Title: Veni, vidi, vici
Author: OnyxSphynx
Beta: Radpineapple
Rating: T
Warnings: Canon-typical violence, language. Content may not be suitable for younger audiences.
"Hi," Osvalda smiles nervously, aware of the girl glaring daggers at her, fidgets with the cuff of her sleeve. "I'm Anne—"
Jaimie breathes deeply. "Osvalda, cut the shit, I'm too tired to deal with that right now. Just...just come in." She feels surprised flit across her face—she wasn't expecting the detective to react this way. Anger, even rage, yes, but not...whatever this is.
At a loss for what else to do, she follows the detective into the small apartment. Jaimie makes her way to the kitchen cupboards. "Selina, go to your room. Osvalda, do you want a drink?" she asks, voice tired.
"No, thank you," Osvalda declines, slightly unnerved by the way Jaimie is acting. The other shrugs, pulls out a bottle of whiskey and a cup, pours herself at least half a cup. The blonde takes a seat in a chair and gestures for Osvalda to do the same. The girl who opened the door grabs a cat and glares at Osvalda harder before opening a door and slams it behind her.
There's an awkward silence as Jaimie stares at her cup, swirls it slightly, and sets it down again. "Say something, please," Osvalda begs, unable to stand the silence.
"What do you want me to say?" Jaimie asks, drained, gestures to them both with a wide sweep of her arm. "Do you want me to apologise for pushing you into the bay? Do you want me to rage at you for coming back, putting us both in danger? Because I can do either." She takes a gulp of her drink, closes her eyes as it burns a path on the way down.
"I'm sorry," Osvalda blurts out. "It just—seemed like the right thing to do at the time. Let you know I was alive, that is."
Jaimie huffs, takes another gulp of her whiskey. "ç'est ce que ç'est," she says dryly. "I appreciate the sentiment, though." They sit quietly for a moment longer.
"I can be your underworld informer," Osvalda offers. "Fish Mooney, your partner Harvey Bullock—they've all lied to you. I would never lie to you," she says, fiercely, reaches over and grabs Jaimie's hand, presses it to her heart. "Never. But there is a war coming, Detective, a bloody war, and I believe you are the only person who can stop the bloodshed—the last good person in Gotham."
Jaimie laughs. "I'm no hero," she says. "I've both seen and committed atrocities in the name of winning a war. How am I any better than anyone else?"
"Because," Osvalda replies, "No matter what happens, Jaimie Gordon, you always try and help. You are the most merciful, courageous, kind person I have met. It would be my honour to assist you." She looks at her watch, smiles at Jaimie. "It's getting late, Detective, and we both have work tomorrow, so I shall take my leave. Good night."
She closes the door softly behind her, leaving Jaimie alone in the room, an empty glass on the table and the detective's hand tingling with the unexpected cold from being removed abruptly from its contact with Osvalda's suit.
The sound of shoes hitting the wet pavement makes Ron Jenkins, City Councilman, turn to see who's come to speak with him. By his side, his temporary advisor—Maryl or Myrtle Jones or something like that—who's filling in for his usual adviser, Dylan, who's out with strep-throat, shuffles her papers.
"Councilman!" the man greets, enthusiastically. "I'm one of your greatest supporters! Could I trouble you for a moment?"
Ron pretends to think on it for a minute before agreeing. After all, all publicity is good publicity as they say. The man produces a telescope-like device from his coat pocket and holds it out to the woman. "Could I trouble you to hold this for me? It's a bit heavy."
"Of course," she replies, and blushes when he thanks her profusely.
"Now, Councilman-" he starts, only to be cut off by a shriek of pain from Myrtle, and the man turns. Myrtle's lying on the ground, the telescope, a metal spike protruding from it, impaled through her eye. He bends down, tuts. "You really should know better than to play with others' things," he admonishes, twists the tube to hide the spike and steps towards the Councilman. Ron tries to flee, terrified, but in his haste, he trips. The mysterious man steps towards him and, bringing the tube to his chest, twists it so that it stabs Ron in the chest, killing him.
"-Politically motivated," Jaimie says, tiredly. She gazes at the lines of writing in the case file, then starts as she realised she's already read the same sentence at least half a dozen times.
Bullock shakes his head. "Nah, politicians are much cheaper to bribe than kill," he disagrees. I didn't mean legal politics, she thinks, but it's a lost cause. Bullock will continue to believe what he does until he sees evidence otherwise.
Suddenly, there's a cup of coffee her desk, and she looks up to see who's brought it. It's Ed, her red-brown hair neatly pinned up, another cup—this one with tea—in her other hand.
"I figured you might want a little pick-me-up," she says, grinning. "Borgia with extra caramel."
Jaimie opens the lid, waits for the steam to dissipate lightly and takes a drink, savouring the flavour. "Thanks, Ed," she says, gratefully. "I really needed that."
"No problem! I figured that since I was stopping by to get myself a cup of tea I might as well get you something," the other says cheerily, then checks her watch. "Well, I'd better get going—good luck on your case, Detectives!"
Jaimie waves to her, then turns back to her paper, ignoring Bullock, who takes a swig of something probably alcoholic, and sighs in relief when she finds that she can finally concentrate.
"O," the tall figure greats the other, both hidden in the shadows, "I trust you've procured what I asked?"
The other, shorter, huffs indignantly. "Of course I did. You're certain this is the best way I can assist her?"
The taller nods gravely. "I'm afraid that, as you know, she would question how either of us procured this—anonymous would be better."
They take a box from the shorter's arms, and before leaving, are stopped by a hand on their shoulder. "Here," the other says, gently placing a ceramic mug with an Emperor Penguin painted on it filled with chocolates. "Caramel sea-salt is her favourite," they say softly, and they stand together for a minute before departing.
They've just finished questioning the suspects for the Jenkins'—oddly enough, the temporary fill-in for the Councilor shared the same last name as him, though they were unrelated—murder, and she's extremely glad for the caffeine she ingested earlier, as, without it, Jaimie doubts that she'd've been able to concentrate.
Bullock, stubborn as he is, insisted for a good half hour that one of their first suspects, Nicky Keatt, a parking-lot mugger, so she now has a headache from trying to make sure that the hotheaded detective didn't harm the man. As she slumps in her chair, trying to ignore the buzzing in her head, it takes her a moment to notice the box on her desk. There's a note—written with a typewriter so no way of tracing it—and a ceramic cup full of chocolates.
Jaimie unwraps one and experimentally takes a bite out of one—Oh. Caramel sea-salt. They're high-end chocolates—she remembers buying a box of these for a date with her first girlfriends—and they melt in her mouth. Bullock sees her reaching for another and quirks an eyebrow. "Got an admirer, eh, Gordon?" he sneers when he catches sight of the note. Jaimie ignores him and pushes aside the note—Hello Detective, we think this may aid you in your efforts, regards, your humble servants—and there, right on her desk, sits ten years of documentation on both Jenkinses—communication, relationships, people who they've crossed—as well as a file of information on the damage done by murder weapon, and similar incidences.
She leafs through the papers, wondering who on earth could've gotten all of this, and stops dead. Because there, right amongst the papers, sitting nestled innocuously, lies the biggest lead: a brochure advertising the Wayne family's plan for the Arkham project.
She pulls it out eagerly, barely even noticing when Bullock glances over her shoulder and opens it. There's a short summary of what Martha and Thomas' idea: demolish the slums and build affordable low-income housing. And since they're dead, the Arkham project has turned into the battleground between Falcone and Maroni, each of them submitting competing plans for the development to the City Council.
The back door opens, bell tinkling slightly, and two men enter, each carrying a large bag. Osvalda watches in apprehension as they place them on the table behind the screen, and a few seconds later, Maroni himself arrives, polished black shoes making a unique taaaap-tap-squick-tap noise.
Apparently, though, she's been idling too long; Antonio is by her side within seconds, reprimanding her. "You know better than to look where you shouldn't," he says a tad nervously—after all, if she overhears something she's not meant to, it'll be his head that rolls.
"Of course, sir," she lowers her eyes, which seems to satisfy him. As he leaves, she listens to the soft hissing of the water from the tap. Soon, it whispers, soon.
He lugs the oil drum out of the back of his car, sets it to the ground with a clang and pries the lid open. There's a man—another Councilor, Zeller, he remembers—inside, snivelling and breathing raspy breaths, bound tightly. He supposes he could've been kinder with the binding; it might cut off circulation.
It doesn't matter much, though, he reflects, lugging a large plastic gasoline can. Behind him, Zeller is frantically begging and pleading.
"P—please! I—I swear I'll change my vote, please," the man sobs. "Please!"
He ignores the racket, approaches the oil drum and pours about half of the gasoline on top of Zeller, dousing the man—which makes his pleas more and more desperate—and pours a trail away from the drum, about seven feet.
"I apologize for not making this swift," he says mockingly. "But my employer wants to send a message—and the best way to do that is to make an example of someone." He strikes a match and drops it, watching in fascination as the flame jumps up and reaches the drum within seconds, devouring the screaming Councilor.
The scene is, frankly, disturbing. The oil drum is fairly intact—though the same cannot be said for Councilor Zeller. All that's left of the man are his charred remains—scorched flesh, and, in some places, whitened bones. It sends a grim message, to say the least.
Ed, who's arrived before Jaimie and Bullock—she claims that it's necessary, as in a city like Gotham, it's better to make sure no one taints the evidence. Honestly, Jaimie doesn't blame her—appears by her side without warning.
"Jesus f-!" Bullock exclaims, nearly toppling to the ground. "What are you, a ghost?" he asks, then shakes his head, holing up a hand to stop Ed. "Whatever, don't answer—I really don't care."
Ed ignores him and says, excitedly, "Both Zeller and the Jenkinses suffered nearly identical puncture wound, which would indicate that it's the same assassin." She beams, fingers tapping against her leg with nervous energy.
"Huh," Jaimie furrows her brows, puzzled. "That's odd—why would the same person kill two men for opposing sides in a crime war?" She doesn't mention her theory—well, it's more than that. A visit to Bruce after her shift confirmed that.
Bullock, who's lit a cigarette—a sadly not irregular occurrence—mutters something about only in Gotham but Ed shrugs. "I have no clue—I just analyse and collect evidence. It's your job to figure it out."
"Aww, your trust in my abilities is greatly appreciated," Jaimie coos, pressing a hand to her heart. "Oh, be still, my beating heart!"
"Nygma!" someone calls, and Ed rolls her eyes and mouths a goodbye, hurrying off to see what it is.
Bullock takes a final drag of his cigarette and tosses it into a nearby garbage can. "There is someone who might be able to give us a lead," he announces.
Jaimie turns to face him, and he lets out a sigh.
"You aren't going to like it, though," he warns, "It's another hitman—Sebastian Moran—and he's serving a life sentence in Blackgate."
It takes a while—Jaimie is reluctant, and then after that, they have to go through the whole paperwork process. Bullock insists on bringing a carton of cigarettes, claims they'll be necessary. It's hellishly hard to get to the guards to let's them take it in with them.
Sebastian Moran isn't anything like one would expect a hitman serving a life sentence to be like. He practically lounges in his chair, oozing smugness. "Did you know that I'm only alive because of a Mean Girls reference?" he asks casually. " 'Get in loser, we're going killing'," he grins, "ah, dearest Jim, you were taken from me too soon."
"Concentrate, Moran," Bullock snaps, and the man clicks his tongue.
"Rude, rude," he admonishes, "but fine—I'm feeling generous. What does the GCPD want with little old me?"
"Information," Jaimie cuts in, seeing Bullock's murderous look.
Moran's gaze snaps to her, interested. "Oh? And what've you brought in return?"
Bullock opens his coat, pulls out the cigarettes, lets Moran get a good view of them. Moran's gaze sharpens. "Malboro—I see you've done your homework, Detectives. Very well, ask away."
"There's been three deaths—all the same weapon," Jaimie says. "Forensics determined it's most likely a hollow tube with some sort of mechanism that triggers a metal spike or needle to pop out. Have you heard of anyone with this kind of weapon?"
Moran stares off into the distance as if summoning a memory from his mind. "Ah!" he exclaims. "Yes, I know the weapon, and it's owner—one Richard Gladwell, last rumoured to be working out of the Lansky Building. Now, your payment?" He holds out a hand. Bullock grudgingly gives him the carton.
When they search Gladwell's desk, there're sheaves of incriminating papers, along with a paper with the letters C, L, and M—but the man himself is nowhere to be found.
"Master Bruce? Master Bruce!" There's screaming, and Bruce realizes it's his own. There's sweat beaded on his brow, and he's shaking. Alfred is standing by hs bed, a worried expression on his face, his hand hovering of Bruce.
Bruce sits up, clears his throat. "I'm fine, Alfred—just nightmares. I'm sorry I woke you." He smiles unconvincingly—he's never been good at smiling. Alfred gives him a look, and Bruce sighs. "It doesn't matter, Alfred," he says tiredly. "Just—please get me the files regarding the Arkham project, I want to see if there are any connects between it and my parents' death." When Alfred opens his mouth, Bruce interrupts him. "I'm fine, really."
It rings hollow, and he's not sure who it is he's trying to convince.
Gunshots ring in the restaurant as three men fire wildly. Someone screams, another falls to the ground, blood pooling around them. The rest of the people scramble as far away as possible and huddle together against the wall, flinching when the gunmen move.
"Give us all your money!" one shouts at Antonio. Unfortunately for Antonio, he isn't fast enough to comply with their order. A second later, one of the gunmen stride over to him and shoots him in the head, eliciting more quickly muffled screams from the people huddled in the corner. He yanks open the safe door and pull out a dozen or so bags and gestures to another gunman to help him carry them.
Each grabs six bags and exit the restaurant, shove them into the back of an unmarked van, quickly followed by the third gunman, and then drive off. The passersby barely bat an eyelash.
A few minutes later, Maroni's right-hand man, Frankie Carbone, and about nine others burst in. He takes in the sight of the dead bodies, the terrified people huddled in the back, the overturned tables.
"What happened?!" Carbone demands, rounding on an older couple.
They whimper, but someone else answers. "They-they t-took it, sir, th-they took all of the money."
Carbone's lip twitches into a snarl and he turns to his men. "Search everywhere," he orders, and they all fan out to different areas of the restaurant. Carbone takes one with him, and they search the kitchen.
"Hey boss, ya might wanna see this!" the other calls. Carbone goes over to join him by the refrigerator. Curled within the refrigerator, obviously terrified, is a woman in a dishwasher's uniform, clutching a bag full of bills.
"I'm-I'm sorry, sir, they—I-I only managed to save one-one bag," she whispers eyes wide. "I-I'm so-sorry, sir. P-please don't kill me!" she pleads.
He observes her, takes in her non-threatening posture and wide eyes. "Take her with us," he orders the other.
Maroni slams his hand on the table. "It was Falcone, I'm sure of it," he growls. "I will get revenge for this." By his side, Carbone and another thug who stand on each side of his chair shift. Maroni considers his options. "Send her in," he snaps, and Carbone exits the room.
A second later, he returns, clutching Rosalind's arm. "Rosalind!" Maroni greets. "I must thank you—your actions are commendable." He smiles tightly. "Though we took considerable loses, you did manage to save a portion of our profit."
"Oh—well I—just—I'm sorry I only managed to get that much, sir," she stutters, flinching slightly when Maroni's smile widens.
"Quite alright," Maroni reassures. "In fact, I've given it some thought—and I've decided to promote you to owner and manager of Bamonte's. There's been a recent vacancy."
"Dead end." The papers make a small thump when they hit Jaimie's desk, making her look up. It's Bullock, hair pulled back with a hairband, scowl affixed to his face. He takes a gulp from his flask, grimaces slightly.
"What?" Jaimie asks. "You can't possibly mean-?"
Bullock nods. "The killer—whoever he actually is—stole the ID of Richard Gladwell. The real Gladwell disappeared five years ago, but the landlord who owned his apartment kept getting the monthly rent so he did'n' ask any questions."
"Lovely," Jaimie mutters sarcastically. "Just what we needed—one of our only possible leads is useless and we have no way of ID-ing the actual murderer or their next victim." She sighs, squeezes her eyes shut.
Bullock snorts. "I'll see if any of my underworld contacts know anything." No doubt, he means Fish Mooney.
Jaimie feels an insane, hysterical laugh bubble up in her as she watches Bullock saunter off. With what I have to deal with, one of these days, she thinks, I'm going to join the criminal classes.
Selina would be overjoyed, her inner voice comments wryly. And I bet we could get Ed to join us.
Speak of the devil and the devil shall appear. There's Ed, a stack of papers in her arms, two cups and a small bag balanced carefully on top. "Here you go!" Ed whispers excitedly, pushes the papers Bullock left to the side, sets a cup and the bag on her desk. "They had a special deal on their pastries, so I got a Bear Claw—but, well, it's kind of large, so I thought maybe you'd like to split it with me?"
She smiles softly, and that warm feeling bubbles up in Jaimie again. "Thank you—I'd love to," she says, softly, and Ed's eyes light up.
Jaimie tries to convince herself that her increased heart rate is just from the caffeine.
Fish lounges in her chair, watches the girl on stage—Liza. She's much better than the other girl; though her voice isn't as appealing, she's much better in...other areas. Quite a seductress, this one.
She takes a sip from her glass, leans over to Butch. "Put her on the preliminary list," she orders once the girl is done singing. The girl gives a nervous glance in her direction and scurries off the stage.
The door opens, and Fish looks up to see who it is; the club doesn't get many customers at this time. Most of the club's patrons are...otherwise occupied during the day, which is one of the reasons Fish hosts auditions during the day, unlike some other clubs in Gotham.
It's Harvey Bullock, ridiculous fedora sitting on his head, hands jammed into his pockets. Fish raises an eyebrow; It wasn't like she didn't expect him to return, but she wasn't expecting it to be so soon. Bullock may be thick, be he's a detective—he can, contrary to common belief, pick up on social cues, he just generally doesn't choose to, so it's not as if Harvey is unaware of the tension and mistrust simmering between them.
"Detective," she greets cordially, if guardedly. "What can I do for you this fine day?"
Bullock shifts slightly. "It's 'bout a case; only lead I have is tha' it might be tied to the Arkham project and Falcone and Maroni's rivalry. Figured you'd probably have heard somethin' 'bout it." He's not as confident as he seems; Fish can read it in the subtle tension in his shoulders, the way he takes an offensive stance, puffs out metaphorical feathers to look larger.
It's pathetic.
Fish takes another sip from her glass, mulls over his words. Come to think of it, Bullock isn't on anyone's payroll, so he might be useful if—when she moves to overthrow Falcone. Perhaps it would be in her best interests to help him on a few cases; play on the infatuation and put him in her debt. "Falcone's determined to gain control of the project—if he were to lose, it would embolden his enemies," Fish says in a measured tone, watching his face for microexpressions. "They already believe he's gotten old and weak."
Apparently, though, the slight glee at the prospect leaked through her mask of apathy, because Bullock comments, "You seem positively ecstatic at the prospect; need I ask why?"
"Don't worry about me," she reassures, "I always have a plan B."
Jaimie's phone rings, drawing her away from the frankly amusing spectacle that's occurring. Alvarez is getting chewed out by Ed for contaminating the evidence at the crime scene, her generally calm, timid countenance fully transformed as she yells at the detective.
Normally, Jaimie would feel a sliver of pity, but the man had it coming to him; Ed warned him—and his partner—multiple times that they needed to be careful, but Alvarez had ignored her, choosing to traipse through the crime scene, contaminating the glass cups by drinking out of them, which has the forensics scientist livid as those were the only things on the crime scene Ed could've lifted a fingerprint from.
With one last scowl and a poke at Alvarez's chest, Ed turns on her heel and storms away.
Jaimie pulls herself away from the spectacle, picks up her phone and taps "accept".
"Jaimie Gordon."
"Jaimie, my friend!" Osvalda's voice startles her, an unexpected amount of warmth readily apparent. "I do apologise for the inopportune time, but it is rather urgent—Maroni plans to hit another politician-"
"All of the Councilors are under GCPD protection," Jaimie argues, keeping her voice down.
Osvalda's reply is matter of fact. "There are ways around that." She's not wrong.
Suddenly, there's a commotion in the background, and Osvalda hisses, "Shit, someone's coming and I don't have an alibi—just go with it, okay?" She pitches her voice higher, speaks more slowly, "six 'o clock? Yes, I'll be there, darling, yes, love you, bye," before the line clicks, leaving Jaimie holding her phone, shocked into silence.
I should probably check over the list of officers assigned to the Councilors, she thinks, riffles through the stack of papers on her desk, frowning when the desired paper isn't amongst them. I'll have to ask Kristen, she thinks. That's no mean feat though—three-quarters of the time, no one knows where the red-head is; she manages to disappear among the archives. Although, Ed might know—she has an uncanny ability to find things, and people. At the thought of the forensic scientist, the taste of caramel rises, unbidden, in her mind.
Luckily, Ed is in the lab, which is the first place Jaimie checks. Jaimie raps twice on the door, causing the other to look up from where's she's peering intently at a glass cup, a box of various powders and lights and other things open next to her, white, plastic gloves covering her slender fingers.
"Jaimie! How can I help you?" Ed asks. "I'm a bit busy with trying to pull any sort of print off of the cup that Alvarez—well," she stops herself. "No need to go in detail, I'm sure the whole precinct knows, but I'm sure I can spare a moment to help you."
Jaimie smiles, slightly sheepishly. "Actually, I was wondering if you know where Kristen is? I need the list of officers assigned to protect the various council-members, and-"
"Say no more, my friend," Ed replies, though it seems to be wearier. "I believe she's in section 2b of the archives, considering her usual routine." She offers a small, crooked smile that doesn't quite reach her eyes.
"Thanks," Jaimie says, turning to go. "Hey, Ed?" she adds, "do you want to come over to my place tonight? We can play board games, and anyway, Selina has grown attached to you," she offers, and Ed's smile softens, reaches her eyes.
"I'd love to," she returns.
You'll kill her in the end, Mirror Ed whispers, and Ed twitches, barely restrains herself from hurling something at the mirror. At one point, she'd taken it down, but she's quickly learned that a confined-to-the-mirror Mirror Ed is a far cry better than a hallucination Mirror Ed, what with the latter seeming far more real—frighteningly so.
"Shut up," Ed mutters, tries to concentrate, but it's a lost effort.
Mirror Ed chuckles. I'm just trying to protect her from you, she simpers, and Ed hates it when she does this—rationally, she knows it's an emotional manipulation tactic, but that doesn't mean it stings any less.
"Shut up!" Ed hisses, abandoning her work. "Shut up shut up shutupshutupshutup!" She turns to the mirror, ready to berate the woman in it who looks like her, but isn't, is darker, colder, less human. However, the sight that greets her makes her blink, and her reflection, too, blinks. It's unnerving, and it makes her recoil.
The figure in the mirror mirrors her. "Stop doing that!" Ed snaps, and Mirror Ed finally, finally moves, eyes wide and innocent.
"What?" she questions, cocks her head to the side.
"That," Ed says, irritated, gesturing broadly. "Copying me!"
Mirror Ed laughs softly, shakes her head, lose, the slightly curly hair bouncing. That's one of the few things that helps Ed to disentangle herself from the other—she keeps her hair straightened and pinned up, while Mirror Ed's dark auburn hair, the same shade as her own, stay in curly tresses.
"Dude...it's a mirror," Mirror Ed tuts. "That's how they work."
As much as she hates to admit it, it's irrational, and Mirror Ed is right. Thankfully, Mirror Ed falls silent, leaving Ed to return to her work.
The memory of Jaimie smiling at her, inviting her over for a night of board games refuses to leave her.
Though she's had few, if any friends, and is generally socially awkward to the extreme, and social cues are a near mystery to her, she can't help but wonder if this is a bit more than a wish to befriend the Detective.
The instant Jaimie has the list in her hands, she scans over it, throwing a quick "Thank you!" to Kristen. The archivist gives a huff and shakes her head, and consoles herself with the fact that the detective actually thanked her, unlike most others who require her services.
Jaimie feels the dread creep up as she scans the list of officers, and her stomach drops when she sees the names of those assigned to the Mayor.
Officers Campos, Lazenby, and Martins.
C, L, M.
The three letters from the piece of paper she discovered in the killer's desk.
They weren't a code—they were the initials of the officers who the killer's bought off.
Mind stuck somewhere between blind panic and hyper-focus which's been drilled into her over the years, Jaimie quickly notifies the Captain, and, when Essen pales and orders her to hurry, rushes to the Mayor's home. When she gets there, she does a quick perimeter check. The officers are nowhere to be seen, reaffirming her suspicions that they've been bought off.
Jaimie knocks on the over-embellished door, waiting with baited breath, counting the seconds in her head it takes for James to answer the door. After one-hundred-and-eleven nerve-wracking seconds, the door opens, revealing the mayor.
"Officer Gordon?" he asks, confused.
Jaimie glances around, looking for any possible spies. "Mr. Mayor, sir, someone's coming to kill you—we have to get you out of here, ASAP." The blood drains from the mayor's face, and he ushers her inside, nervously locking the door and bolting it.
Voice slightly higher than normal, sweat beading on his balding head, James says, "I have a country house where we'll be safe—but I can't leave without emptying my safe, it contains my emergency funds and important documents."
Jaimie wants to yell and pull at her hair—the idiotic man has a target on him and he's more worried about his money than his life—but instead, she takes a calming breath and follows the Mayor, hand hovering over her holster, glancing behind her at intervals.
Outside the lavish house, the man pulls out two metal tubes, clicking them together. He takes a moment to observe the door before applying pressure to the rusting hinges, smiling slightly when he hears two crack off. With one last sharp shove, the doors fall into the hall.
Within, the officer—he thought he'd paid them all off, but this one won't make a difference—is knocked back. She drops her gun, pushing the target in front of her and down the hall, locking the door with a click.
He picks up the SIG-Sauer, advances on the door. Raising it, he shoots the lock off, careful to avoid shrapnel, and lunges at the officer. She hisses in pain when he manages to clip her shoulder, but gives as good as she gets, letting her fingers fade into talons and slashes across his cheek.
Her eyes widen in surprise as she barely avoids the wickedly sharp spike, and it sinks into the wood paneling on the wall instead of her neck. Unfortunately, he's focused on trying to kill the pesky officer, and he doesn't register her back-up arriving until another officer yells, "Duck, Gordon!" and he has to avoid the spray of bullets. However, in doing so, he has to release her, and he also drops the gun.
In those few moments, the female manages to get ahold of the weapon, and really, she's very pesky, isn't she? He sighs, shakes his head lightly. "Really, while your actions are commendable, officer, my clients hired me because I am a professional, and I always finish the job."
He shifts slightly as he speaks, readies his weapon, and lunges at the Mayor, who's huddling in the corner, terror spelt across his face for all to see.
In the space of a second, a single gunshot rings, and he falls to the floor, blood welling out of the wound at the base of his neck, mild surprise the last expression on his face.
Fish watches in amusement as the two teenagers glance between themselves and to her, then back again. Her words—I'm afraid that only one of you will survive to continue on in my employment—ring in the air.
Liza catches on more quickly, and Fish can see the way the ideas run through her mind, the gravity of her sentence. It takes the second girl, Marie, only a half-second longer, but it's too long.
Liza lunges at the other girl, fingers finding her neck, and Marie tries to struggle, fingers trying to pry the other girl's fingers.
Her eyes are wild, and she makes a slight gurgle, Liza's fingers digging into her trachea, until, finally, her eyes roll back into her skull and her hand fall limply to her sides. A minute, then two, and Liza steps back, allowing the other's corpse to fall to the ground.
She looks up to Fish, fingers slightly bloodstained from where the nails dug into Marie's neck, expectant. Fish smiles.
"Welcome to your new position, Liza."
The leader, who's checking over his gun, looks up, sees the bag in her hand. "What's in there?" he asks suspiciously, eyes flickering over her to assess how much of a threat she is.
Osvalda smiles placatingly, opens the bag and pulls out a plate. "Cannolo—a bit of a congratulatory gift, if you will. I made them myself." She sets the plate on the floor between the three men. "Go ahead—you've completed your assignment admirably."
It takes a moment, but the men dive in, devouring the cannolo. One of them pauses, turns to her, cannoli in hand. "D'ya want some?"
"No, thank you for the offer—I ate before arriving here."
He shrugs and returns to the plate. Osvalda smiles.
The next day the Mayor, as a means of preventing a gang war, announces to the media that he has merged the two project proposals, with Falcone building the low-income housing, while Maroni gets to build a toxic waste disposal site.
"As for Arkham Asylum," he says, voice slightly crackly over the TV, "We will refurbish the existing building and bring it up to modern standards—it would be too costly to demolish it and build a new mental health facility."
Bruce scowls at the screen. "He deliberately excluded the centrepiece of my parents' plans for Arkham—the building of a new asylum!" he says, outrage seeping into his tone. "Everything they worked to leave—their legacy—is controlled by criminals."
"Master Bruce, that simply isn't true!" Alfred protests.
Officer Gordon nods. "Alfred's right—you are your parents' most important legacy, and you're free of corruption."
They sit in silence for a moment, save for the background noise of the television. "Can Gotham ever be saved?" Bruce asks quietly, ignoring the look Alfred shoots him.
Officer Gordon sighs. "It's worth trying regardless," she says with conviction. Bruce can't help but hear the implication that she doesn't know whether or not it's possible.
Osvalda dusts her hands off, stands up and steps over the slumped body. "Really, for supposed professionals, you'd think they'd at least have the intelligence to be suspicious of the food," she says to the empty apartment, gathers up the bags of money. "Oh well," she shrugs. "All the better for me."
When she gets back to her place, she hides the bags in a concealed safe—she'll move it soon, but it'll have to do for now. Her phone rings, and she answers it.
Frankie Carbone's voice crackles over the phone. "So, when're you gonna bring your lover over? Or was that just someone you created as an excuse to leak info to someone?"
Osvalda stands, frozen. Shit. If she doesn't bring someone over to the restaurant, Maroni'll get suspicious—and that might lead to...less than favourable circumstances.
She tries to keep her voice steady, conceal the panic she's feeling internally. "N-no, we have a date on Saturday at six."
Carbone accepts her lie, and hangs up, leaving Osvalda to try and figure out what to do. If she doesn't, there's a high probability of death...which means she'll have to figure out a way to get Jaimie to agree.
She steels herself to negotiate, wheedle, use whatever tactics necessary, and unlocks her phone. The wallpaper, a silhouette of Gotham city, stares at her for a moment before she taps the phone icon, pulling up a list of contacts.
There are only a few numbers listed—her mother's, which she has only in case of an emergency, untitled, followed by a few decoy numbers labelled so as to appear as if they're for family members, and finally, Jaimie's.
Osvalda's finger hovers over it, and she wavers. Surely, the good Detective won't help her—the argument I'm a cop and you're a mobster comes to mind, but this is a matter of life and death—if necessary, Osvalda isn't beyond a bit of bribery.
The phone rings six times, and Osvalda nervously fixes her eyes on the skyline, watches the sky and the light casting beautiful colours on the clouds; Gotham may be horribly polluted, but that, at least, makes for gorgeous sunsets.
"Hello?" Jaimie's voice snaps Osvalda back to earth. "Osvalda?"
Ah. So she recognized the number. Osvalda's flattered. "Detective, my friend!" she says, faux cheerily.
"Just Jaimie," the other corrects. "What's up?"
Osvalda takes a steadying breath. It's this or death, she reminds herself. Here goes. "You remember when I called you to warn you? The alibi I used? Maroni's right-hand man, Frankie Carbone was the one who overheard that part of our conversation, and now he expects me to bring—well, you, to the restaurant for a date."
There's a pause, and then: "What?"
Osvalda's heart sinks. "Oh-oh, nevermind-"
"Hang on," Jaimie interrupts, "I didn't say no, I was just surprised."
"It's a matter of life and death, my friend," Osvalda adds, desperately. "Please—if you don't, Maroni will have me executed!" Her panicked voices rings through the apartment, and she realizes she's been too loud. She lowers her voice. "Please-"
Jaimie interrupts her again, this time voice softer. "Of course—how about you come over and we can hash it out? Maybe...tomorrow evening? If you're free then?"
Osvalda feels weak with relief. "Thank you, my friend—I don't know how to repay you-"
"Friends don't owe each other favours," Jaimie says firmly. "Goodnight, Osvalda—stay safe."
Jaimie's worry for her friend is pushed to the back of her mind, however, when she sees the time. Well, actually, it's Selina who plonks their Scrabble set in front of her, and announces, "It's six fifteen."
What ensues is, on her part, a frantic scramble to tidy up, while Selina laughs and informs her that, since she actually pays attention and is prepared, she's made lasagna.
"What?" Selina asks, seeing the look Jaimie shoots her. "I can follow a recipe—and surprisingly, you already had most of the ingredients. I just had to pop over to the grocery store and buy some tomatoes."
Jaimie's about to add something else when there's a knock on the door. Selina leaps up, racing to answer it. "Ed!" she exclaims, hugging the woman quickly before jumping back. "Jaimie found our Scrabble set and..."
Selina continues to babble as she goes to the kitchen, presumably pulling out the lasagne from where it's being kept warm in the oven.
Jaimie moves to take Ed's coat, sees the slump of her shoulders, the way her mouth tightens. "Something happen?" she asks, quietly.
Ed sighs. "Nothing more than usual—I managed to pull off a partial print, only for Alvarez to complain that he can't do anything with that, and Bullock was a jerk, as per usual."
"I'm sorry," Jaimie apologizes, "I wish I could do something about it."
Ed shrugs. "I honestly have no clue why the man hates me so much."
"Well, forget about that," Jaimie says, firmly. "Selina made lasagna and we can play Scrabble and watch a movie afterwards—that should help take your mind off of it."
(It does—the lasagna is delicious, and Selina ties with Ed, and they watch an episode of a crime show and laugh at the inconsistencies with real life before Ed introduces them to Sherlock.)
(Selina also manages to admit that perhaps school—which she started a week after Jaimie signed the adoption papers—isn't as awful as she thought, though she does voice annoyance at the boys' inability to understand when she isn't interested; so far, there are four boys trying to impress her, none of whom have the slightest clue that she much prefers girls.)