Crane clicked his lighter open and closed, staring at Kitty, his clear eyes lit up every so often by the little dancing flame of the Zippo. Any kind of smile was absent from his face as he considered the woman sitting across from him. The ragtag group had taken up residence in what had been Gerald's apartment, and Crane had taken the master bedroom, taking Kitty with him. Now he sat in a chair, one leg crossed over the other, watching Kitty sitting on the bed, staring at her hands in her lap, tired and sad. Crane slowly arched an eyebrow as he stared at her.
"Kitty," he mused, watching her intently. He clicked the lighter open and closed, considering her. "Is your real name Christina," he asked, "or is it Kathryn?"
Kitty looked up at him, her eyes dull, her expression flat. "Christina," she said quietly. Then her eyes returned to her hands in her lap, and she was silent again.
"Christina," Crane repeated thoughtfully, clicking the lighter open and closed. "And what is Jack short for? Jackson? Jacob?" He paused. "Jonathan?" he asked, dragging it out. Kitty frowned, but did not respond. Crane looked down at the lighter, clicking it open and closed, the flame reflected off of his glasses. Then he looked back up at Kitty. "So who chose the name, Jeannie Rose?" he asked.
"I did," Kitty said, not looking up.
"Really?" Crane said, sounding sceptical. "Why?"
"I..." Kitty looked up at him, confused. "I thought it was a pretty name," she said, sounding thrown off. "I like the name Jeannie Rose."
"It's a good name," Crane said, shrugging. "I don't have any qualms with it." There was a long silence, in which the only sound was the clicking open and shut of Crane's lighter. Then he looked up at her again. "Where is your daughter, by the way?" he asked. "Usually the two of you are inseparable."
"She's safe," Kitty replied firmly, looking up at him, her expression dark. "Safe from you."
"No one is safe from me," Crane replied, unamused, raising his eyebrows.
"Jack has her now," said Kitty, straightening slightly. "You'll never be able to get her from him. He'll tear you apart."
"So much faith in someone you know so little about," Crane said, sounding somewhat amused. "How do you know he won't abandon her, like he did before? Hmm? How do you know he won't turn on her and hurt her?"
"He won't," said Kitty firmly. "Even... even if he does, Jeanette will take care of Jeannie Rose." She shook her head, vehement. "You'll never get my daughter."
"Jeanette?" Crane asked. "Is she your oh-so-reliable friend, the one who helped you escape?" He paused, clicking his lighter open and shut. "Isn't she the one I so easily stole you back from?" he asked. He smirked. "I can see that she keeps a close watch on her wards," he said, sarcastic and cold. "Your daughter is very safe with her."
Kitty glared at him. "Jack will tear you limb from limb if you try to hurt Jeannie Rose," she said.
"Again with Jack," said Crane, sounding slightly exasperated, closing the lighter. He put it in his pocket. "Let me tell you something about Jack," he said, leaning forward in his chair. "Jack is a creature of habit. He's like a dog chasing cars. Jack is not going to protect your daughter. Jack will probably go out, get drunk, and fuck some woman, leaving your daughter unattended and alone – that is, if he doesn't go on some kind of killing spree, in which case your daughter will be so much safer..."
"Stop it!" Kitty exclaimed, covering her ears. "Stop it! You're an evil, evil person, and you deserve everything you're going to get!" She glared at him. "I can't wait until you just try to take Jeannie Rose away from Jack," she hissed. "He'll destroy you so fast you won't even know what happened."
Crane stared at her, unamused. There was a long moment of silence, in which the two just glared at one another. Then Crane nodded slowly. "We'll see," he said.
. . .
Whoever had blown up the Raddisson on the corner of Delta and Vine Streets had sure been thorough.
Cleanup on the hotel (or what had been a hotel) had begun several days ago. As far as any casual passerby could tell, nothing had been accomplished. Rubble still littered the square of bare ground, and the walls were still in the process of collapsing in on themselves. The streets had been cleared, of course; nothing worse than a road obstruction in Gotham. But, besides that, the evidence had been left clean.
Just the way Robert liked it.
He bent down to brush some dust off of a piece of black plastic. It looked as if it had once been a laptop, at least until a high-power explosive had detonated, leaving it a scrap of molten mess. Useless as evidence, now that it was inoperable. He ran a finger over the smooth black surface, then pushed it aside. They'd managed to gather a few scraps from the wreckage: some pieces of cloth, a not-quite-shattered bottle or two, and even a few complete fingerprints. But the hotel had roomed hundreds of people; it would be impossible to pick out individuals from that sort of crowd without the right evidence.
What interested him the most, of course, were the coincidences. The Joker and some henchmen had attempted to rob a bank just opposite the street from this very hotel (Robert turned his gaze upward for a moment, to glance at the building). Analysts back at central had also marked the roof of the hotel as one potential point from which that unknown sniper with specialized bullets had taken out one of the Joker's men, the lead that had led him to this spot in the first place.
It all fit too well to be coincidence, he decided. He stood up, nodding to the men he was working with. They finished up their work as Robert made his careful way back to the perimeter. So, what had he found out that night? Next to nothing, but at least it wasn't pure nothing.
He grinned. He was starting to think like Kaitlyn. God knew they only needed one Kaitlyn on their team.
"All right, boys, pack it up," he called, and headed back towards his car. Time for the hard part.
. . .
The phone booth was a good lead.
Kaitlyn made the decision to go over the crime scene right after talking to Gordon; she'd called up a few volunteer helpers from headquarters and gone immediately to the phone booth. The area was gruesome. Blood still stained the concrete and, of course, the booth itself, leaving a plethora of complete fingerprints all over the walls and handset.
The Joker might be a criminal genius, she thought with a smile, but he most certainly did not have much common sense.
She'd taken a look at the newspaper that Gordon had mentioned. It was small details like that that interested Kaitlyn; too often, an otherwise good cop missed a crucial bit of evidence that could have solved the case and saved tons of wasted time. Unfortunately, she didn't see much use in the paper. It wasn't even open; the front page headline, regarding the Joker's reign over Gotham, didn't surprise her. The Joker seemed to have a bit of an ego.
But the phone booth itself...now there was the real juicy stuff. The Joker's bloody fingers had left more than prints, they'd actually spelled out the number of whoever he dialed; blood smears appeared on select digits. All Kaitlyn had to do was unscramble them. And, if she were to disregard the first three digits as the area code, that left only a few thousand possibilities.
She'd have to tell Robert tomorrow, she now thought as she lay on the couch at her own apartment, closing her eyes with the content sigh of someone who knew they'd done their job well. She didn't think she could make it over to his place to crash for the night.
. . .
Thank God for Benjamin Coffer.
Jenna had arrived home nearly fifteen minutes after leaving the Aquarius, even with her speeding like a demon and pulling more insanely dangerous stunts than Evel Knievel. Traffic was absolutely horrendous in downtown Gotham, even so late at night. She shook her head, disgusted, as she shimmied into her black sweatpants that had been sitting out thanks to her angelic butler.
Ben had always said that he thought pink was much too frivolous (and conspicuous) a color for an aspiring hero to wear. Jenna had to agree with him; however much she loved the color, pink wouldn't work. She'd been stuck there, since the same principles seemed to apply to baby blue and lime green.
Thus, she'd opted to take a page out of Batman's book, and go with the chic black look.
As she zippered her black hoodie jacket over her (surprise, surprise) black, long-sleeved shirt, she spared a glance into the full-length mirror of her bedroom. Black was slimming. She'd give it that. She turned sideways, sucked in a breath, then let it out in a whoosh. Alright, enough playing around. It was about time she got going. She paused to take one last look in the mirror, wondering if she'd have any news scars to brag about to Ben when she got home. If only she had a little armor to go with her outfit; she'd learned from one too many knife fights that sweatshirt material wasn't good at stopping blades.
On her way to the front door she stopped and bent over, pulling a tiny silver key out from under the Parisian rug on the floor. She reached up to some wood paneling under a few coat hooks and slid one of them over, revealing a miniature keyhole. She unlocked it with practiced ease and reached inside for gloves, boots, and her goggles.
Benjamin came up behind her as she did this. "You think you'll find him this time, Miss?" he asked tentatively. It was a touchy subject for Jenna, finding Batman. She'd had quite a few failures in the past several months. If it was anything else, the girl would have given up and moved on to something more exciting and interesting by now. But she nodded with a smile as she pulled her hair up into a very tight bun at the back of her head.
"I'm going to the top of the police station first," she explained, pulling on the boots and gloves, then adjusting the goggles over her eyes. They covered a good amount of her face. She pressed a button on the side; immediately, the night vision sensors flicked on and she could see past the black lenses. "If he's not there, I'll just go around town for a while, see if I can find what's up." She shrugged, adjusting her gloves. She pressed one hand's thumbs and index fingers together, then held her hand up to one of the metal coat hangers; it clung to the steel. She pulled her hand away, again pushing the two fingers together. The low electronic buzz that had been issuing from the gloves went away once more. "It's the best I can do. I've got a good feeling about tonight."
With that, she was out the door and heading towards the separate garage. "Noah's won't miss me, then?" she called back. Benjamin nodded.
"Asleep. He wore himself out with some exercise earlier," the butler explained. Jenna grinned and waved as she disappeared into the garage. A minute later, engines roared, and she zipped back into the driveway, seated on her jet-black Vulcan 1700 Voyager. It had cost her a pretty penny from an overseas custom bike maker, but it was worth it; fast, quiet, sleek, everything Jenna could hope for in a motorcycle.
Before she opened the throttle, she shouted to Ben, "I'll give a call if anything breaks this time." She roared off into the night.
. . .
Going out at night was nothing new to Pamela, but this was the first time she had attempted to pull off a robbery. Nevertheless, she had prepared herself for it days in advance, had perfected her plan, quadruple-checked to make sure nothing could possibly gone wrong, and picked out just the right outfit for the job. She ran her slender fingers through her thick red hair, pushing her stubborn, overgrown bangs from her lucid green eyes, and tucked her hypodermic needle back into her belt, leaving the security guard twitching on the ground in a shivering wreck.
Pamela slipped inside the pristine building, scanning the plexiglass walls of the walkway as she perused the vivid selection of greenery Gotham's top-secret Botany Corporation had growing in its nurseries. Pamela had been allowed inside once, while she was visiting on a work fieldtrip, and had been shown the pride and joy of the BGC: a rare South American plant that was rumoured to be able to cure several obscure and seemingly unrelated diseases, including at least one previously incurable STD.
Pamela did not have any of those, thankfully, but she knew that the plant was worth a fortune on the black market. The black market was only her secondary interest, however; first, she wanted to study the plant, herself. She wanted to finally be a household name for botanists all over the globe – Pamela Isley, botanical scientist extraordinaire. She smiled at the thought. It was a comforting thought, at least... more comforting than the thought of breaking into the place she had wanted to work so badly for years on end, but had always been rejected from for being 'too inexperienced'.
Well, now they could eat their words.
Pamela stopped in front of one of the plexiglass windows and stared inside at where a single plant in a pot sat in a filtered light on a desk. She stared at it for a long moment, almost shaking with anticipation, then looked around for a door. She finally found the door, but it had several complicated entry locks, card-swipes, fingerprint recognizing software... it was a nightmare. Pamela stared at it in slight horror for a moment, then, turning back to the plexiglass window, she took a deep breath and rammed her shoulder into it.
Instantly, an alarm started going off. Pamela looked up, terrified, and then turned when she heard a man's voice behind her, "Halt!" She turned, holding her hands up in the air, as a security guard came racing towards her, holding a gun. He jerked it towards her. "Keep your hands where I can see 'em!" he ordered.
Pamela sighed. "If you say so, buddy," she said, sounding bored. She put her hands on her head, hesitated, and then threw herself forward onto the security guard, smothering him with a kiss. The security guard protested for a moment, then fell back onto the floor, limp. Pamela wiped her mouth with the back of her hand and spit. The plant poison she had coated her lips with was surely gone by now, so she could not use that trick again. At least she still had her syringe of herbal toxin to use. It helped that she was attractive. Men were easy to get past. She just hoped she did not come across any female security guards.
Pamela picked up the security guard's gun and pointed it at the plexiglass, then fired off a few bullets, breaking through it. She smirked, satisfied with herself, and then pushed through the glass into the room. The plant sat, waiting for her, under the spotlight, and Pamela had only a moment to admire it before she snatched it up and started to run. The alarm would alert all the guards in the building that something was amiss, and soon the place would be swarming with police. But, knowing the GPD, Pamela had plenty of time to get out safely with her stolen prize.
As she stepped over the unconscious security guard in the hallway and started for the exit, she just hoped that Batman had not gotten the memo yet. It would be a real pain in the neck to try to take on someone who knew what they were doing.
. . .
Wayne stepped off the elevator into the Batcave, pulling his jacket off and handing it off to Alfred, who was standing by. "What's the deal?" Wayne asked, crossing to the display case where the Batsuit was suspended, waiting to be used. Alfred took a deep breath, ready as always.
"There's been a break-in," he explained, straightforward. "The Gotham Botanical Centre. The alarm started going off just a few minutes ago." He followed Wayne to the display case, intent and businesslike. "You made good time coming from the restaurant."
Wayne entered the code that opened the door of the glass case, and the door swung open with a low hiss. Wayne pulled off his dress shirt and handed it to Alfred, then pulled out the skin-tight black shirt that went on under his Bat armour and slipped it on over his head. "The GBC?" he asked, shaking out his hair as he started to undo his slacks. He kicked them off and handed them over to Alfred, pulling out the skin-tight black pants and slipping into them. "That's a new one."
"Indeed, Sir," said Alfred, taking the clothes. "It seems the thief was after a rare plant they were researching there... That was the alarm that went off, according to the system switchboard."
Wayne glanced over at the wall of the Batcave, where a single red light was flashing. He could not see what the little text strip next to it read, but apparently it was the GBC's top-secret sector. Wayne had heard about it, in passing, when talking to other elites. They thought it was a silly place to invest money, and therefore Wayne had been sure to put some of his into it. Thus far, he had seen neither gains nor losses at the hands of the GBC, but he had not expected his investment to double overnight because of a couple plants. No one got that lucky.
"I wonder who would try to steal a plant?" Wayne mused, adjusting a small mirror in the display case so he could see his face. He pulled a black makeup crayon from a pocket in the display case and coloured in around his eyes, making sure no part of his skin above the nose was visible, or recognizable. Whoever had made the mask had cut the eyeholes too big for concealment, but, as Wayne had discovered, they were just the right size for use. Quality over appearance, he guessed.
"A rival botanist, perhaps?" Alfred guessed with a shrug. He glanced away, letting out a breath. "Or a very intelligent goat."
Wayne put the crayon away and pulled out the leg armour, starting to strap himself into it. "I was never big on botanical sciences," he admitted, securing the leg armour and making sure it was still sturdy. "I wonder what kind of plant is so valuable that it's worth stealing...?"
"Marijuana," Alfred answered simply. "Or ripe poppy."
Wayne chuckled. "Somehow I doubt the top-secret sector of the Gotham Botanical Corporation is doing genetic engineering on drug plants," he said, pulling out the chest armour.
"You never know," said Alfred. "It is top-secret, after all."
Wayne shook his head, slipping the armour on over his head, then pulled out the gauntlets and slipped into them, securing his outfit, making sure everything fit and would not slip off. Then he pulled the heavy cape from the display case and secured it onto the shoulders of his armour, and finally he pulled out the cowl and slipped it onto his head. He turned and looked at Alfred, who nodded approvingly.
"You look good, Master Wayne," he said with a smile.
"Good enough to kick some drug-dealer's ass?" Wayne asked with a smile, slipping into his faux Batman voice.
Alfred's grin widened. "If I were a drug dealer, I would be very afraid," he answered.
Wayne nodded, then turned, grabbing up the keys of the Tumbler and heading off towards the garage.
. . .
Gordon sipped at his coffee, staring at the night sky, holding his jacket tightly around his form. He checked his watch. It usually took Batman a bit to get to the checkpoint on top of the police tower, but he seemed to be taking a bit longer than usual tonight. Then again, Gordon reasoned as he took a sip of coffee, Batman had a social life as a human being. At least, Gordon assumed he did. Living life as nothing but a vigilante by night would be a terribly boring existence, Gordon thought. He sipped his coffee and checked his watch again. It was already past eight, and the Bat signal had gone up a little before eight o' clock.
Just then, Batman came swooping in and landed smoothly beside Gordon, folding his cape over his arms and front like a pair of enormous wings as he stared Gordon down. "What's the deal?" he asked, his voice gruff.
Gordon glanced over at him, unfazed. Batman was an impressive figure, but he had gotten used to him showing up without warning, so it did not surprise him when he turned to find the masked crusader standing there. "There was a robbery," he said. "The Gotham Botanical Corporation," he answered, straight to the point. "Their plant, the really important one from South America, the one that's supposed to cure all those diseases… somebody stole it."
"Have we got any idea who did it?" asked Batman.
"We have an idea as to who didn't do it," said Gordon, looking back over at him. "It wasn't anybody on our radar. So not the Joker, not Crane, and not any of the other people we've been looking out for." He looked back at the symbol in the sky, taking a sip of coffee. "We know it's a female, young, redheaded. That's all we know."
"Were there any witnesses?" Batman asked, nodding along with Gordon's description of the thief.
Gordon shook his head. "The GPD got there to find two security guards knocked out," he said. "Seems whoever it is, is familiar with plants… they had been taken out with some kind of non-lethal botanical poison."
"Maybe another botanist," Batman suggested.
"Maybe," replied Gordon, nodding.
Batman nodded, too. "Thanks, Gordon," he said, turning away.
"Anytime," replied Gordon. He took a sip of coffee. "Oh, one more thing –" he began to say, looking back over in Batman's direction, but Batman was already gone.
Jenna fumed in silent angst when she reached the roof of the Gotham police station just moments after Batman left it. She watched him spirit himself away more quickly than a ghost with admiration. She couldn't let him get away. Not when she was so close. So she brushed her thumb against her index finger and the magnetized gloves released their hold on the fire exit, dropping her smoothly to the ground.
The chase was short; soon, it became apparent that Batman had found who he was looking for.
Pamela drove down a back street, the wailing of the alarms of the GBC fading further and further into the background as she tried to put as much distance as possible between herself and the place she had just stolen from. She drifted into another side alley, starting to steadily slow down her car's speed the further she got from the GBC, and switched on her lights. It was probably safe to do so, now that she was almost in the Narrows, and the police had lost her a while back.
Pamela glanced over into the passenger's seat of her car, where the plant she had stolen from the GBC sat, its delicate leaves fringed ever so slightly, its bud still a few days immature to opening. She reached out a hand and gently touched the plant with a faint smile. Pamela had been telling her friends for a while that she would be one of the botanists who would do experiments on the new plant, and she had been crushed when the GBC had turned her away. Only one of her friends, her best friend, Harleen, had kept pushing her forward, telling her that if she wanted it badly enough, she would eventually get it.
Now Harleen was dead, killed by the psychopath who Pamela now found herself joining sides against Batman with. She wanted nothing to do with the man; in fact, she had always been a supporter of Batman and his ability to keep criminals in Gotham running scared. She never imagined that she, herself, would become one of the criminals that Batman would be hunting. But, looking up into the sky, she saw the familiar symbol shining against the smoggy clouds. She glanced over to the plant again, reaching out a hand to gently stroke the unopened bud.
"This is for you, Harley," she said, her voice quiet.
She turned to return her eyes to the road, and she slammed on the brakes just in time to avoid hitting someone who was standing in the middle of the street. As she stared at the figure, petrified behind her steering wheel, she saw the pointed outline of the animalistic cowl against the wan streetlights. Batman had found her, and he did not look happy. Pamela swallowed, her mind racing. She could give up and surrender to Batman, and perhaps her sentence would be lessened. Then she glanced over at the plant in the passenger's seat. She could not, would not, give up so easily on her lifetime dream, especially now that it meant so much more than it had before…
Pamela steeled herself, then put her foot down on the accelerator and started full-speed towards Batman. Batman jumped up onto the hood of the car, grabbing hold of the roof of the car. Pamela's eyes grew wide and she weaved the car violently, trying to throw Batman, but he held on tightly. Then Batman drew back a fist and smashed through the windshield of the car. Pamela screamed, shielding her eyes, and jerked the car around in a complete three-sixty.
Jenna looked on in watchful silence, keeping to the shadows. The redhead driving the car didn't have a particularly criminal look about her, unlike the other lowlifes Jenna had been roughing up. She looked almost...scared. Pity flared in Jenna's chest as she watched the car swerve around, until she caught sight of Batman clinging to the vehicle to get it to stop. Batman clung onto the side of the car, not letting go as Pamela drove full speed ahead towards the side of a building.
"Get off!" she screamed.
"Give me the plant!" Batman demanded, grabbing the steering wheel. He steered the car away from the wall just as it was about to collide. Pamela gritted her teeth at him in frustrated anger.
"No!" Pamela shouted back, trying to jerk the wheel from his hands. "It's mine!"
Batman jerked the wheel back. "That plant belongs to the Gotham Botanical Corporation!" he said. "That's stolen property!"
"They owe this to me!" Pamela insisted. "This plant is rightfully mine!"
"Give me the plant!" Batman demanded, lunging for her.
Pamela jerked the wheel sharply to one side. Batman tried to grab hold of something, but he slipped from the hood of the car. Pamela spun the car around, then started once more, full speed ahead, towards Batman. Batman looked up from his spot on the ground, the bright headlights shining directly into his eyes as the car bore down on him, getting ever closer.
If Batman wanted that woman, then she must be a criminal. In Jenna's naive mind, Bats' opinion was law, and that law governed morality. Everything seemed to be going just according to plan, and Jenna began to worry that she wouldn't get a chance to display her own heroics, as she'd hoped.
But suddenly Batman was on the ground, with a car tearing towards him and no chance to get away.
"Oh, hell, no," Jenna muttered, thrusting herself out of the shadows. Her fingers brushed automatically together, and the low hum of her gloves rang in her ears. She grabbed Bats by the arm and shoved him out of the way with one hand, the other grasping the edge of the shattered windshield of the car. Her gloves clung to the metal surface and her feet were jerked violently off the ground. The car's momentum swung her around its front and into its side with bruising force. The air was pressed out of her lungs. Her entire side throbbed and ached. There would be a bruise from this, she was sure, but now wasn't the time to think about that. She gasped for breath, then swung herself back around to the front windshield and into the car.
Pamela screamed and jerked the car when the girl came flying through the broken windshield. She grabbed the plant out of harm's way as she tried to steer and think quickly as to how to get rid of the girl. Since when did Batman work with anyone? As far as Pamela knew, Batman was a team of one, and there had never been reports of Batman working with anyone else – least of all a girl. Pamela clenched her teeth, glaring at the woman who was now in the car with her. Oh, well, she decided; a girl would be easier to deal with than another man.
Pamela jerked the car around, unbuckling her seatbelt, and flung open her door as she let the car keep running until it crashed into one of the walls of the back alley. She was almost certain the girl had gotten out all right, or at least she hoped she had, but now was not the time to think about that kind of thing. Pamela clutched the plant tightly to her chest as she started to run, but she did not make it very far before she felt her arm grabbed by a strong grasp. "Not so fast," a gruff voice halted her in her tracks. Pamela clutched the plant tightly, not wanting to let go of it, and refused to look at who she knew had caught her.
"You're making a mistake," she said, her voice strained. "This plant is rightfully mine…!"
"I think we'll leave that up for the GPD to decide," Batman replied, pulling out a pair of handcuffs. He roughly jerked her arms behind her back, prying the plant from her grasp, and clicked the handcuffs securely around her wrists. Pamela struggled and fought, but she was no match for Batman, and she eventually gave up and stood obediently by his side.
Jenna climbed shakily out of the tattered remains of the car, scowling fiercely and twisting one arm around in its socket. Stupid ginger, she thought bitterly, checking to make sure the cuts she had from the broken windshield weren't severe. Always mucking up the fun. Who went and crashed a freaking car into a freaking wall, anyways? Her quick self-checkup came up clear, besides some splotchy purple bruises beginning to appear on her arms. She could play those off as gymnastics accidents, or something.
Batman watched Pamela for a moment, then turned around to look at who had come to his rescue. It was a girl, he could tell just by looking at her curvy form, dressed in some kind of high-tech suit like his, only not quite as stylized. He frowned.
"What are you doing out here?" he asked, his gravelly voice sounding curious but annoyed. "I didn't ask for any help. You could've botched the whole mission by showing up like you did." He turned back to Pamela, thinking for a moment. He was annoyed that he had put himself in a situation where he, Batman, had needed saving, and it irked him even more than usual that it was a female who had saved him, but there was nothing that he could do about it now. He just hoped the girl, whoever she was, did not have a big mouth. He could not stand to have his reputation as Batman crushed by a small act like that one.
"Thank you for saving my life," he said, turning back to her. "But just don't mention it to anyone. I have a reputation to uphold." He turned back away from her as the sound of police sirens reached his ears. He looked at Pamela again, then back at the girl, and then pulled out his grapple-hook, shot it off at a nearby building, and was gone, leaving the two of them to be found by the police.
Jenna was about to angrily spit out something to the effect of "fuck you" at Batman's not-so-gracious acknowledgment of her stunning rescue skills. What was he playing at? She'd saved him, for chrissakes, from being crushed under a car. But she was distracted and left starry-eyed during the Bat's exit by his sincere, if a bit curt, thank you. Always the gentleman, she thought dreamily, staring off into space.
The distant blare of police sirens jolted her out of her daze. She needed to get out of here. She spared a glance at the redhead and considered her for a moment. Then she grinned and waggled her tongue at the woman before hopping away down the alley.
Unnecessary? Probably. Childish? Well, duh. But it made her feel better.
. . .
"Well," said Dent, resting his cheek against Rachel's hair and sighing, "tonight was interesting, wasn't it?"
"I had no idea Bruce was going to be there," Rachel repeated for what she felt was the hundredth time, running a hand distractedly down Dent's bare chest. "I'm so sorry he had to come and ruin it. And then there was that woman..."
"Oh, I didn't mind her much," Dent said with a reassuring grin. He gently kissed the top of Rachel's head. "If I had as much money as Bruce Wayne, those kind of women would probably be all over me, too."
"No they wouldn't," Rachel replied with a feisty smile. "I'd beat them up."
"Oh, you would, would you?" asked Dent, looking down into Rachel's face. He shifted in bed, propping himself up on one elbow. "You would fight for me?"
"Who said I was fighting for you?" Rachel replied, giggling. "Maybe I just like a good fist-fight."
"I can see it now," said Dent, holding out an arm as if reading a marquee. "Rachel Dawes, lightweight boxing champ of the world. What do you have to say, Miss Dawes? Oh..." He imitated Rachel's voice poorly, "I just like a good fist-fight, that's all."
"Stop it!" Rachel said, scrunching up her nose and hitting him gently on the arm. "You're always making fun of me."
"And you like it," said Dent, laying back down next to her. "And you know it."
"I like you," Rachel corrected him, looking up into his face. "I'm not too fond of being made fun of."
"Well, then, I'll try to keep that in mind in the future," said Dent. He chuckled, kissing Rachel's hand. "Don't make fun of Rachel Dawes," he said in an undertone, still smiling. "She'll beat you up."
"Stop that," Rachel said, pressing her nose to Dent's.
Dent grinned, closing his eyes, and pulled her closer to him. "Okay," he said. "Since you asked nicely."
