appearances, isn't as desperate for work as the initial impressions implied.
The other one snaps, throwing down the book. "Alright, if you can't handle a little cold—"
"I need my legs. I like my legs. Did you hear about the chick that lost her leg? He's a stone cold bastard and he's the kinda guy that Batman shows up to smack around while we're scrambling for cover from one of his freakin' helpers." He's shouting now, perhaps in frustration of the frostbitten air around him. She recalls every epithet that she's overheard people use precisely because they blamed the man for the weather, and a small smirk twists her lip.
"Alright, alright, settle down." The one with the book is doing his best, but the packer is off on a roll, now.
"Whatever happened to all the normal bosses in Gotham? Why are we scrounging for jobs from these costumed freaks?"
"Because the costumed freaks got rid of all the normal people?"
Another smile threatens to break her set expression. The night hasn't been going well, but there are still small amusements to be found.
"This…'Friitawa' chick, she works for Black Mask, right?"
"Sure. I guess he's not as freakish as you can get, right?" The one with the appointment book shakes his head. "I mean, we'll be doing our business with her, though, and I think she's a ghostface, so…"
Now she almost laughs. That would be an embarrassing mistake.
"Really? We have a crocodile man running around and you don't like albino people?"
That isn't fair—she's seen at least three crocodile men but has yet to see anyone with genuine pigmentation deficiencies. Statistically speaking, in Gotham Fright is more unusual than anyone genetically altered in a freak lab accident.
"Shut up man, I've heard some freaky sh—"
Something metal rattles on the other side of the courtyard, and she looks sharply at the source, keeping herself down for when they wildly start swinging their gaze around the perimeter. …Whatever it was has moved out of sight. The two figures are startled into crouched stances for a solid two minutes, not even daring to relax until their heart rates begin to slow.
Moments like these help her appreciate the power of a mask and the symbol she wears on her chest.
"Can't be the Bat," One of them mutters, panic still evident in his voice. "Bat doesn't make noise."
She doesn't relax like they do, muscles still tensed in anticipation for what she knows won't show. They are right about one thing, but all that means is that the chances that it is simply another vigilante to contend with are greatly diminished.
"Yeah. Yeah, Bat don't make noise."
None of them do.
Whatever it was has ruined her reconnaissance. They remain tight lipped for fear of eavesdroppers for the rest of the evening, and she leaves with no more information then she started with.
She took a rag and started to soak some of the extensive pallor off her cheeks.
"Now you only look mostly anemic."
The chuckle that had been held under all night finally bubbled out. It was a little less worn out than usual. The wig came off next, her real hair coming out in a mess of strands.
"Aaand now you've got wig hair."
"Don't push it."
"Sorry." Bette stretched and her arms cracked. "Does this mean I get to patrol now?"
"The sun's up."
"What?" She jumped from her chair at the desk and ran to the window; sure enough, the sun had started to come up over the horizon, dousing the night in pinks and oranges. "You made me spend all night doing research?"
"Yes I did."
"Great. Which didn't help at all, by the way. I didn't learn anything new. There's only so much you can glean from news articles of people going berserk in a place like Gotham, you know."
Kate started to change out of her costume, looking over the newspapers and books Bette had been reading. "Then you didn't look hard enough."
"And what did your night of skulking dig up?"
"Dr. Friitawa is confirmed—whatever she's working on, it's important and she's doing it by herself. Due to her past associations with Scarecrow I'd wager it's toxin related." Kate slipped on a black, backless tux, never dropping her Batwoman voice. "You'll be investigating that tomorrow night."
"Fantastic, more poison to deal with." Bette gave her a pointed look. "You're not going to shower?"
"I don't have time. While you're out, keep an eye on Mr. Freeze." She started to apply perfume to mask the smell of spending all night cracking skulls with her boot and landing in dumpsters. "He's transferring locations and has a warehouse in the area."
"Mr. Freeze? No problem, I'm flame themed."
"Don't start anything. Don't even let him see you."
"I won't." The door slamming was the only noise she made as she left. Bette yawned and collapsed back into her chair. "Bye Kate…"
I'm really sorry that practically nothing happens here, the next chapter will be longer and less superficial.