As soon as Mooney and the creepy fedora man were out of earshot, I elbowed Oswald in the ribs, hard enough to make him lose his footing. As he stumbled, I reached out, and instinctively grabbed him by the collar, slightly alarmed at how frail he was; I hadn't been trying to mow him over. Now that I was up close, and no longer preoccupied from protecting my head, I could see the man much more clearly. He was painfully skinny, and his bones were small, with wrists so thin that I could wrap my thumb and pinkie finger around his forearm and still have them touch. His skin was the color of grey chalk, and seemed to cling unhealthily to the lines of his frame, and the area around his eyes was sunken and dark, quite a contrast to the bright, intelligent green of his irises. Bruised lips covered the rows of uneven teeth, and he felt slick in my grasp, as if there was only liquid beneath the expanse of his sickly white skin.
The black of Cobblepot's suit was sharper than steal against ashen hued flesh, and I could see tiny flecks of dandruff clinging to his dark, oily, hair. He felt awkward, way too slippery to trust, and wrong, like God had forgotten something when he put him together in his mother's womb. It was unsettling and enthralling, and I hated it.
Dear God, I hated it.
"What the hell was that for?" My voice was a violent, uneven hiss, and he seemed to shrink to about half his size, which wasn't exactly very big in the first place. His shoulders bowed inwards, and his face contorted into an expression of fear.
"I-I'm sorry, m-ma'am, I-I thought you were on-one of the h-homeless people that s-sometimes stick-around af-after the club is cl-closed. M-Mooney doesn't like it when t-they sleep on the b-benches." I glared at him for a good fifteen seconds or so before letting go abruptly. I wasn't sure I believed him, but instinct told me that he was too smart to make enemies with. He watched me with careful eyes, and I felt as if I was being measured and judged. I interrupted his staring with a frigid, brittle tone.
"Fine, just don't let it happen again. Now show me the ropes, Oswald." He nodded rapidly, setting off at an awkward, tottering pace, and I felt an unwarranted pang in my chest, a fluttering of weakness that settled uncomfortably in my mouth. Gotham was no place for the frail or handicapped- the kids were as hard as the people, and concepts like a no bullying policy just didn't take root in the cities school systems. I could almost taste the bitter brokenness in his gait.
Following after Oswald (which was not as easy as it looked, let me tell you, that bastard's quick), I tried my best to listen to his poorly oriented tour of the club. I suspected Fish just wanted me out of the way so she could talk to that Harvey guy in privacy, but I didn't say anything to Oz(Oswald is just too long of a name for me to bother employing), as I didn't want to start off... whatever the fuck this is, on a bad note. I was unhappy about the situation as it were, no reason to make a bad thing worse.
In the back of my mind, I knew I should run while I still had the chance. Knock Cobblepot out and flee, leave the city for good, because Gotham is a sinkhole, and if you don't get out fast, you don't get out at all. It would be in my best interest to accept that this place wasn't savable, and even if it was, it wasn't worth saving. That my mislead loyalty to the hell hole I call home was the braided rope of a noose, and every step forwards took me closer to the gallows.
Fish Mooney may well be by my executioner.
Yet, even as this thought passed through my mind, bringing with it a spectacular assortment of emotions and unwelcome doubts, another came to calm the waters of my raging thoughts.
Afterall, I probably wasn't worth saving either.
I heard Oswald speaking in his shaky, uneven voice ahead of me, and looked up at the ceiling. It seemed impossibly high, an untangible surface blocking out the sun and the stars, leaving me to walk in the shadows cast by the corpse lights of this fancy cemetary. Not realizing Oz had stopped, I almost ran into him, irritation sparking at the inconvinience.
"What the hel-" I stopped abruptly, mid speech, and felt my stomach drop through the floor, feeling a lump swell in my throat. Irritation metamorphisized into every shade of fear and panic from here to hell.
The Devil was standing in the doorway, and his name was Carmine Falcone. Without consciously doing so, I backed up, against the wall, eyes shifting rapidly between Os, who seemed frozen in fear, and Falcone, who was smiling as he talked to the man guarding the door into the alley. Without his reputation preceeding him, Falcone could've been mistaken for a handsome, middle-aged family man, who had brunch with his daughters every Sunday, and enjoyed a close friendship with the mayor. He was, within reason, very charismatic, and highly intelligent.
He was also the Patriach of Gotham's largest crime organisation, and a sick, cold blooded killer.
Beside me, Oswald came to life, his expression rearranging itself into a slippery smile, as he began waddling towards the backdoor. I forced myself to follow him, because one of Falcone's guard dogs had caught sight of us both, and holding back would just make me appear weak. I couldn't afford that, especially with whatever Mooney's plans for me were. Falcone looked up as one of his bitch-boys tapped him on the shoulder, gesturing towards us; his eyes passed over Oz, before coming to rest on me. I could see his mind quietly picking its way over my features, inhaling me, and then exhaling the remainments in haphazard, careless pieces.
I was being judged, and discarded, and I was terrified and furious in equal measures but in opposing instances.
"Salve[1], Mr. Falcone," His expression held a grain of suprise, and he smiled, a friendly, warm thing that tasted like razor blades and blood. Penguin (Or whatever Mooney had called him) smiled eagerly, offering his hand. Falcone took it briefly, as the black haired man stammered.
"I-It's an h-honor t-to meet y-our s-sir." I suspected this was not a completely uncommon reaction, because he seemed more irritated than anything, but that may just be because we were in his way. Realizing I should probably show some sign of respect, I offered my own hand, and, to my relief, he shook it (unlike Harvey). His grasp was steady and firm, not bone crushing or possessive, but I could feel the strength of it, and the threat it held was unmistakable.
"Nice to meet you Mrs. . ?"
"Kylar," I was the first to pull away, earning myself a shark like smile for my trouble. Turning away without a backwards glance, Carmine and his entourage disappeared deeper into Mooney's nightclub. I almost felt bad for Fish. Almost.
Looking over at Penguin, I caught a funny look plastered across his features. It reassembled that of a starving wolf, desperate and raw and dangerous. The expression faded from his face quickly, replaced by his unsteady, lopsided grin, but I had seen his eyes, and they were hungry.
