"Thank you for coming," Falcone's voice rumbles through the room. Despite his age, his voice is strong from where he's seated at the head of the table, Fish Mooney at his side. "I know many of you have busy schedules," he continues. "As you know, Maroni was awarded a share in the Arkham project. I've gathered you here to assure you that our partial share in it is not a loss. If anything, we will profit even more now that a war has been averted."

Murmurs ripple through the gathered people, and they shift in their seats; until one of Falcone's lieutenants, a Russian known only as Nikolai, pipes up. "Maroni will be emboldened by success—we should strike back first."

Fish levels him with a glare. "And if he does, " she snaps, "we will remind him why he is second. We are more than equipped to deal with him."

A sneer overtakes Nikolai's face. "You are too bold," he says. "Perhaps there is a reason for a woman's place, in the motherland."

Fish's hand inches towards her gun; and Falcone raises his hand in a pacifying gesture. "We are family, Nikolai," he reminds the man. "We must provide a united front to our enemies." Unspoken, his threat hangs clearly in the air.

As they exit the building, Fish brushes past Nikolai. "We should talk," she murmurs. "Somewhere private."

The Russian cocks his head; but follows after her to her car. Getting in on the driver's side, Fish waits for the man to get in. Once he's seated, she says, "You're obviously unhappy about the way that the Don is handling the situation."

He snorts. "Uhappy does not even cover it," he says, bitterly.

Fish nods. "He's being weak," she adds; watching as the other's eyes light up.

"Exactly," he says; and then casts a furtive glance around the interior of the car before leaning forward. "If you have a plan to take his place..."

She smiles. "I have a plan," she says. "Can I trust you to work with me?"

His answering smile is sharp.

Later that evening, Fish lounges in her chair, watching the young woman onstage, Liza. She's much better than the other —though her voice isn't as appealing, she's much better in other areas. Quiet the suductress, in fact.

She takes a sip from her glass, leaning over to Butch. "Put her on the preliminary list," she orders, once Liza's done singing. She gives a nervous glance in Fish's direction and scurries off the stage.

Fish frowns. That might be a problem—she needs someone who's able to act without second-guessing themselves. To Butch, she says, "We're moving the schedule up. Call Marie."

The man nods. "You got it, boss," he says, and rises to go make the phone call.

A few hours later, Marie arrives; and Fish rises. "This way, please," she says, leading the young woman towards the back alley exit. Liza's already waiting outside. Once the two of them are standing awkwardly in the alley, Fish smiles. "I'm afraid," she says, "only one of you will survive to continue in my employment."

Marie flinches; obviously expecting to get shot; but Liza catches on, and Fish can see the ideas running through her mind. It takes a full second for Marie to understand what she means, but by then, it's too late.

Liza lunges at the other, fingers finding her neck; and Marie's wings flap, her eyes panicked, fingers turning into talons as she scratches at the other's hands; but Liza doesn't let go.

Finally, her eyes roll back in her skull; hands falling limply to her sides. A minute, then two, and then Liza steps back, allowing the other's corpse to fall to the ground. She looks up at fish, her fingers bloodied from the other's panicked scratching, expectant.

Fish smiles. "Welcome to your new position," she says.

"Falcone thinks he can hit me, in my business—I'll show him," Maroni growls; his voice carrying through the building; seemingly unaware that anyone could overhear him—which is exactly what Osvalda's doing right now. Covertly, obviously, as it'd do her no good to be found out and killed.

Thankfully, despite only having been the manager for a short time, Maroni isn't suspicious of her—Osvalda's plan with hiring a group of thugs to rob Bamonte's, while she ostensibly managed to save some of the profits, and then pin the attack on Falcone, probably contributes to why he thinks she's not going to be a problem.

Maroni, the idiot that he is, only had his surroundings checked once—there's a reason he's second to Falcone. Osvalda listens as he lays out his plan of attack, somewhat surprised to hear that the man has managed to make a secret alliance with one of Falcone's people. Listening to Maroni, Osvalda begins to formulate a plan of her own.

As she listens, she suddenly remembers that she had agreed to meet up with Jamie later in the day to work out their 'date'. Reflecting on it, she feels astounded by the detective's actions—she had thought the other would have tried to distance herself from Osvalda, perhaps using the cop vs. mobster argument, but no—she actually seems to be embracing, hell, encouraging, Osvalda's clumsy overtures of friendship.

It's a nice surprise; but Osvalda shakes herself from her thoughts and concentrates on Maroni's conversation.

They've agreed to meet at GC Jitters, an offshoot of the chain based in Central City that Ed had introduced her to. She wonders, briefly, how they've been able to survive this long in Gotham relatively unscathed—as far as she knows, Central City has a fairly low crime rate.

The booth's position, near the back of the café, affords both privacy and protection; and thus, is the perfect place for her and Osvalda to meet. When Jamie gets there, she's running late, and slightly out of breath from sprinting from the bus stop. The other's already waiting for her when she rushes in, sliding into the seat across from Osvalda. The other is perusing the menu, and, when Jamie sits down, she looks up, smiling broadly. "Jamie, my friend," she greets. "I'm glad you could make it."

Jamie smiles, slightly sheepish."Yeah, sorry I'm late—something came up."

The other waves her off. "Nonsense," she says, and when the waiter comes to take their order, says, "a chai late, and...?"

"A cafe borgia," Jamie fills in. "Extra cinnamon, please." The waiter scribbles on her notepad and departs, leaving the two of them alone. "Perhaps we should get to the matter at hand?" Jamie suggests.

Osvalda sighs; lightly, and clasps her hands in her lap. "Straight to business, I see."

"Straight might not be the right word," Jamie quips; and the words make Osvalda break into a small smile. It's a very beautiful smile, and it makes her green eyes light up, softening her otherwise sharp outer countenance.

It fades far quicker than Jamie would like; and Osvalda says, "Regardless, you're right—we have a limited amount of time, and I'd like this to be convincing, seeing as how I'd prefer to say alive. Maroni may not be bright, but he isn't completely clueless, loath as I am to admit. Obviously, we'll need to act, and act well—do couple-y things, go on a few more dates, hold hands, so forth. Is there anything else you can think of?"

Jamie feels slightly in awe at the other's ability to turn nearly any situation to her advantage. Clearing her throat, she says, "You missed something. The six o'clock date at Bamonte's—typically, partners visit each other's residences quite often, so that would be necessary. And you've already been over to my place, so..." she trails off.

Osvalda snaps her fingers. "I knew I was missing something—though I can't say I'm looking forward to interacting with Selina again." She shudders slightly. "I am quite certain she has murderous intentions towards me.

Jamie laughs lightly. "Nah, she'll warm up to you—you'll see. Now," she reaches under the table to grasp Osvalda's hands in her own, "when did you say our date at Bamonte's is?"

Osvalda freezes for a moment; and Jamie wonders if she's been to forward. Then she snaps out of it and returns Jamie's smile. "The day after tomorrow. Dress formally, though I'm sure you'll look dashing regardless." Then, she pulls her hands from Jame's grip and checks her watch. "I have to go; important business meeting to get to," she explains; and stands. Jamie rises as well.

They split the bill, despite Osvalda's protests, and when they get to the door, Jamie leans over and presses a small, chaste kiss to the other's cheek. "Bye, darling," she says, softly, and departs.

Jamie and Bullock are on their break; and they've made their way to a local diner, and sat in the outdoor seating to eat. She's just polishing off her sandwich when, suddenly, an alarm sounds; and Jamie whips around; catching sight of the broken glass window of the convenience store across the street.

Rising, she makes her way towards the scene.

"Hey!" shouts Bullock, from behind her, "it's lunch! We're off duty!" he protests; waving his own sandwich in the air. Jamie ignores him, continuing on her path; and a moment later, hears a resigned sigh and footsteps following after her.

The owner's laying on the ground, groaning; his head bleeding heavily. Jamie moves to help him up. "What happened? " she asks.

"There was a man," the owner begins; shaking. "He came in, and he went crazy —ripped the ATM out of the wall—the whole ATM machine!" he babbles. Jamie furrows a brow, wondering what he's on about.

Bullock comes to a stop by her side; huffs, "Right, sir, we're homicide, no one's dead, and it's lunch, so how about you call 911 and they'll send someone to take care of you—"

Jamie waves a hand to silence him. "What did the attacker's vehicle look like?" she questions.

The man shakes his head. "There wasn't one!" he exclaims. "He pulled it out of the wall with his bare hands!"

"You mean he pulled it out of the wall without any help?" Bullock repeats; and the man nods. Jamie and Bullock exchange a glance—there's obviously something far more unusual and dangerous occurring than what they've seen before.

A few hours later, they manage to track down someone who claims to have seen a man who matches the description of the attacker the shop owner gave them once he had calmed down slightly.

"You're sure that the man is the same one Charmagne recognised?" Jamie asks.

"Yes, I'm certain," Bullock snaps; his hands tightening on the steering wheel, knuckles whitening. "They had a few one-night stands, and Charmagne's good with faces. Plus," he adds, "it's our only lead."

Damn him for being right. Jamie exhales, willing the tension to leave her muscles. Lately, she's been on edge—worry for Osvalda, mostly, and for Gotham's citizens, with the city's tendency to kill tons of people in general—not even mob-related deaths, which, surprisngly to newcomers, are actually fairly rare. No, it's just Gotham, in all it's messed up macabre glory, has lots of seemingly normal killers, such as the couple who had invited a family whose children they had been babysitting over, only for the parents, in a horrifying twist, to learn that the absence of their children was due to the fact that they were the main course.

Bullock stops the car, and they get out. It takes a bit for them to locate Benny, mostly because the man is slumped on the ground, curled into a foetal position, surrounded by so many milk containers—and an ATM—that they almost obscure him from view.

Jamie rushes to the whimpering man's side, and Bullock follows behind her.

Suddenly, Benny convulses. "H—help me, please—please help me!" he cries. "It h—hurts so m—much...the man with the m—messed up ear, he g—gave me..." he trails off, before crying out in pain once again. "It f—felt so good b—but now it's d—doing something h—horrible—"

"Alright," Jamie says, trying to remain calm. "Stay calm—we can help you." She raises her hands to show there's nothing in them.

Wrong move.

The man registers the movement, and suddenly springs up, and, with inhuman strength, grabs the ATM and makes to hurl it at her; but just a second before he can, a full-body shiver runs through him, and his face contorts, bending and collapsing in on itself, and then the rest of his body collapses as well, the ATM falling on top of him.

"Oh god, " Bullock mutters; and turns away. Jamie can't blame him—what was once a man is now nothing more than dust underneath and around th ATM.

A long silence stretches between them; and then Jamie asks, "What if this isn't an isolated incident? What if Benny is just the start?" The mere thought of it makes her feel slightly sick; and Bullock, too, if the green tinge she catches on his face isn't just a figment of her imagination.

"We should go report this," he says, finally; grimly; and Jamie nods, following him back to the car.

Bruce stares unseeingly at the board in front of him. On it, tacked over each other, is every lead, every bit of evidence, anything that might lead him to his parents' murderer. So far, nothing. Only whispers, rumours, and, bizarrely, a nursery rhyme his father had once sung to him.

Beware the Court of Owls,
That watches all the time,
Ruling Gotham from a shadowed perch,
Behind granite and lime.
They watch you at your hearth,
They watch you in your bed,
Speak not a whispered word of them
Or they'll send a Talon for your head.

He hasn't got a clue what it means; it's been popping up repeatedly during his search, and, coupled with the fact that his father sung the piece to him in the nights before his death, by this point, he highly doubts that it's a mere coincidence references to the mysterious Court keep appearing.

No one seems to know who the supposed Court of Owls is, though; or if they do, they're too afraid to tell; and as he's concluded that the Court probably had a hand in his parents' deaths, it frustrates him.

Shaking his head, he turns his focus to his parents' business. During the time since their deaths, Bruce has grown increasingly suspicious of the members of the Board of Directors. As time goes on, more and more evidene has been piling up that Wayne Enterprises isn't nearly as clean and honest as he'd once thought.

There's a sick feeling in his stomach that Gotham isn't what he'd thought it was, either.

He pushes the thought aside, deciding that he'll attend the upcoming charity event hosted by Wayne Enterprises—it'll give him a chance to interact with the members of the Board, as well as show the public that he's taking interest in the going ons of his family business.

There's another set of shouting, followed by the thump of fists hitting flesh. Someone yells, and Jamie groans, pressing the heels of her palms against her eyes in an attempt to relieve the pressure building up behind them. At the desk beside her, ever-impervious to the noise and chaos, Bullock takes a swig from his flask. Essen, who's come out from her office to speak with them about what they found, presses her fingers to the bridge of her nose.

The precinct is overrun by people of all sizes, genders, races, and social classes, all of them dosed up on what they've been referring to as "Viper", and, as with Benny, they all exhibit inhuman strength. So far, really, that's all they can figure out, other than that the perp must have high-society connections, because a few of the victims are of Gotham's elite, and as far as anyone can tell, the perp's ot targetting any one group—or groups—of people.

Ed's theorised that whoever it is is probably testing an initial version to refine the formula, after which she had taken a look at the initial test results for the compound, muttered something under her breath, and dashed off to the lab, promising to return.

Actually, speak of the devil. "Jamie, Detective Bullock, Captain," she greets. "I must say, the results are quite fascinating—the drug fuels the subject's strength by consuming their body's calcium at a hyperactive rate, giving them almost absurd strength, hence the subject's need to consume calcium, leading to incidents like the break-ins where the subjects consumed mass quantities of milk. However," she adds, "the consumption is so rapid that, within twenty-four hours maximum, the subject's bones crumble and they suffocate to death. As I told Detective Gordon earlier, it's highly likely that this is simply the first batch, and whoever created it is simply testing it out to try and perfect it."

Essen's brows furrow. "Why would anyone pay for a drug that kills a hundred percent of its users?" she wonders.

"As you saw, ma'am," Jamie points out, "there are many groups affected, and I wouldn't be surprised if some of them were dosed unwillingly."

Bullock sets his flask down and addresses the Captain. "Before it kills them, it makes them feel wonderful and gives them superstrength," he points out with a shrug, "there's probably plenty of junkies desperate enough to take it willingly."

Surprisingly insightful. Jamie blinks. "How's it made?" she asks, turning to Ed. Perhaps there's something in the way it's manufactured that can help them trace it to the perp.

Ed lights up; obviously eager to elaborate. "It's an incredibly sophisticated process," she explains. "Nothing you could achieve with anything less than state-of-the-art labs and equipment—and this obviously isn't anything small; whoever created this has already refined it enough for mass-production."

"I'm guessing not that many people have access to that sort of stuff?" Jamie asks; and Ed nods.

"Almost no one, actually, other than Wilde Pharmaceutical—headed by the enigmatic Mr. Xander Wilde—and WellZyn, a pharmaceutical subsidary of Wayne Enterprises. If rumours are to be believed," she adds, "the latter is far more likely, though I don't know if it's the company itself, or a former employee that's responsible." The look on her face is one of obvious irritation at not knowing the answer, and Jamie can't blame her.

Ed starts to say something else, but she's interrupted by a scuffle breaking out amongst the officers. One of the victims is fighting against the officers, scratching and clawing, teeth bared, and, with a slight pang, Jamie realises that it's the woman who helped them track down Benny, Charmagne. She wonders how the woman got ahold of Viper during that time.

The fight doesn't last long; at first, Charmagne seems to have the upper hand, given her superstrength, but then, as with Benny, she starts writhing and shrieking with pain. Jamie watches with morbid fascination in horrified silence as the macabre scene plays out in front of her, Charmagne's face collapsing in on itself, and then she crumbles to the floor, clothes falling atop a shapeless pile of dust.

Some of the officers nearby, along with a few of those that were trying to restrain her, turn green; and one or two hastily clamp their hands over their mouths, looking ill, and shakily make their way to the restrooms.

Jamie sighs. Between the case and her date with Osvalda later—even if it is a faux date, the thought of which, for reasons she can't— doesn't —want to decipher, makes something twist uncomfortably within her—her day is packed. She's suddenly incredibly grateful that she had the foresight to start chili in the slow-cooker before she left for her shift in the morning, so there'll be something hot for Selina to eat when she gets home from the library, where she usually hangs out for a few hours after school.

Once her shift's over and she's gotten back to her apartment, Jamie spends half of the remaining hour worrying over what she ought to wear. No doubt, Osvalda will look stunning, dressed to the nines, and Jamie wants to at least try and match that.

Thankfully, she had a few formal things—mostly purchased for weddings for distant relatives, worn only once. She lays out her three choices on the bed—a short, dark green cocktail dress, a lighter blue, ankle-length dress with silver piping, and deep blue and floral-patterned pantsuit. She worries her lip, indecisive, and checks her nice shoe collection. There's a pair of black flats, and a set of black boots that, frankly, look far more comfortable.

Decision made, Jaie pulls the from the back of her closet, and holds them up. In the light, they have a dark, almost iridescent tint, and it classes with the light blue and green dresses, which leaves her with the pantsuit.

She puts the dresses away, brushes her hair—it's gotten frizzy since she styled it in the morning, and since it's a pixie cut, it looks ridiculous fluffed up—and slides on the pantsuit, which fits quite nicely. Checking the clock and finding that there's still ten minutes, she takes a deep breath.

I've got this, she tells herself firmly. There's not that many things that can go wrong...besides accidentally ruining the charade and getting Osvalda killed. And that'a bitter, acrid thought. Her heart jackrabbits, and she takes deep, measured breaths, fighting the way her throat seems to close up—

Her phone vibrates and lights up with a text message, breaking her out of her downward spiral. She fumbles with it, navigating to the messages app, and finds a text from Os.

Are you read? We have five minutes.

Osvalda . The tension drains away from Jamie's shoulders, and she types, Sorry, yeah, I'll be on my way in a second, and slips on her boots, grabbing her keys. There's a spare key in the hallway by the door for Selina, so she locks the door behind her and makes her way down the stairs.

Osvalda's waiting for her outside the apartment, dressed, as Jamie predicted, to the nines, in a purple suit, and looking gorgeous. The woman smiles at her slightly, a quick tug at the edges of her lips, and opens the passenger side door of the car for Jamie. "Shall we?"

Once they're sitting inside, Osvalda starts up the car up. "You look nice," Jamie says, quietly. "I feel underdressed in comparison."

Osvalda blushes lightly; the red sprinkled delicately across her pale face, highlighting the freckles on the bridge of her nose, her gaze fixed on the road before her. She looks adorable. "You needn't be worried," she says, once she regains her composure. "I may be slightly overdressed."

She hangs a left, and then, suddenly, they're in front of Bamonte's. Osvalda parks and gets out, opening Jamie's door for her and offering her arm.

The two of them walk into the restaurant, and a waiter leads them to a table in the back, away from prying eyes. The waiter hands them their menus, dark red with gold embossement, fitting in well with the restaurant's aesthetic.

They—well, Jamie—peruse the menus for a moment, before Osvalda speaks. "If I may, I'd suggest the three cheese ravioli and Caesar salad—Bamonte's has the best I've ever tasted," she offers.

Jamie's lips twitch. "Thanks," she says, "I was starting to feel a bit out of my depth—I don't know what half these dishes are." At the admission, Osvalda laughs lightly, her eyes sparkling.

The waiter comes back around, and Jamie orders Osvalda's suggestions, while the other orders linguine alfredo and a bowl of ministrone soup, as well as a basket of garlic bread and two plates of tiramisu. Jamie tries to protest, citing the price—really, just a simple dinner is enough, but Osvalda cuts her off.

"Dearest Jamie, I'll have you remember that this is our six-month anniversary, and I am the manager—price is no issue," she says, firmly, leaving no room for debate, and Jamie caves.

The ravioli, salad, and garlic bread are all heavenly, and they make small talk while waiting for the tiramisu. The detective learns that Osvalda likes the smell of lavendar, is fluent in German and Hungarian, enjoys classical literature, and likes cats, but none of the places she's ever lived have allowed pets.

They eat their desert, and then Jamie checks her watch and starts at the time—they've been out for over two hours. "I should get home," she says, "but thank you for wonderful dinner."

"It's no trouble," Osvalda says, smiling, and rises to escort her to the car.

The ride home is pleasant, and when Osvalda leads her to the door of the apartment complex, Jamie leans down to press a kiss to her cheek.

Without warning, Osvalda stands on her tiptoes, tilting her head, and catches Jamie's lips in a short kiss—slightly awkward, their teeth clacking a bit, but it sends tendrils of electricity down Jamie's spine, like a wish made of lightning; a wish that this, this charade was a reality, that Osvalda would ever want to actually be with her.

She knows, though, intrinsically, that the second the woman catches sight of her plumage, it'll end in calls that go to voice-mail and cold-shouldered avoidance; and the thought leaves an aching sensation in her ribcages. Oh God, she thinks, I'm fucked.

Unaware of her internal crisis, Osvalda says, "Goodnight, darling," and makes her way back to the car, leaving Jamie on the steps of the apartment building.

"—the casino's too well-guarded," Frankie argues; loud enough that Osvalda can hear him from the position she's in, halfway across the restaurant. Being a manager does have some perks, one of them being that she can eavesdrop without anyone hovering over her. "Robbing it will cost us too many men," he adds, trying to reason with the Don to no avail. Honestly, if the man had just a bit more ambition, he'd make a better mob boss than Maroni. Hoever, Osvalda can't complain, considering that she can twist this in her benefit.

Carefully, making sure to broadcast her presence, Osvalda approaches the Don's table, standing by it with an affected air of nervousness about her. The Don notices her almost immediately, and Osvalda clears her throat. "Excuse me, sir, I couldn't help but overhear your discussion about the casino—"

Frankie cuts her off almost immediately. "Mind your own business," he growls. Osvalda purses her lips, but backs away.

"Of course," she backtracks, "I'm sorry."

Maroni squints at her. "No. Tell me waht you know," he demands.

Osvalda blinks, startled by the sudden change of mood. "About the casino? I know a janitor who runs the boiler room..." she trails off. "He could get you in there easily. There are access tunnels no one knows about."

Maroni's eyes glint. "Access tunnels?" he questions. "Come here. Sit down."

Osvalda complies; smiling twitchily. "Thank you, sir. A great honour indeed."

"What's your name again?"

Osvalda's smile drops off her face. "Everyone calls me Penguin, sir."

"You don't like that name, huh?" Maroni observes; and Osvalda can feel her eye twitch. Apparently, it's enough of an answer; and Maroni takes a glace, placing it in front of her, and says, "Yeah, well you're wrong. It's a good name. It works for you. So," he claps his hands, "how do you know this man?"

Osvalda takes a sip from the glass, savouring the taste of the ruby-red liquid. "I have...connections," she replies.

"Reliable, is he?"

"I'm sure I can convince him to be."

"Boss, this is a dishwasher in a suit!" Frankie protests; agitated; tapping his fingers rapidly against his leg, impatient; and Osvalda feels a tremor of annoyance shoot through her—she's not a dishwasher anymore, she's the damn manager.

"Relax," Maroni placates. "Is that right, Penguin? Are you just a dishwasher? Because I don't get that vibe. You come off as all humble, but you got a little player in you, huh?"

It may be blatant flattery, but Maroni's unlikely to believe the truth—which means, of course, that that's what she'll tell, or at least part of it. "That's very perceptive of you, sir," she says, pausing for effect. "I guess that's why you're the Don." Maroni looks pleased, and smiles. She continues. "I'm not a mere dishwasher, and this isn't my first rodeo, so to speak."

The spark of interest in Maroni's eye brightens. "So, you've ridden some bulls, huh? Well, well, do tell."

"Well," she says, pausing before she continues, "my real name is Osvalda Cobblepot."

"Mhm." He gestures to her to continue.

"I think that once you hear my story, you'll agree I could be a great asset for you, sir," she says, watching the Don's reactions carefully. "It's a long, funny story, really, but the headline, just so you're not surprised—I used to work for Fish Mooney."

"Fish Mooney?" It's Frankie who asks, guarded but curious.

"Yes, sir," Osvalda nods. "I was privy to many aspects of the Falcone family business—until they tried to kill me." It comes out bitterly, and in that moment, too focused on her hatred of Fish, Osvalda doesn't notice the Don's movements until suddenly, her head slams into the table, stinging and bruising already, and she stiffles a gasp.

"Heh." The Don's chuckle is mean, and he grabs her by the hair and lifts her head back up to look her in the eye, grinning. "Hello. Heh. Suffice to say—heh." He laughs again. "That is a funny story."

"Detectives," a stern-faced woman greets, "I'm Taylor Reece, one of WellZyn's attorneys; I'm here to reassure you that WellZyn has no part in the manufacture of Viper, and legal action will be taken against those who claim as much—however, I am also here to aid you." She taps her fingers lightly against a file. "Any information you have may aid us."

Bullock looks like he's about to make a sarcastic comment, so Jaimie cuts in: "We don't have much, but we know some basic physical attributes of the perpetrator—medium build, heavy step, so probably an old injury or a prosthetic of some sort, and, most notably, a disfigured ear."

The attorney's eyes widen slightly, and she stops tapping. "Stan Potolsky," she says slightly shakily, "he's a former WellZyn employee—a biochemist—who became unhappy with his work after an accident that gave him a permanent limp, and he tried to cut off his ear in protest, before quitting." There's more to it than that, Jaimie can tell, but Reece is looking slightly ill, so she doubts now would be a good time to push for more answers. Reece glances around, and makes her excuses, before practically fleeing.

"Well," Bullock says after a moment, "I'll go and request a search warrant; try not to get involved in any BS," and disappears.

Jaimie lets out a small sigh, forces her muscles to un-tense, but a second later, the hairs on the back of her neck prickle, and she tenses back up again; a moment later, the reason becomes apparent: Frankie Carbone, Don Maroni's right-hand man. She's never had the misfortune to meet the man one on one, but he's hardly inconspicuous, showing up at various crime scenes. Usually, an exchange of bills with an officer or witness is bound to follow.

"Come with me," he says gruffly, grasps her forearm, and Jaimie yanks her arm away, glares.

"Nope, no way," she snaps, the instinctual urge to bare her teeth barely controlled, manifesting only as a twitch of her lips. "I'm not going with you anywhere."

Carbone chuckles darkly. "I think you will, if the name Osvalda Cobblepot means anything to you."

Jaimie freezes.

The next few minutes pass in a blur; no one in the precinct tries to stop Carbone from dragging her off, ducking their heads and averting their eyes. She's escorted to a black car; stares blankly out the window until the car stops and the mobster pulls her out of the car, practically man-handling her through the back door of what Jamie distantly recognises as Bamonte's.

Everything seems far off and unfamiliar, and she feels clammy. The mobster escorts her into a room, and everything seems to black out, her vision narrowing in on the slight figure next to Maroni, lip split and black eye blooming like a splotch of ink, and suddenly, everything clicks, and an unholy fury rises in her—because that's Osvalda sitting there, bloodied and battered.

She wants to kill Maroni, flay him. Osvalda catches her eye, and must see something—a wildness, a feral hatred—because she shakes her head minutely. No.

Maroni opens his mouth, says something, and Jamie forces herself to focus, dragging her gaze away from the pale woman. "...if your stories match, then Cobblepot here is telling the truth," Maroni grins, clapping Osvalda's shoulder, and the woman winces slightly. "If not—then you both die."

God, Jamie thinks. What a mess. She hasn't the faintest clue what Osvalda told the mob boss, so she opts for the truth. "I was investigating the Wayne murders," she explains, "Falcone and unknown parties, possibly within the GCPD, conspired to frame Mario Pepper. To ensure my silence, once I discovered Pepper was framed, Falcone ordered me to shoot O— Cobblepot. " And, god, she wants to say Osvalda, but that would be too intimate, and the last thing the other needs is someone who could be used against her. "I didn't," she concludes.

"Does anyone know that Cobblepot is alive?" Maroni asks, and Jaimie shakes her head.

"If they did, we'd both be dead."

Maroni looks ecstatic. "So not only are you telling the truth, Cobblepot, but your very existence gives me a brand-new weapon. Thank you for your candour, detective. And remember, if you breathe a word of this to anyone, you will regret it."

Carbone ushers her out, and, helpless to do anything else, Jaimie tries to send a reassuring look to Osvalda.

When she gets back to the precinct, Bullock's waiting for her, having returned from searching Potolsky's apartment, a box of the biochemist's possessions in his arms. He pours the items out onto her desk, some of them tumbling onto the floor. "Classic loner," he sneers, "no living family, no friends, no one he was really close to, except his assistant, Jervis Tetch."

Jamie roots through the mess, and spies a photograph; picking it up, she flips it over. Dated twelve years prior, the inscription reads, Jervis, Prof. Wilde, and I. It's a photo of Potolsky, a slender, wild-haired, tanned man, and a short man with curly, almost frizzy hair, atop which rests an elegant top hat.

"Professor Wilde?" she questions.

"The tall thin one," Bullock says. "The good Professor Zachary Wilde is retired now, but he gives the occasional seminar—lives in the Narrows, where he was born and raised. The short dude is Jervis Tetch."

Jamie frowns. "Is Wilde any relation to Xander Wilde?"

Bullock blinks. "Yeah, actually—Xander is Zachary's nephew. Why—do you think Potolsky's using Wilde's shit to make his bone-sucking drug?"

The grim look that passes over Jamie's face must be enough of an answer. "Alright," Bullock sighs. "We can't rule it out, I guess, though I find it pretty hard to believe."

"Great," Jamie says, shovelling Potolsky's items back into the box. "Let's go pay the Professor a visit."

Zachary Wilde lives in a small apartment in the Narrows, in a building painted a greying pink, on the first floor; on his door is a brass knocker in the shape of an owl's head, and Jaimie lifts it tentatively and knocks. The clack of metal against metal, three times, echoes, and a small cloud of dust puffs up into a cloud, hitting Bullock in the face, making the other detective cough.

Thankfully, she's not forced to wait long—within a minute, the door opens, revealing the professor; he's a bit slimmer, now, and there's a touch of silver-grey at his temples.

"We're with the GCPD, Professor Wilde," Jaimie says, as Bullock's still recovering from his bout of coughing. "We'd like to ask you some questions."

"Of course, of course—please, come in."

Jaimie crosses the threshold, pulling Bullock behind her. "Thank you, Professor. First off, what do you know about Stan Potolsky?"

Wilde pulls out a chair for himself and sits down, looks off into the distance before speaking. "Stan was a student of mine, just over a decade ago—he was a biochemist by training, but he was always deeply interested in philosophy. He often came to me when he felt morally conflicted about his work—"

"Morally conflicted?" Bullock asks "Why? WellZyn's attorney told us he made shampoo and other domestic products—what's morally conflicting about that?"

Wilde lets out a harsh bark of laughter. "They lied to you, then—Stan worked in WellZyn's biological warfare research division, specifically designing epigenetic drugs to make super-soldiers. Hmm...what did they call it?" He tilts his head. "Ah, yes—Viper."

Jamie inhales sharply. "Did it by any chance suck the calcium from the victim's bones?"

Wilde claps his hands, smiles. "So—you have heard of it? Yes, well, Viper was...it was simply a test strain—the first one, if I'm not mistaken. They succeeded in making a non-lethal version, called it Venom. Bit of a snake obsession, if you ask me," he says, and Bullock wrinkles his nose in distaste. "Stan pleaded with his bosses to stop and when they refused, so he went straight to Thomas Wayne. Wayne apparently managed to shut the project down, but it was restarted as soon as he died."

"You don't seem particularly upset to learn about the destruction," Jamie notes; the gears in her head turning; and suddenly, everything connects—the little things that had seemed off, like how unsurprised he had seemed to see them at his door, and the odd way his eyes kept darting around. "You're working with him," Jamie says, heavily, her suspicions confirmed.

Wilde smiles, spreading his hands. "Ah, you got me, Detective. You really are as good as they say, aren't you? Well," he says, "I would stay, but I have stuff to do, places to go, you know, and I don't particularly fancy a stay in a prison cell—" He reaches into the candy bowl by his side, lightning-quick, and plucks a small vial, filled with green liquid, and pops the cork, downing the concoction.

Shit shit shit, her mind screams, as she ducks away from one of Wilde's fists, which passes a mere inch above her head. However, Wilde doesn't seem very picky about targets, and Bullock's down within seconds, Wilde's hands wrapping around his neck; and with no other route she can take casualty, she shoots Wilde right below his left shoulder.

The man lets go of Bullock, falling to the side, and blood bubbles out of the wound. Jamie moves to his side, and asks, harshly, "Who's his next target?"

Wilde laughs; spittle flecking his lips, and says, "He's striking back at Wayne Enterprises. Their empty altruism will not erase their crimes—"

"Alright, I think we have enough to take him in," Jamie says. "Bullock, call an ambulance, will you?"

The other, face no longer blue, nods, and complies, while Jamie cuffs Wilde's hands behind his back.

"Master Bruce, this is Molly Mathis—she worked closely with your father." Alfred's statement brings Bruce back to reality—for the past half hour, there's been an itch at the base of his neck, a subtle scream of wrongwrongwrong in his mind. Something is terribly, terribly off. Beneath his skin, his feathers keep shifting and he's been agitated and distracted.

He pastes a smile on his face. "Ms. Mathis. I'm Bruce." He holds out a hand. "I'd like to discuss the irregularities I've discovered in the Arkham Project—"

Suddenly, the televisions on the walls switch on, static-y black and white streaking across the screens, glitching and slowly resolving into a low-res picture. A man steps into the frame, taps the green-filled tank by his side. "Hello, citizens of Gotham." He says, "I am responsible for the creation of the drug known as Viper—but I never intended for it to ever get beyond a theoretical. That blame lies solely with my former superiors in WellZyn—thus, Wayne Enterprises is ultimately responsible for the destruction it has caused; today, I seek to right the wrongs done to innocents by this corrupt corporation."

Bruce turns to Mathis. "Is this true?" he asks quietly.

Mathis shakes her head, but there's a slight paling on her cheeks, the tensing of her wings, silver feathers stiffening; Bruce wonders, through a curtain of anger and rage, whether she's the only one who's wearing a mask, or if all of the WI Board of Directors members have secrets and hidden agendas.

He wishes it didn't hurt as much, that his parents' world, their company, is corrupt, but he remembers his father and mother's never-ending quest to help Gotham's citizens, and it hurts tenfold.

"Come on, you have to let us in!" Jamie pleads. "Unless you let us pass, everyone in that ballroom is going to die!"

The guard shrugs. "Sorry, ma'am, no invite, no enterance," he says, apologetically.

"You know what, no, " Jamie snaps, and pushes past the guard, dragging Bullock behind her. She rams the door at the end of the hallway with her shoulder when it doesn't open when she twists it, and someone on the other side lets out an oof! Of surprise. Inside, there's various screens connected to the cameras, and a chair. "Bullock, look for a switch or button labelled P.A.," she orders, turning to deal with the woman who's trying to get up from where she's fallen over. "I'm really sorry about this," Jamie apologises, before knocking the woman out, carefully placing her in the chair."

"Got it!" Bullock calls, and flicks the switch. "Attention, Wayne Enterprises Charity Ball attendants—you need to evacuate the ballroom, right now. This is a matter of life or death. Please do not panic, and make your way quickly to the exists."

"Bullock, go assist the ballers," Jamie says. "I'm going to go confront Potolsky."

Bullock nods, thankfully offering no protest, and leaving quickly.

Thankfully, the room she's in has a roof-access stairway, and she races up the steps, bursting through the door onto the roof. There, standing next to his tank of Viper, hand poised over a red button, is Stan Potolsky. He turns to face Jamie. "Detective," he says; a resignation in his tone, as if he had known this would be the outcome all along.

"Potolsky." She doesn't say any more—there's no point in trying to reason with him.

He nods slightly, a mere incline of his head. "My work here is done. WellZyn has been exposed; the fall of the Court has begun—I am merely one of many dominos to fall, the first in a chain of salvation. The Court must be destroyed, and a few lives is a small price to pay to avoid a mass destruction."

"What do you mean?"

"If you need more proof," he says, edging towards the ledge, "look inside Warehouse 39—but do hurry, Detective. The Court will hasten to cover their tracks." With that, he lunges towards the edge of the ledge.

Jamie darts forward, fingers outstretched in a vain attempt to catch the man, but it's to no avail. Potolsky's already splayed out on the concrete.

She requests Ed accompany her to the warehouse, as the other option is Bullock, and Jaimie has a sneaking suspicion that the man would tip off whoever's hiding stuff there. When she opens the door, carefully, lest a creak of the hinges alert their presence to any others who might be there, Ed's eyes widen, and she stifles a gasp.

"Oh my god," the forensics analyst whispers. There're tanks of green liquid of various shades, up on end like glowing columns. Each has a hazard warning label, and a label noting the effects and of the liquid and the code-names given to each version. Some are hooked up to test subjects—tubes filled with glowing green running from IVs into arms of pale men and women. There are even a few glass boxes hooked up to machines that dispense it as green gas, the test subjects strapped to white hospital beds. She isn't even sure any of them are alive. The sight makes her stomach turn, and she feels sick.

Ed handles it worse, stumbling and reaching for something to support herself, and Jaimie grabs her arm, steadying her; pulls her into a hug. The act of moving, though, causes her to catch sight of a white envelope hidden behind a toolbox on the highest shelf above the counter.

"Ed," she says quietly, "I know that this is awful, and I promise that we'll get these people buried and notify their families, but there's something that Potolsky told me—something about the destruction of Gotham, and I think he may have left a letter to help us, but I can't reach it—it's too high up, and I need your help, okay? Can you get that envelope on the highest shelf? Please? For me?"

Ed nods shakily; pulls her head from where it's rested on Jaimie's shoulder, and stands, grabbing the envelope. She loooks ready to collapse, so Jaimie helps her down to the floor; sits next to her, putting an arm around her.

With an unsteady hand, Ed opens the envelope, pulls out a crisply folded sheet of paper, unfolds it. The same spidery handwriting from Potolsky's photo etches its way across the page. With a shaking voice, Ed reads what's written.

To whom it may concern,

If you have found this, then that can only mean one thing—WellZyn has been exposed, and I am dead. Thus, you need to know a few key things.

1 . Investigate the Court of Owls. Do so covertly—if the Court catches wind of any investigation into their organisation, it is unlikely you will remain alive. The court is not a myth. They are very real and unless stopped, will bring about the destruction of Gotham. I suggest you collude with the orphaned Bruce Wayne. He may be a child, but he is in a position to help, and I suspect he may already be looking into the Court. Do not say Their name more than absolutely necessary—they have spies everywhere.

2. Wayne Enterprises is controlled by Them.

3. Do not, under any circumstances, speak to my former assistant, Jervis Tetch. He is far more dangerous than you might think.

Be safe,

SP .

"Master Bruce," Alfred greets. The boy raises his head, setting the papers and files in his lap down; pushes the rolling corkboard pinned full of photos and red string strung between the pins to the side. "You've become quite the mini-Holmes."

"Alfred," Bruce greets, ignoring the jibe, eyes falling to the tray in the butler's hands. "Ooh, are those turkey sandwiches?" He makes his way to Alfred's side, eyes eager.

Alfred rolls his eyes fondly at the boy's excitement, but lets him take a sandwich, and takes one for himself. "I'm certain I told you to put those files away," he scolds.

"Did you? I mustn't've heard," Bruce says, innocently.

Alfred sighs. "Well it doesn't matter much now, does it, since you've managed to convince me of your hare-brained conspiracy theories," he mutters. "Pass me a file."

Surprise flicker's across Bruce's face, then he breaks into a smile. "I knew I'd be able to sway you to my side eventually," he says. "It was only a matter of time."

Carmine sits on the bench, watching raptly as the pigeons cluster around the crumbs he throws them. It's something his mother did when he was a child, which he's grown to appreciate in his age. There is something uniquely calming about feeding pigeons.

A sound, familiar, catches his attention. "...questo bimbo a chi lo dò? Se lo dò alla Befana, se lo tiene una settimana..." The singer comes into sight, a blonde woman, humming softly in accented Italian, a single earbud in, staring off into the distance.

With a start, he realizes why it's familiar—it's a lullaby his mother sang to him, and apparently the surprise shows on his face, because the young woman looks to him; blinks, before smiling, and approaches him.

"Do you like it, too?" she asks. "It's one of my favourites—actually, I have a playlist of Italian lullabies." She pauses, asks, shyly, "If you want, you can listen to them with me." She offers the other earbud, and Carmine smiles.

"Thank you," he says, genuine, and gently takes the earbud. "I'm Carmine."

She smiles back. "I'm Liza."