Batman Fun Fact #5,742: I don't own any of it.
Chapter 6:
Vicki P.O.V.
Vicki stormed through the GCPD precinct, panicking several rookie officers and putting some of the veterans on high alert. Fuming, she stormed up to an office, labeled "H. Bullock, Lieutenant" and started beating on the door. "BULLOCK, YOU OPEN THIS GODDAMN DOOR, NOW!" A rookie officer, six months out of the academy, gingerly approached the reporter. "Umm… Ma'am… Bullock is out of his office," he cautiously informed her. "I swear to God, the next time I see that pig-headed nimrod, I'm gonna scalp him!" Vicki growled, before turning on the petrified rookie. "Well, if you don't know where Bullock is, then where is Andrews?" The officer pointed down the hallway, "First responders brought her down that way. She's…well…" Vicki leaned in close to the rookie. "Well, well, what?" she demanded. "She's in the drunk tank."
Kelly P.O.V.
Her head was killing her. She shifted around on the small cot, trying to find a position that would help clear out her head. She wanted to go back to sleep so badly. Her dream had just been getting good. She and her rescuer were just finishing up their date at the Metropolis carnival, and were just ending their day riding the Ferris wheel. After a particularly intense make-out session, her rescuer proceeded to tear off his shirt and threw Kelly down on the king-sized bed that happened to be in their cabin. Before it went any further, Kelly had to quickly evacuate from the fantasy in order to retch into the bucket in her cell. Dammit, her fault for choosing the Ferris wheel.
She heard the door click, opening to reveal one of the last people she wanted to see tonight. Oh God, please not her. Please, don't let her see me like this. Kelly turned to face the wall, desperately pretending to still be passed out. She felt a hand on her shoulder. "I know you're awake. C'mon, I'm taking you home," Vicki whispered. Kelly, blurry eyed and exhausted, slowly climbed up and propped herself on Vicki, who helped carry out her traumatized protégé. Kelly felt her midsection throbbing, where those asshats had been working her over. In retrospect, maybe filling up oneself with alcohol after a particularly traumatizing event wasn't the best course of action. Screw it, she told herself.
"We're taking the elevator to my car. Is your stomach feeling any better?" Vicki asked. Kelly moaned. All she wanted to do was lie down. Down the hall, they passed some thick office windows. Kelly looked at them, seeing her reflection for the first time. Baggy eyes, bed-hair, runny nose. Well, at least I look better then I feel. They came to an abrupt stop. Kelly looked up, seeing Bullock just step out of another office, looking surlier then normal. "Wait here," Vicki growled, sitting Kelly down on a bench. Vicki then marched up to Bullock, and was about to lay into him, when she was interrupted with a sincere "I'm sorry."
Vicki was stunned. Bullock looked at her. "I did have some of my guys assigned to tail Ms. Andrews ever since she said yes to the interviews. I didn't want to spook her, so I didn't tell her. However, since word got out that we were keeping Silva in local holding, the guys on the evening shift thought it would be a good idea to "pay him a visit." Long story short, I just got done chewing those idiots out, but I figured I'd personally apologize to her over this particular embarrassment." Bullock looked over at Kelly, who had passed out on the bench, then figured he'd save it for later. "So, if you still want to call me a jackass, feel free," Bullock concluded. Vicki, reluctantly placated over Bullocks involvement in this mess, still glared at him. She needed something to be pissed at. Sighing, she resignedly breathed "jackass," though it was clear her heart wasn't in it. "Now that the therapy session is over, I'm off to interrogate five new friends. I'll send a recording to Kelly, if she's interested." and with that, Bullock tipped his hat, and went on his way.
Silva P.O.V.
Hector had brought up a cross guard, as Ron threw jab after jab into it. Since middle school, his father suggested an activity that could keep him occupied and out of trouble. Just because the Falcones hired criminals didn't mean they lacked standards. A juvenile delinquent or a drop out could only advance so far, even in organized crime. A better upbringing led to a better quality of criminal, as Rodrigo always told his son. An activity that could keep him out of trouble, yet instill in him "life skills," turned out to be boxing. Since day one, he had been matched with Ronald W. Brandt, due to how close their weights were, and had been sparing partners ever since. Crap, one minute in and I'm already at the corner, thought Hector. Ron's been practicing.
Ducking away from the corner, narrowly missing a straight, Hector widened the distance between them. Ron was a natural out-boxer, however, and tended to dominate spars that kept Silva at a distance. Contrary-wise, it would only take a few body blows from Hector to kneel Ron over. Bracing himself, he charged, weathering the storm Ron unleashed. As the gap closed, they started trading shots, until they both launched simultaneous hooks, crashing both fighters to the ground. The bell rang, ending the spar. Ron, panting heavily, opened the ropes to allow Hector through.
In the lockers, both men took a shower, and were getting ready to call it a day, or night as it were. "That Sionis cat, he isn't as much of a pushover as I thought," said Ron, before gargling the shower water and spitting it. "Yeah, no kidding. He's actually trying move some product to Bludhaven." The gym was a legal business, but they were alone in the lockers, so they were free to talk shop as long as they wanted.
"Bludhaven? I thought old man Falcone forbade anyone from touching that market?" asked Ron, incredulously.
Although profit was the name of the game, what Falcone truly desired from the city was a sense of order and control. The Falcones rose to prominence, not from being the most dangerous family in the city, but by becoming essential to the city's "natural order." Years ago, the Falcone family had kept the Irish, Sicilian, Italian, Russian, and Chinese mobs from each other's throats. By being able to unite all the gangs and families under a unified banner, the Falcones were able to accomplish something that the city council and the police never could. They knew this, of course, because they had allowed Carmine Falcone to become the de facto kingpin of Gotham. There was a reason they knew that the mayor called Carmine Falcone "sir." The only reason why nobody stopped him was because nobody could. So what was Roman thinking when he ordered Davis and him down to Bludhaven?
"Maybe it's a new policy, or maybe the gangbangers down south are going through a bit of a rough period, who knows?" commented Silva, off-handedly. "Honestly, we aren't getting paid that much to worry about it." In a single night, they had brought home a total of $13,590 dollars. It was the enough to last them three months. If Sionis is more then happy to hand over such money to part-time help, how much was he willing to hand over for three "made-men?" "You think it's worth it?" asked Silva. Ron scratched the bottom of his goatee, "What do you think Charlie will say?"
Charlie had gone to bed early. Recently, he had been spending most of his late evenings and early mornings at a club called "My Alibi." Frequently unlucky with women, Charlie had taken up going to some "burlesque" shows. What Charlie did in his own time was his business, but whenever they needed him, he was there, so it really didn't bother them. "Well, it's not like those lap dances are going to buy themselves, are they?" Silva joked, and he and Ron laughed.
The new amenities Gordon had provided had done little to alleviate the boredom that usually accompanied incarceration. Silva still found himself dozing off on the couch, usually with the TV on. Mostly local crap and infomercials. He did, however, catch Gotham Nightly News's feature on "The Jokerz." Hector winced at the name. Jokerz, Joy-boys, Stooges, none of those names really appealed to him, even when he was still a member of… whatever they called themselves. It was funny, eight years, and not once did the subject of a name pop up, from what he could remember.
His stomach was rumbling. "Hey, guys, how much will it take for you to get a pizza down here?" He called to the doorway. Officers Montoya and Allen were both positioned at the sides of the door, and hadn't seemed to move an inch since they arrived. All of Silva's attempts at conversation had been shot down. To be expected, he thought to himself. He struggled to remember, was it a bank robbery where he shot Allen in the leg, or was it when he and some of his boys took over one of the docks to rob a freighter? Oh right, now he remembered! "The zeppelin!" he exclaimed, smile on his face. No reaction, though he could have sworn he saw Allen's lip curl just a little.
He snuggled back into the couch, watching some kind of "community theatre" that they padded onto public access. Honestly, he'd kill for a punching bag. Technically, maybe, he had some, but they were armed. "So, what did I do to those piggies who jumped me, anyway?" yelled Silva. Surprisingly, he got a response. "You really don't remember, burro?" snarled Montoya. Sounded like she had been bottling this up since she came down. Good, his hot therapist back at the asylum always told him not to keep these things inside. "No, that's why I'm asking," replied Silva, as if it was the most obvious thing in the world.
"You…work… for the biggest cop-killer this city has ever had! I've lost friends to that psychopath! We all have! Hell, how many have you killed, yourself?" Montoya started towards him, only to be held back by her partner. "Renee, get some air, please," said Allen. Renee left without saying another word. Pity, she was the cuter of the two. He was about to settle back when Allen spoke up. "She did ask you a question, Silva." Silva sighed, looked at Allen, square in the eyes, and answered "Nine," before promptly settling back into the couch. No use trying to get comfortable now, he thought.
Kelly P.O.V.
Kelly woke up in the front seat of Vicki's car. Immediately, she could tell that they weren't going back to her apartment above the coffee shop. "I've taken the liberty of giving you a new place to stay, Kelly, in light of recent events," said Vicki, as she pulled into a parking garage. This was one of the high-end districts, right in downtown Gotham. "Vicki, I don't think I can afford this," said Kelly as she looked at the cars around them. High end sports cars, classics her dad had pinned all over his garage, they made Vicki's pricy convertible seem downright modest. "You won't be paying rent, you'll be my roommate, temporarily," said Vicki, as they made their way to the lobby. When they entered, Kelly felt like they had gone back in time. This was like something she read out of that Gatsby book in high school, but for some reason, everything seemed like it just flowed together naturally, and nothing felt gaudy. "My place is on the 27th floor, unless you want to gawk longer," Vicki called after her, prompting Kelly to follow her to the elevator.
"So, where exactly are we?" asked Kelly. "Wayne Towers, one of the best places in Gotham to lay your head after a long night," said Vicki. "Cozy, private, and with a view to kill for, I can't imagine going anywhere else. This place really justifies its price the moment you walk in." The elevator stopped at the 27th, and Vicki and Kelly disembarked down a long hallway with a single door at the end. Upon reaching the door, Vicki unlocked it; ushering Kelly inside what she thought was one of the most beautiful rooms she had ever laid eyes on. The very definition of ultra-modern, Kelly swept her eyes everywhere, from the minibar, to the designer couches surrounding the 80" wall mounted plasma screen, to the huge window balcony that took up an entire wall. There were paintings, statues, and even… no, there was no way. A Jacuzzi! Kelly looked over at Vicki, trying to understand how she could afford all this. "Let's just say that it took more then some Pulitzer's to rent this. Part of it was from a bonus from the station. Truth be told, it's mostly because I lost a bet with the owner."
"Wait, you got all this from a bet… that you lost?" Kelly was positive that the woman was pulling her leg. "What would you have gotten if you won?" Vicki sighed, "It's all ancient history, now. Anyway, I've asked GCR if it is at all possible to transfer you to be my PA. Nothing is set yet, since I asked them to get your permission first. I guarantee you, I pay much better then those misers down in GCR, but, I'll leave your decision to you."
After Vicki left, Kelly sat herself down on the couch. As she did, a sobering thought crept through her mind. The only reason she's doing any of this is so you keep interviewing Silva. The room, her job, even her friendship, it all had a catch. This is just so she hopes I forget about those thugs who jumped me. All she wants me to do is keep interviewing that creep. The thought had dampened her mood, but only for a minute. So what, who cares as long as I get to do something that matters. As dangerous as this can be, as long as I get to do something meaningful, I get to do the very thing I was made to do. From that point forward, Kelly committed herself to do everything in her power to put the most dangerous man in the most dangerous city into the ground.
Bullock P.O.V.
"Any day now, princesses, you can give up whenever you want." Bullock bellowed around the writhing cons. Since the cell jumped Kelly, he had been more thorough then usual in his interrogation. Normally, his heavy handed tactics would have some criminal defense lawyers salivating, but the few positive aspects of the new Arkham City Commission had been providing some… leeway towards law enforcement. He looked down at the ringleader, a young, scrappy guy in his mid-twenties, currently nursing a broken nose. He grabbed him by the collar, and dragged him up to the one-way mirror.
"Anything smart to say, you little bastard? Not so tough when you aren't slapping around women, are you, huh?" The little bastard made a comment that surely would have disappointed his mother, so Bullock belted him in the gut. He was about to ask again when he heard a knock on the door. "Sorry guys, the donut truck pulled up. Don't worry, I'll be back," quipped Bullock as he left. The moment he stepped out of the door, he was greeted by the former boy wonder himself, or whatever he called himself.
"I thought your boss had you rounding guys up in Bludhaven," Bullock snarled as he drew a pot of coffee. "I was going to, but those mercenaries the mayor hired made quick work of the cells. I actually came up here because I thought you guys would need more help," the junior vigilante answered. Bullock snorted. The kid was more personable then his boss, sure, but he still took the law into his own hands. Bullock did what he did because it was his job; this kid did it because he got bored. "Let me talk to them, I'm sure I can pick up where you left off," said the kid. Cocky little bastard. Bullock sighed, "Fine, I was going to get something to eat, anyway. But when I get back, you better not be here."
Later, in the interrogation room...
Clint Russell had been diagnosed as a psychopath just before he dropped out of high school. Angry and bitter that he couldn't hold down a job, place, or girl, he took his anger out on anything in reach. During his second period of incarceration, his cellmate offered to set him up with a group where he could be completely honest with the person he truly was. Upon having his bail mysteriously paid, Clint found himself outside the Sionis Steelworks. There, he met the gang. Joker, his dumb bimbo Harley, that creep Scarecrow, that other creep Victor Zsasz, and his new supervisor, Hector Silva. That man rode him relentlessly, day and night, until Hector finally said stop. "You have slightly more brains then most of the idiots here. Believe me, that isn't much of a compliment. Still, I think I have some way you can be useful."
And so he stuck him with four other guys, who were based in a cheap liquor store. Their jobs varied from week to week. Some days they just laundered money for the Joker, other days they worked on bombs and gadgets in the back, and other days, his particular favorite days, they would kidnap a lackey from Penguin, Two-face, or some other rich jackass, and beat the living piss out of them. Sometimes, they'd get some decent info out of it, but mostly, Clint thought about how powerful it felt to slowly see the life leave the eyes of another living thing. Still, every now and then, they'd run into one of those freaks in capes, but apart from that, they hadn't been arrested until now.
The rest of his guys were out cold. All he could do was clutch his bloody nose and fume over not putting a bullet into the skull of that weepy broad quicker. If Joker found out they failed, the best he could hope for was that he was so much more pissed at Silva, that he'd just forget about him. The door opened, and the Boy Wonder himself made his way inside. Clint growled. Of all the members of the Bat's entourage, this kid was probably the most infuriating. He was so happy to hear that he moved down to Bludhaven, and he wouldn't have to listen to his quips anymore. Still, the temptation was just too strong to resist. "Holy big boy pants, Batman, it's Ro-*blugh*" he was interrupted as a boot connected with his stomach. "I have a new name, Mr. Russell," Nightwing responded.
"Now, tell me who told you to target Ms. Andrews," he ordered, loudly. "Your mother," coughed Clint. "Not in the mood," glowered Nightwing, "and if you say, "that's what she said," I will kick you again." Clint, silently kicking himself for missing such a setup, looked up at last season's boy wonder. "I was told by the same guy who wants Silva buried, too." Nightwing stared down at the felon. How was Joker still communicating with his men? He had been in lockdown ever since the uprising, and he had no idea how they could be sending information to his men on the outside. Maybe he should bring this up with Kelly, it would make a valuable question to Silva. It was clear that this guy wouldn't talk anymore. He was about to leave when the man called after him. "Don't think we're the only ones after the two of them. Remember when Joker hired those eight assassins to off the Bat? Well, this time, he found some other guys, and these guys will bring both their heads to Joker. The boss will not die in the electric chair; he will burn Gotham to the ground before that happens. This ain't over, Nightwing, it's only just beginning!"
The door slammed shut. Nightwing made his way down the hall of the GCPD. More assassins? This wasn't good, not at all. He needed to talk to Bruce, ASAP. If there were anyone who could be considered an expert at assassination thwarting, it would be his mentor. Still, he was more then a little occupied with Arkham City, and all its dirty secrets. With Bruce occupied for the time being, he figured it would be best if he handled the matter personally. Not alone though, there was still a phone call he had to make. He ducked into the bathroom, and after looking around to see if he was alone, or if the room was bugged, brought his wrist to his mouth. "Hey, Oracle, long time, no see. Anyway, I need you to do me a favor…"
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