I finally had more inspiration on Delia's insanity. Do you know how hard that is, writing within or around the thoughts of a truly crazy person? Huzzah!
Neurosis-:-
Dark, stark and horribly green locks of hair swayed in the smog filled wind as Delia remained, remained, remained upon the one lone and angry gargoyle atop the tallest building she had claimed for herself. This was her new perch, her new den to stay that she had fought herself to keep from the Falcones, Thornes and the other lowlife slum-slime-crime lords of Gotham. This she chose.
It had occurred to her recently, though not all at once, that humans were animals and as such had their habitats and territory. And she smiled at the thought.
Atop her perch, legs hanging languidly on either side of the gargoyle, her hands resting atop its bald head, fingers tapping a rhythm only she knew upon its horns that perhaps also once served as ears, she thought on such a thing as animal life and what it could mean to her.
She was a little moody tonight. J-Man was ordered to leave her alone and he was assisting in the deal Chucko had set up with the Falcones that Woof had bailed on. She would not be bothered, if any of the idiots knew what was good for them.
Gotham was hers. In just a few short weeks she will have claimed all of its back alley dealings and black market tricks. Batman was still flittering around, but they hadn't clashed in over a month since she had escaped police custody again, and he was no trouble to her for now. Not until she went hunting for something to play with.
The sounds of a police trio of car alarms and whirring circled below her, heading to the south side district, their lights from the hoods dotting the street below her. She absently thought on those things a moment.
Gotham was hers. She was the animal at the top of the food chain and nobody fought her for the position. Not for the time, anyway. But, then, who would fight a Princess like her? She had already killed Candice Thorne's three lieutenants and had been present and the one to order the breaking of bones and puncture of organs for one of the East Side Skulls' captains, so they would be stupid to try. But, then, she was just crazy enough to revel and allow anyone who did attempt such a thing. One could always do with new blood.
Right now, she looked down upon what could be seen as Old Gotham, but that wasn't quite accurate. Old Gotham was three city blocks to her left, passed where she noticed the wind was swishing her hair against the visage of an electric billboard showing a young teen eating from a cereal bowl, the plastic/cardboard/plaster looking spoon that once swung from the electric bowl to the faded face of the teen every five to ten seconds splintered in half.
She likes this district best of all. Sure, it's supposed to be up for renovation soon, but the city keeps postponing it for more important projects like the newest Ground Wire or night club that she will eventually wreck or hold for ransom when she gets bored. Some part of her both hopes that it will be renovated or that it will stay the way it is now.
This is her place. She is the dominating animal of Old Gotham, princess of the Jokerz, the reigning champions of this animal kingdom.
"Oh, and how true it is!" Delia laughs to herself swinging up from the gargoyle to trail along the roof's edge it a loopy, dangerous dance along broken shingles and rotted wood.
Jokerz, she thinks, are predators that stick to back alleys and Old Gotham where nobody could catch them, or are too afraid to take them on. The Royal Flush Gang (that she has to deal with now on a regular basis, them raving and pestering her about their daughter) prey on the fat cats near the water front or Gotham Heights. The Splicers prefer the parks and recreational places where teens go, for easy pick-pocketing and offers to come to the dark side. Hackers go to the Ground Wire, old or new, to break into cyber security, like Ghoul, and rob from other cities like Metropolis or Star City, or worse, Los Angeles. The Mod did most everything in between, sometimes right under the cops' noses, and always getting caught by Batsy.
Delia hummed absently to herself, an old, old song that she could actually stand listening to when Harley was alive and Delia could tolerate her presence without Deidre, "Hear your voice, ev'ry time I'm talkin'…"
The cops, such strange animals! They thought that they were at the top of the chain, but they answered to much higher authority. The cops were mere foot soldiers, like lionesses, that took out Jokerz, common scum and what mobsters they could, like their own personal hyenas and oxen, but they answered to the mayor and FBI or NSA like they were lions, that simply watched and took what they wanted. Poor, sad little things. The only one that followed, perhaps, none of the hierarchy, was Batsy himself, who took down both hyenas and lions that went out of the chain and left them to be dealt with. Ha, such a silly flying rodent.
She tipped herself over the side of the building and, with a little spin head before heals, landed onto the next building. Behind her, a skylight, which was already cracked, rattled, and a piece of glass fell, at least three stories within its building and smashed to look like thin, white ice.
Her dark eyes scanned the skyline and, without realizing it, landed on the waterfront that, if one knew where to look, lead to the Summerset district.
She frowned at the thought.
Summerset. Ha! Nobody had claimed that territory, except for old, dead Harley. And, of course, the crumbling shadow of what was the first Arkham building.
Delia and Deidre and their mother had spent a good chunk of their lives living in Summerset, in that little house Harley had built in those long, tall, and more still, paid for woods. The old hag constantly told them, she built that house with her own two hands and paid for some maybe fifty-plus acres surrounding it. Her own little thinking place. Because nobody else liked it there.
Delia could remember that one tall tree, taller than most of the others around their house, all yellow and gross and sticky with what must have been the last vestiges of sap trying to secrete before the tree completely died. She would always climb up to the very top, sometimes dragging Deidre up, sometimes not, to stare over the one ridge that showed Arkham clear as a lighthouse along ocean cliffs, and at the glittering lights of Gotham itself. And always, she would plan where she would visit, this blue light on the hill or this red light closer to the Wayne-Powers building? Didn't matter, because she could see them, hanging from that tree, and she would see them all.
And she did, now that she thought about it. She visited every single one of those lights she could pick out.
Delia growled to herself. She spotted a little gargoyle hanging off the side of this building, only about the size of a barn owl, placed upon the building years ago. She didn't even think about it, and her boot, with the little purple laces in the very nicest bow she could tie, careened into the gargoyle's head, knocking the stone figure right off the building.
She listened a moment and, sure enough, finally heard the tell-tale noise of stone hitting metal and—ooohhh—a glass windshield. This was passed over for the sound of a horn blaring out into the night and a car—perhaps a nice limo if she was a good shot—hitting another car.
Maybe if she felt up to it later she'd go to Summerset and burn down Arkham or Harley's house…