Kala was getting ready for rehearsal, putting the last touches on her makeup, when she heard something that caught her attention. Rehearsal makeup wasn't too complicated, she just had to have enough eyeliner and shadow that the boys wouldn't worry about her. A few years of stage and concert makeup meant that her bare face looked, well, too bare.
She couldn't quite identify the noise that had interrupted her, and stopped to listen more carefully. Morgan was next door, humming under his breath as he brushed his teeth. Ned was in the same room, in the shower. And Robb…
Robb was in the other room, hitching in a breath like he was trying not to cry. While Derek spoke to him like he was some kind of misbehaving child, her keen ears catching the end of a sentence: "… absolutely ridiculous, of course you can't!"
Kala got to her feet, throwing on a blouse over her tank top, and stormed out of the room. She didn't care that no one without her super-hearing could've possibly overheard the argument. Hotel walls were thin, everyone knew that. And she didn't intend to let them wonder for long how she even knew there was a problem. Her intervention would be dramatic enough to sweep all minor concerns aside.
She didn't even have to pound on the door. All of their key-cards worked in all the rooms, that made it easier when they all grouped up in one place and left water bottles or phones or jackets in each other's rooms. She trusted her band, anyway, and they trusted her.
Just like Robb needed to be able to trust her to ride to his rescue, and she was done with Derek's bullshit. Of all of them, Robb needed a self-esteem boost the most, and he had the least defense against this kind of bullying. Kala flung the door open, and from the hall she heard Derek tell him, "You think you love her but you don't really know her, you only met her in person a week ago, and you can live with someone for years and not really know who they are completely. This is insane, you're not in love with some porn star, you're just in love with who you think she is!"
And that was just about enough, as far as she was concerned. It was far past time to do something about this. "Okay, you can shut the fuck up right now," Kala growled, stalking up to Derek with her eyes blazing. Of course he'd corner Robb alone, of all of them, the one who was a deep-down marshmallow despite outward appearances. "This doesn't really have anything to do with him and you know it, Derek. You leave him the hell alone, he can date anyone he damn well wants, and you don't get any say in it. Period, end of story. Now get the fuck out, this damn minute; I am not fucking playing with you, Derek."
Just as she expected, Derek turned on her instead of her bassist, but he wouldn't drop the topic. "You shut the hell up," he snapped. "Of course you'd let him run around getting photographed with this whore, as if we don't have an image to protect…"
The look on Robb's face hurt, the unexpected lashing-out had him out of sorts, his expression disbelieving even as he bristled. "She's not a whore!"
That tore it for Kala. Temper red-lining, she knew it would only be a matter of time before this would become more than words if it kept escalating. "And I wouldn't change what I'm saying if she was!" Kala yelled, fighting for restraint. This asshole right here… "Get out, Derek, you leave him be!"
"Look, this is a man-to-man conversation and you don't have any part in it," Derek said, rolling his eyes at her. The dismissive tone, and the absolute bullshit he was spinning, already had her struggling for control. Lois Lane's daughter had no patience for this kind of old-school misogynist nonsense.
And then Derek put his hands on her shoulders, trying to turn her around and make her walk away. Huge mistake, as Jay would have cheerfully warned him.
Kala reacted as she'd been trained to, her hands coming up inside Derek's arms and slapping outward, knocking his grip loose. That could've been the end of it, should've been the end of it, but he'd hurt Robb. He'd hurt one of her boys. She was tired, she was barely holding herself and the band together, and with a punishing tour schedule like this, all of them deserved whatever happiness they could find. Jennifer made Robb happy, and that was the only thing that mattered to Kala. There had been far too little happiness so far on this, their name-making tour. None of them had ever seen Robb quite as comfortable and energetic as he had been the last few days. Kala had watched the light that had built there since Jennifer arrived start to gutter out as Derek railed. That absolutely would not do. Derek was not going to run Jennifer off and ruin this for Robb, not after what happened with Sebast.
She was mad at Derek for being a small-minded little prick, for trying to cut off this chance at love, and she was outraged at him for that half-stifled sob she'd heard. Absolutely over the top furious.
It was fury, and her mother's temper, that led her to act, but it was Jay's training she used to do it.
Kala grabbed Derek's wrist, yanked him toward her, and turned her body into his sharply. He went flying over her hip, and her hold on his forearm flipped him over so he landed flat on his back with a thoroughly satisfying thump.
"Holy shit," Robb whispered.
Kala turned to Derek, seeing the shock on his face as he stared up at her, and she didn't care anymore who heard her. Her voice came out in a roar that did credit to her back-of-the-arena projection skills. "Now, for the last fucking time, get the fuck off my bus! Your ass is fired, Derek, hit the road. How dare you lay into Robb, but how could you be fucking stupid enough to lay hands on me! I've been warning you for months; that's it, I'm done! Out! Get out, right now!"
Without another word, he scrambled to his feet and bolted from the room, looking genuinely terrified. "Uh, Kala, can you do that?" Robb asked, wincing.
For an instant, there was a jolt of panic, but Kala pushed it to the side; no, she'd done what was right, for she and her boys, and refused to acknowledge the brief chill of unease. "I believe I just did," she said icily. "Give me your phone."
Ned and Morgan piled into the room, full of questions, just in time for Kala to reach their agent on Robb's phone. "Hi Jenna. I have news. Derek's out, period."
"What do you mean?" she asked, sounding chipper as always.
God, was she getting sick of salesmen. "What I said. I mean I'm fucking done with him," she shot back, still seething. "He started in on Robb's girlfriend, and when I told him to lay off, the motherfucker put his hands on me. Do you understand? He put his fucking hands on me. He's goddamn lucky I didn't break his arm. His ass is gone, do you hear me? Get us someone else."
A beat of silence, and then Jenna continued nervously, "Now Kala…"
That was enough to initiate what the boys had jokingly always called DEFCON-DIVA. Placating her right now was a foolish, foolish move; after so long, Jenna ought to have known better. "Don't you fucking now Kala me, Jenna, I am through. I've been telling you since this tour started that Derek was driving us all crazy. He's part of the reason why Sebast walked. So now you either get me another manager, or I'm walking. And I'm taking my boys with me. Can you sing, Jenna? 'Cause you might have to make my tour dates."
"Oh shit," Morgan whispered. All the same, he didn't try to talk her down – neither did Ned or Robb.
That gave truth to everything she was saying; the boys were more than capable of trying to stop her from playing her hand. Not one dissenter. Yeah, it was done for all of them. Kala knew she sounded like a high-riding bitch, but she didn't care anymore. Mom was right, sometimes you had to be the bitch to get results, and she was through letting Derek walk all over her and her boys.
Jenna's tone was suddenly very professional. "You'd be in breach of contract."
Kala had just enough control to stifle her snort of laughter. That changed the tune as quickly as she figured. Now to gamble as high as she dared. It was time for a stand. "Fuck the contract. I have enough money to hire lawyers to drag out the suit until even the label ends up bleeding. I don't want to quit, Jenna, but I will not work for this sanctimonious asshole. None of you would listen to me, now here we are. Either he goes, or I do. That's it."
"Listen, Kala, we don't have a manager available," Jenna began.
"Then I'll do it my fucking self. I've done it before; I ran this group long before we had 'handlers' or any of that. We'll keep going, keep making appearances, showing up for concert dates. But Jenna? If I see his face again, we're getting on a plane to Metropolis. Do you understand me?" Rage pulsed in her temples, and part of Kala wanted Jenna to call her bluff. Try me. Just fucking try me. See what you get. The label thinks they can scare me? I've fought people that would leave all of you hiding under your desks and pissing yourself. Try me.
Some of that must have been in her tone, because Jenna replied, "All right, Derek's off the tour. I'll speak to him. You've only got a handful more dates before your holiday break. After that, we should have a manager available. Until then, be aware that if you or any of the band members fail to be on time for a show, the label will probably pursue a breach of contract case."
She had expected as much from the moment she got on the phone. It was about time they realized that Kala Lane-Kent would not be pushed around and frightened by a bunch of lazy, spoiled middle-aged executives who had no idea what it took to be their meal-ticket. "Fine by me," Kala said coldly.
"All right, we'll talk to you soon," Jenna replied, and hung up.
Kala snapped the phone shut, and turned to the three boys. Now for the good news and the bad news. "Okay, listen up," she said. "Derek's out. And I'm the manager. We know how this works: if we fuck up, they come down on us like the wrath of god. If we can keep our shit together until New Year's, we're golden – we'll get a new manager who isn't a giant bag of dicks that walks like a man. Got it?"
All of them blinked, and then Morgan said dryly, "I love what this boyfriend's done for your vocabulary."
Despite the situation, Kala found herself giving them all a wolfish grin. It would all work out; she would make it work out. Anything had to be better than the last few months. "If we're late to anything, you'll hear my mom's driving words plus all of his favorite swears – and he can curse in about six languages. That I know of. We are not going to screw this up. Is that clear?"
It would work. There was no other choice. This would be a turning-point; this would maybe change the equilibrium for the better. Maybe they would all be able to breathe again. They just had to get to the holidays and take a rest. They would make it. They would, like they always had. She'd make sure of that. All the while, somewhere deep in the back of her mind, Kala thought to herself, I lost Sebast. I'm not losing the whole band.
…
The keys to a successful bank robbery in Gotham City were very simple: one, move fast, get in and out before GCPD or Batman could respond, and two, get rid of all incriminating evidence as quickly as possible. Sadly, the cash itself was incriminating, especially when Batman knew where you lived. Selina kept expecting him to show up in her living room, hunting for a suitcase full of bills. While she'd kept as much plausible deniability as possible – she hadn't worn her suit, opting for the classic ski mask and hooded jacket – he probably knew it had been her. So he was probably watching her bank account, too. That made the second half was a little more difficult than the first.
They'd pulled off the heist easily enough, sliding in minutes before closing, with Ivy taking out the security guards. Harley had cornered the manager and both tellers, and Selina had gone for the vault. They'd timed it just right; the vault was on a time delay, but the manager just wanted to go home after a long day, so he'd started the opening sequence before the branch actually closed. The three women had cleaned out the vault, and since Selina had scouted well in advance and knew which branches were likely to be cash-heavy, they'd cleared almost a million dollars.
All three of them already had some money, of course, and nine hundred grand split three ways only amounted to only three hundred grand each. The job was more about the fun of getting away with it than the actual cash, though if Harley and Ivy decided to leave town, it'd cover their moving expenses nicely.
The problem they had now, however, was that large amounts of cash were noticeable, and Batman was definitely sniffing around the case. Selina didn't think it was high on his list of priorities, not yet anyway, with Joker and all. Anyway the longstanding rule of their relationship was that he didn't pester her about anything he couldn't prove. Harley had worn a mask too, but Ivy's participation meant the two of them were implicated anyway. Oh well, she'd deal with that when and if she had to.
The funds needed to be laundered, and Harley didn't trust any of Joker's people for that. She could've, if she'd really wanted to, taken over his organization. She and Selina and Ivy had talked about that possibility on the first night they planned the robbery, bouncing ideas back and forth until Selina realized she'd eaten three of the delicious cinnamon buns and was going to regret the sugar rush later. Ultimately, it wasn't something Harley wanted to do. Let Joker's gang run wild, or get caught up by someone else. It would be too easy for one of them to turn on her, trying to make himself the new boss by taking out the person who'd put Joker in the hospital.
Selina had mob contacts, but their rates were ruinous; no family discount for her anymore. She decided to try negotiating with someone else, and made a few calls just to be sure she knew where she stood. No sense going in blind. The girls were willing to let her negotiate for them, too, and Selina knew better than to screw them over. Hell, she might leave them a little more than their share. Christmas was just over a month away, call it a gift. She still hoped the pair of them would run away and live happily ever after together, even if she'd miss them both.
They couldn't go with her this trip, too many people were probably hunting for Harley, and besides Selina figured she could make the arrangements more easily if she went solo. After contemplating the contents of her closet, trying on and rejecting a dozen outfits, she ultimately picked a slinky dark green silk pantsuit, wore her hair down, and went dramatic with the makeup.
Then hired a limo to take her to the Iceberg Lounge.
The main room at the Iceberg was open to the public, and it did a brisk business among tourists and Gothamites alike. Nothing serious ever went down out there, though. The chief tourist attractions were the enormous saltwater pool, and the ice bar, a separate room where the temperature was twenty-five degrees. Everything in there, the bar, the sculptures, even the seats were carved from ice. It had a separate cover charge and a time limit so no one actually got frostbite, but that just made the ice bar more alluring. A good gimmick, and one that made the rest of the lounge and dancefloor – kept at a chilly sixty degrees – seem warmer.
Selina bypassed the line, and flashed a smile to the bouncer. He nodded, and let her through. She ignored the main room, heading for a door in the back marked 'Private'. Another bouncer stood there, and this one actually stopped her. "Name?" he asked.
"Your boss knows me," she said, and tried to move past, but he caught her arm.
"Try that again, miss," he said, with a hint of warning in his tone.
Selina looked up at him, and her friendly smile faded. "This is the part where I usually just say, 'Meow', and then beat the crap out of whoever's in my way," she told him. "I'll cut you some slack, since you're obviously new. Just tell Oswald that an old friend stopped in, would you?"
With that she handed him back his discreet little stun gun, which she'd taken from his front pocket the moment he caught her arm, and then his wallet, his keys, his ivory-handled switchblade, and his money clip, all of which she'd lifted in a few moments of conversation. The guy looked dumbfounded, and Selina finally stepped past him into the Iceberg's private rooms. Almost a mirror image of the public side of the club, with a small stage, tables around a dance floor, and the bar at the back.
It was quieter, and colder, back here. No band playing tonight, and not quite as cold as the ice bar for the tourists, but in the low fifties. Cobblepot had always preferred the cold; it was part of why they called him Penguin. The chill meant that a night out for most of the high-profile bad boys and girls in Gotham typically included a coat and gloves, but hey, that was more opportunity for flashy high fashion. Selina herself had worn a cashmere wrap, and the silk pantsuit was warmer than it looked, too.
No one at the tables looked up as she walked by; everyone was here on their own business, and it was wiser not to pay too much attention to anyone else's. Still, Selina was peripherally aware of familiar faces, some from the big families, some who typically wore masks. At least one didn't bother, but she nodded to Harvey Dent in passing, and he gave her the same courtesy. He wasn't in her good books at the moment, after trying to round up the kids, but Cobblepot had a very strict rule about not fighting in his club. It'd been a couple years since one of the Maroni boys thought he was above the rules, and went after one of his rivals in the business. Last Selina heard, the knee replacement was working out nicely, but he still knew every time the weather changed by the pain in old breaks.
Selina picked a seat at the end of the bar, and smiled at the bartender when he glided over to her. "A southside, please," she told him, and he nodded. He wasn't new, though Selina hadn't managed to get a word out of him yet, and he made her cocktail exactly as she liked it. Gin, lime juice, simple syrup, and muddled catnip instead of mint.
She got two sips into it before Cobblepot himself turned up. He stood across the bar from her; the floor on the bartender's side was slightly higher, and he could look her in the eye that way. "You shouldn't threaten the doorman, Selina," he said, as if in grave disappointment.
"I was in shock, Oswald. I thought for a moment you didn't want me around." Selina gave him the big sad eyes, what Harley had taken to calling her 'Puss in Boots' look, ever since that movie with the green ogre had come out.
It didn't work on Cobblepot. "Of course not. But it's not such a hardship to just tell the man who you are. He doesn't need your real name, just your nom de guerre."
"He figured it out," Selina said, and held out her hand. Cobblepot offered his, and she put the guard's phone into it. "I thought you didn't let them take calls on the job."
"I don't," he said, with the barest hint of a smile. "I used to worry they'd run deals behind my back, but now my biggest problem is keeping them from playing damned Candy Crush when they should be working."
Selina chuckled at that. "The world moves on, Oswald, and we move with it."
"Do we?" he asked. "Sounds like you pulled a very old-fashioned move, a night or two ago. Practically a smash-and-grab. Not really your caliber at all."
"I would never do such a thing," Selina protested. "I'm mostly retired, anyway. You shouldn't listen to rumors, Oswald." She sipped the drink, watching his eyes, hoping he'd glance down to watch her throat move. The emerald pendant she wore should've led his gaze further downward, and generally once a man was thinking about Selina's cleavage, he was much easier to manage.
No such luck with Oswald. Not tonight, anyway. He just smiled, and said, "My mistake, of course. You're practically a vigilante these days. Maybe I ought to start making you pay the cover charge."
"Is that any way to treat an old friend?" Selina asked sadly.
He grinned, showing perfectly white and even teeth. "There are no friends in our line of work, kitty-cat. You know that as well as I do. To survive in this town, you put business first, and don't let 'friends' tell you otherwise."
"Oh, come on," she said, reaching out to touch his forearm briefly. And not lifting his watch when she did it. "If anyone in Gotham can afford to be friendly, it's you. Last I heard, the Iceberg is doing so well from the tourist trade, you could even pass an IRS audit."
Cobblepot scoffed slightly. "Maybe I could. Maybe information is a better trade to be in. I don't like jail, Selina. It's boring, the food's terrible, and it cuts into my profits, not being here to supervise things."
"Maybe we're all going legitimate," she mused, running her fingers along the rim of the cocktail glass. "It'd be one way to put the Bats out of business."
"The mob would pick up the difference," Cobblepot replied. "And your loverboy would implode, if he didn't have crime to fight. Enough, Selina, I know you're not here to reminisce about old times. What do you need?"
She sighed, dramatically, and gave him a winsome look. Cobblepot had always had a bit of a thing for her, just enough to be something of a soft spot in his usually flinty dealings with other rogues. And Selina had checked in with one of her contacts in the escort business; he still had a definite type, and it was still leggy blondes. Hence the pantsuit, and her hair spilling over her shoulders.
"What I need is a bit of business help. What I want is to work with a friend I can trust, and not these new-money mobsters who think they can scam me," Selina murmured. With that, she polished off her drink.
Ever the gentleman, he gestured to the bartender for another. "I pity anyone who tries to pull the wool over your eyes. I know how sharp your claws are. I suppose, for the greater good, I ought to at least hear you out." And even though Cobblepot was acting like he was doing her some kind of huge favor, Selina knew that he loved being the central broker for information and money alike. It played into all of his conceits, having Gotham's wealthy and powerful fawning over his club as the nightspot, and at the same time having all the other rogues come to him for help.
When the drink arrived, Selina gave him a hopeful smile. "Your office? I don't want to talk business out here."
"Of course," he told her.
Cobblepot had his hang-ups, and one was that he didn't like being reminded of his height. Even Selina was taller, and she walked half a pace behind him to his office, where she curled up in a chair instead of sitting on the desk as she might've with someone else.
He took his seat and looked at her shrewdly; Selina met his gaze levelly. She knew she was smart, but her greater strengths were intuition and adaptability. She wouldn't try to out-plot Penguin any more than she'd try to out-think Oracle. What she could do, and did very well, was figure out what script he had in mind for this encounter … and change it up on him.
"How much money are we talking about?" Oswald asked.
"Almost a mil," Selina replied. Which, yes, made it clear she'd been involved in the bank robbery that was all over the news, but hell, what was he going to do? Sell that information to Capespotting?
"Right. I can get it back to you through legitimate streams in under a week, but to do that is going to cost me time, effort, and some of my own investment," Oswald replied.
Selina shrugged; that was business as usual. "Of course. What's your cut?"
"Fifty percent," he said.
"Fifty?!" Selina heard her own voice squeak. She'd thought he would start at thirty, and hoped to argue him down to fifteen! "Oswald, come on, how long have we known each other? No one in this town takes fifty, not even the Falcones!"
"You're hot right now, Selina," he pointed out. "And you're running with someone even hotter. The Bats are watching Harley – well, you probably know that better than I do. The mob's watching her, Joker's people are watching her, and Dent's watching her. You know, Dent's sitting out there in the lounge right now, wondering why you came to see me. Three women rob a bank together in this town, even if you painted Ivy we'd all know who it was. And there's a very large target on Harley's back."
All true, but Selina hadn't thought he'd let it stop him from doing business. "And you're scared of Dent now?" she challenged. "His goons beat up your boys in the street and you still let him drink here. What's Harv got on you?"
"He drinks here because he follows the rules and he pays well. What happens in the street is just business, too, even if the transactions aren't as elegant." Oswald shrugged, unbothered by the implication – which meant he really wasn't scared of Two-Face. "You can go to the mob, they'll give you better numbers, but they won't pay. You'll have to go wading into them and remind them why no one messes with you or the girls. And that'll draw attention you don't want. At least you know I'm honest."
"Fifty is still ridiculous," Selina said. "You're dealing with me, not Harley, and she's laying very low."
"Except for going out robbing banks. Granted, that's mid-profile, for Gotham. It's not high-profile here until the Bat-signal lights up. What worries me, Selina, is what she wants the money for. I might get blamed for that one. Joker's still alive, you know, and word is he's going to recover. My money's on a complete recovery. He'll be up and walking by the first of December."
"Mine's on someone taking him out while he's still handcuffed to the hospital bed," Selina growled.
Oswald shook his head. "Joker's the only one who makes me believe in luck. No one's going to kill him in the hospital. And when he does get out, he's going to want to make a rug out of Harley's skin."
"Yeah, well, I have a vested interest in not seeing that happen," Selina said, off-handed. "Not to mention, I doubt that's how it ends. Harley finally woke up, Oswald. If he does come after her, she'll tear him apart. The only reason she stopped that time was because getting Bud to the vet was more important than turning Joker into a greasy smear on the floor. And all of that discounts what Ivy might do to him, now that she doesn't have to worry about Harley hating her for it."
He regarded her thoughtfully. "Sounds like you know more than the whispers going around."
"Of course I do. They're my friends." Selina saw what he meant to do, but she wanted him to be the one to say it.
Oswald steepled his fingers, drawing it out, wanting her to say it instead. Selina just looked at him, her eyes open and guileless while her mind spun behind it. At last, he said, "I'd be willing to knock a few points of that percentage for some solid details."
"You're asking me to betray a confidence," Selina said, looking wounded.
"Information benefits everyone. If she's willing to let you handle the money, she's got to understand that you'll have to manage the information, too." He looked back at her steadily.
With an air of great reluctance, Selina asked, "How much?"
"Ten percent. That makes my cut forty," Oswald said.
She winced. "God, Oswald, that's three hundred and sixty grand. That leaves less than two hundred apiece for us, and we're the ones who went out there and got it!"
"You could run it through your own contacts," he suggested, with a little smile. "I heard you had a business of your own. Dog training makes good money these days, just watch television."
Selina hissed, then got herself back under control. "I know who set that one up, and I've already gotten her back for it. How did you know?"
"She used your real phone number," Oswald pointed out. "I keep an eye out for any interesting news about my friends, Selina. You took the website down the same day it went up. Now what did you ever do to piss Talia al Ghul off that much?"
"Mostly Batman," she replied. "You want details, I want another ten percent off."
He laughed then, but it was good-humored, not spiteful. "Selina, Selina. People forget how very mercenary you can be. You're a survivor, first and foremost. And you picked the right moniker, you always land on your feet. Information's better than money; it's one of the few things you can sell more than once. And it grows, if you let it, with a better interest rate than any bank."
"What information do you want?" Selina asked. "And what am I getting for it?"
He ticked off the points on his fingers. "I want the specifics of what Harley did to Joker, and why, for ten percent. I want to know how you managed to get the Daughter of the Demon to play games like this website, but that's only worth five to me – it's a curiosity, not vital intel."
Which left her paying him thirty-five percent of almost a million dollars, and Selina had wanted to pay only fifteen percent. We can't always get everything we want, she told herself, but it didn't fly. What would she tell the girls? That she hadn't been able to drive a bargain?
Still, she didn't jump to offer Oswald anything else, just raised an eyebrow, waiting. Selina knew some very dangerous secrets. And she might have an ace up her sleeve, too.
He regarded her thoughtfully, and as she expected, made an offer. "Now, I might be able to take another twenty-five percent off – and that's cheap, Selina, I'd have to ask you not to tell anyone I cut it that low. I'd do it for you, and only you, since we have known each other so long, and you're awfully reliable for someone who claims to be such a free spirit. But I need something in return."
She changed tactics, simply by stopping the game. Selina sat forward, elbows on the table, looking at him the way she'd looked at the dons when she'd been running the Calabrese family. "You know I wouldn't brag about a bargain, Oswald, but you should also know there are some things I won't do. Not for money, not for love, not to save my own life."
"That's what I like about you. You have principles." He smiled, but Selina knew it wasn't praise for her character. Archimedes had once said something like, 'Give me a long enough lever and a fulcrum to place it on, and I shall move the world.' Cobblepot saw principles as a fulcrum, a fixed point around which he could use information as his lever.
He was very dangerous, in his way. It was hard to know what he already knew, and how he'd put it together with what she told him to make bigger conclusions than she intended. Selina just waited, patient as the proverbial cat at a mousehole, making him name what he wanted instead of volunteering anything.
Oswald's eyes were bright. "We've got a new player in town this year. A new metahuman, and since when does the Bat give the nod to a meta? Not to mention, this Blur is running around with Red Hood. Since when does he take a partner? And what does he want with a meta? He spent his time in the desert, after he came back from the dead, and his trainer's not a fan of metahumans either."
Shit, shit, shit. Selina knew who had trained Jay, too. Ever since he'd come back wearing the red helmet, since the DNA test proved that Red Hood was Jason Todd, Bruce had known who it had to have been, and the knowledge tortured him. But she did not want to give Oswald any further information about exactly which al Ghul it had been, or about the Blur, and that was his real target here.
So she shrugged, pretending ignorance. "You think I know anything useful about Blur? Funny, Ivy asked me the same thing."
"Ivy met Blur. And Ivy ended up in Arkham. That makes the new girl even more interesting. There aren't that many who slip through Ivy's fingers. What do you know, Selina?" Oswald leaned forward too, his eyes agleam.
Twenty-five percent was almost a quarter of a million dollars. Selina sighed, feeling all the complicated ties of friendship and love and good common sense tugging her in different directions. At last she said quietly, "She's got more than speed. When someone she cares about is in danger, I don't know what she'd do. As for why Hood wants her … I'm pretty sure he's seen her with the mask off. And everything else off, too." That wasn't really a secret, anyone who'd seen the two of them together for more than five minutes could figure out they were a couple.
"Hood fell in bed with a meta," Oswald mused. "I'm sure you know most men dream about something like that. Very few of them can handle it."
Selina nodded, thinking, That's why you pay for yours. You know what they want from you, and it's all straightforward. No messy breakups, no entanglements, just a transaction satisfying for both parties. Can't say I blame you … but I'm as much a fool for love as Hood is, and I need more than a good lay.
When she didn't rise to that, he continued, "So what is she? Blur can throw off Ivy's control, according to rumor she caved in a roof on top of Harvey's boys when they were out recruiting, and we all know she's faster than almost anything. It's an impressive lineup, sure, but what else has she got?"
Selina sighed and tipped her head back. "Oswald, you think Batman just tells me things? Come on, he knows who I hang out with. It's not like he's going to volunteer information."
"I wouldn't trust hearsay," he replied. "I don't want to know what the Bat told you, I want what you know. You were there when she brought the roof in. Looks like you've been looking after Hood's pack of strays, too."
She narrowed her eyes. "We have a common interest. Those kids are just kids. They were in the wrong place at the wrong time, and Hood had no idea what to do with them, but he couldn't leave them for someone like Harv to snatch up. He called on me because I owed him one. And I was happy to help out. So sue me, I don't like to see children getting hurt."
"I knew about the kids," Oswald said with a shrug. "That was you and Canary working with Hood. Once I knew you weren't running a junior vigilante training camp, it wasn't interesting. And no, before you think about sharpening your claws on my face, I didn't point Harvey at them. He stumbled across them all on his own."
Selina tapped her nails on his desk irritably. "Of course we weren't trying to turn them into vigilantes. Gotham doesn't need any more kids putting on capes – or masks – to deal with their shitty childhoods. Is it really that surprising that a bunch of social misfits would try to help out some kids, Oswald? There's no one in this town wearing a costume who's got both parents alive and sane."
He held up both hands. "Easy, Selina, I'm not one to judge. I've had the occasional philanthropic moment myself – leaves you feeling hungover, doesn't it, all that altruism? Like you need to punch someone to remember who you are."
She cut him a quick smile at that. "Can't let the do-gooders think I'm one of them."
"I bet Hood's having a bit of identity crisis, running around with the Bats and saving kids, when a few years ago he was ready to blow this town apart. Maybe he's just mellowed out." Oswald looked at her, and Selina realized that all of her attempts to distract him hadn't worked. "Besides, it's not the kids that concern me. Not Hood, either. I want to know what Blur is, so we can figure out how to deal with her. That's where you come in, Selina. Gotham's one big balance beam, with the heroes on one end and us villains on the other. And you, dancing along the center, tiptoeing from one side to the other."
That was entirely too accurate a description of how she felt about her role in Gotham. "I don't exactly do commitment, Oswald. And I don't like being labeled a villain, or a hero."
He continued patiently, "Of course not. But you know when you need to drop a hint, here and there, to keep your friends on both sides safe from each other. Blur's an unknown variable. In the interest of everyone's safety, don't you think I should know what her deal is?"
Cobblepot sounded so very reasonable, but Selina knew what Kala was – and what her weaknesses were. If Oswald learned that, the price of kryptonite in Gotham would go through the roof. No matter what, more people would start carrying the stuff, and Kala would eventually get hurt.
Still, a quarter of a million dollars was nothing to sneeze at. And he was right, she'd given out tidbits of information before, to Batman and the other rogues. Trying to keep the balance, to keep her friends on both sides from getting hurt.
Selina sighed, and played a last gambit. "Times like this, I really start to think I should've slept with you, back in the day."
He chuckled … but there was that spark in his eye. "No woman alive is worth a quarter of a million dollars, Selina. That's politician's hush money, and there's no man alive who wouldn't want the world to know about you. Old times' sake wouldn't get your money laundered for ten percent, either. Just information."
She'd known that wouldn't work, but it would distract him just enough to make her actual attempt successful. Selina frowned, biting her lip nervously, as if about to make a huge concession. "Listen, Oswald … just, promise they'll never find out it came from me?"
Cobblepot spread his hands magnanimously. "Have I ever given up a source? Selina, you wound me."
She nodded, and leaned in close. Cobblepot did the same. Selina whispered in his ear, knowing her breath was warm and faintly minty with the liquor, "I don't know anything for certain. But with those powers, and the way she carries herself? Something about her just says Amazon, doesn't it?"
Oswald's avaricious eyes gleamed.
…
Amnesia turned out to be the best bet, for getting a decent standard of care and opening up possibilities of escape. So Joker pretended not to know who he was, or where he was. He gave the president's name confidently, only he said the one from two elections ago. All politicians were the same, anyway, a bunch of bad comedians telling the same washed-up jokes over and over again, the biggest of which was 'If elected, I promise to serve'. Lining their pockets, every one, turning themselves into more gears in the political machine, and Joker had sometimes thought about getting involved in politics. His understanding of mob mentality could've come in handy.
But it would be too boring. And even he had limits. There were things too low for him to stoop to. Besides, playing well with others was an essential political skill, and one Joker had always lacked.
He was affable and courteous to all the doctors and nurses and everyone else with a string of letters after their names, he smiled and nodded and complied with every ridiculous request, and even so, most of them didn't thaw. They still regarded him with wary suspicion, and not once were the restraints left loose.
No matter. He only needed one to become too trusting or too careless.
Or he could wait, and break out of Arkham again. That would be harder; he'd rather escape from the hospital, and so he made sure they'd keep him here. After all, they wouldn't bother to transfer him as long as they thought he couldn't walk.
That was a great one, a truly inspired performance. After his attempt to introduce Commissioner Gordon to a wider worldview had failed, Joker had learned a lot about paralysis, wondering what exactly he'd done to poor little Babster Gordon. He'd done a lot of reading in medical journals, joined some obscure technical forums for student doctors, and seen some crazy things on certain specialized internet archives. But he'd also learned a great deal from the experience, and among the facts he retained was how truly bad most people were at faking paralysis. The standard test for pseudo-paralysis was to remark to another clinician in the suspected malingerer's hearing that paralyzed people stayed in whatever position you put their limbs, then raise the patient's arm and let go. If it stayed up, they obviously weren't paralyzed. For craftier patients, the doctors would simply raise the arm and let it go in such a way that it would smack the patient's face, if they truly had no control of their limbs.
He wasn't trying to pretend full paralysis, no. That'd be over the top. Instead, he paid attention as soon as he could move, and noticed that his right side seemed a trifle weaker than the left. Joker played that into something like a minor stroke, with generalized weakness on his right side. Even after the big casts and external fixators came off – his fractures healed so quickly that the doctors were beginning to doubt what they'd seen on his intake radiographs – he still had one arm in a sling and a whole lot of bandages wound around his head. And when he first tried to stand, to take a few halting steps with nurses and security guards watching anxiously, he'd crashed to the ground hard enough jar his fractured jaw and bite his own tongue.
They wouldn't believe he was faking, with blood on the floor tiles. Joker smiled on the inside; he never half-assed things. Always commit a hundred and ten percent to any performance, or the audience won't buy it.
As one nurse dabbed some antibiotic on his new scrapes, Joker apologized abjectly for making a mess and causing a fuss. He was channeling Harley at her most obsequious; she did a really effective grovel. Personally it drove him nuts, wanting to put a boot in her stupid bleating face, but most people couldn't help wanting to reassure someone who acted like this.
And in the nurse's serious eyes, Joker saw the first glimmers of pity. Got one, he thought, thanking her humbly. With all of his considerable charm bent on her, it wouldn't take long to open up an opportunity.
He'd do his physical therapy assiduously, and a few isometric exercises on his own time as well. When the chance finally came, Joker needed to be ready.
…
Jay checked his phone during a slow moment on patrol. Ever since Joker had regained consciousness, he'd been paying an aide for updates on the bastard's condition. Straight-up HIPAA violation, but so was Babs hacking the hospital mainframe. Besides, it was Joker, who fucking cared? It looked like the lucky fuck was going to live, and even though he seemed to have some 'cognitive deficits' as the hospital termed them, Jay didn't believe that was permanent. Hell, it might not even be real. People forgot how damn smart Joker was in the face of all the cackling insanity.
He'd gone over hospital security. Just checking. So far it seemed airtight. No chance of Joker slipping out … or of Harley slipping in, which he knew Bruce worried about. Batman was all over it, and so were the cops, guarding every access. They had to be. It was too easy to kill someone in the hospital. A good-sized air bubble in a central line would do it. Or a little extra push of painkillers. No need to get dramatic about it.
No chance of Jay himself slipping in, either, and he needed to stop thinking about air bubbles and morphine and the good old-fashioned pillow over the face. Or hell, bullet to the brain, even if someone else snuck in and offed Joker, Bruce would look at him first. Might as well be guilty if he was gonna get blamed.
Still, when he checked his phone, Jay was glad to find a distraction. Kala had texted him. Life just got a little more interesting. And not in the way I wanted it to. Not good.
He frowned. Patrol's boring. What happened?
Her reply wasn't quite as swift as super-speed typing allowed, and Jay knew she was thinking about how to phrase something. Manager pushed me a little too far & uh… I let him go.
For one wild second, Jay thought she meant 'off a roof' or something. This was Kala, and she'd been pissed at this asshole manager for months. Her next message was simply, Label's gonna be pissed, a lot of people are going to pissed likely, but he deserved it.
You fired the fuck? he asked.
Her response came as a series of messages. Yeah. Told the label, me or him. He's out. Good news: no more panicky manager jammed up our asses. Bad news: I'm the manager now. Playing Wendy is getting harder and harder to take, but what choice? This is not how it was supposed to be. Just sick of the fakeness this time.
Jay grimaced, reading that. Kala had been extra busy; the West Coast tour dates were intense as they got closer to Los Angeles, with multiple shows in the same city. That was eating up her time, and this news meant she'd have even less free time. Right as he was trying to get a grip on the fact that he no longer looked forward to working alone, too.
Nah, that was selfish. He could handle it. She had a day job, she had to take care of things. He typed back, You're good at it. If they don't listen, just drop them off a roof.
That should've made her laugh, but instead, there was a long pause between messages. Jay wondered what Kala was doing, and thought about just calling her. Hearing her voice would give him a lot more information than dry words. Problem was, situational awareness was important on patrol, and he didn't get absorbed in texts the way he did in calls. He could look up and check his surroundings between messages.
I'm thisclose to just chucking all of it. Fuck it, Sebast can walk away, so can me and the boys.
Jay stared. She'd told him being a singer was her dream before she even knew she was Superman's daughter. This was what Kala had wanted since she was like five years old. And she was good at it, he might give her shit about her music not being his style, but he'd heard every album by now and she clearly had talent. Not to mention, the sold-out shows spoke for themselves. She should've been on top of the world; she was a fucking rock star. What had changed to make her consider throwing it away?
You sure that's what you want? Or are you just tired of dealing with bullshit like Derek? Jay typed the question, wishing he wasn't on patrol. He really should've called. He sent a quick follow up. Would come kick his ass, but I'm at work.
The phone buzzed, and Kala replied in a series of messages. Jeez, here you are ON PATROL, doing shit that matters, and having to listen to the princess whine about how haaaaard it is to be a fucking singer. Sorry, Jay. Why do you put up with me?
For once, he didn't give her the glib answer, something shallow about how she filled out the uniform he'd made for her. That would've been safer, but hell, K wasn't about safe. This was a chick who could fly around the entire planet in a matter of hours, who was totally down with crispy-frying the Clown – and could do that with a look. Literally.
So he typed back slowly, feeling the back of his neck creep a little at being so honest, I don't put up with you. I LIKE you. Close air support's nice, you're damn handy in a fight, sometimes I need a kick in the ass and you're good for that too. But mostly I just like you.
Jay waited, scanning his surroundings. The immediate area was quiet; Red Hood dropping into a drug deal and kicking the shit outta the dealers tended to have that effect. All the rats had gone back into their holes for a while.
WHY? That reply came back in its own message, followed shortly by, I don't even LIKE me half the time. Except when I'm with you.
To his mind, there was nothing not to like. Yeah, okay, when he'd met her, he'd thought Kala was a spoiled little daddy's girl. Whoever heard of a superhero masquerading as a rock singer? Hell, what was up with Superman's daughter of all people trying to go part-time? It looked ridiculous…
Until you knew her, and knew why she shied away from the hero game, why singing was so important as a career, being one of the few areas where her superpowers didn't give her an advantage. Until you knew how fractured K really was, all the things she tried to hide, and if you were, say, a fucked-up ex-Robin who'd damn near died and came back hungry for revenge, maybe you looked into those gorgeous hazel eyes and saw some kind of an echo there. Someone as broken as you were, still soldiering on, still trying despite every fuckwit shaking their heads about what a dilettante she was. And somehow, when she was at her worst, when her shadow-self was trying to swallow her whole or when she'd been beaten damn near unconscious, she found the grit to keep going. She clawed her way back, just like he had. How could he not love her?
Jay shuddered, fighting down the instinct to drop the phone and find a fight to get into. He hadn't said it out loud, it didn't count. Don't talk shit about my girl, he sent back. Then another message, You just like yourself when you're with me bc I let you beat up bad guys. And that's the most fun we can have w clothes on. Who doesn't like fun?
He could imagine her breaking into a smile, her somber expression lightening. At least, that was what Jay hoped for. He felt like he'd been in one place too long, and jogged over to the next rooftop before looking at his phone again.
Kala had replied. How pathetic and needy do I sound if I ask if I can come over?
Trepidation haunted him. Jay wasn't good at emotional stuff, even if Kala was a lot more level-headed and easy to read than most people he knew. Well, most of the people he knew were Bats, so that was a low bar to clear. Pretty sure 'coming over' privileges are including in the girlfriend package. Any time, K.
Another pause, then, How are things there tonight?
Slow. Just street scuffles. Could break off & meet you. That was the honest truth, and Jay waited for a reply.
It could be a couple weeks before I get back. Dya think the 'wife' would mind? That made him chuckle; he wasn't as married to Gotham City as Bruce was, but at least Kala was showing some humor again.
Come on. What Gotham doesn't know won't hurt her, he sent back, and then tapped his comm. "O, there's nothing serious on the street tonight. I'm gonna head in early."
"You're clear," she replied. "Maybe get some sleep for once."
"Nah, I think I'll invite a hot girl over and have a wild party, stay up 'til dawn," he joked back.
"Tell Blur I said hello," Babs laughed at him, and Jay smiled.