The teakettle whistles loudly in the silence of the small apartment. Ed towels off her hair and affixes it into its usual, severe bun, before making her way into the kitchen to turn the stove off. Doing so abruptly halts the noise, and she pulls out a cup, pouring the water over a bag of chamomile tea, the scent rising from it comforting. She closes her eyes and lets it sink in momentarily before opening them and carrying the cup over to the loveseat in the living room.
Curling up on the couch, she pulls the box of feather combs towards her, as well as the tub of feather oil, and begins preening her feathers; the feathers sliding, silky-soft, through her fingers.
It's been a bad day. Mirror Ed has been harping on and on and none of the results she managed to get for various cases amounted to much. And, to make matters worse, Jamie was nowhere to be found. Usually they'd run into each other at least once during the day, but she hasn't seen the woman since the day before, and she can't help the sting of bitterness that shoots through her.
Engrossed in her thoughts, she accidentally tugs too hard and hisses when a feather comes loose—long and green, it flutters to the floor. With a sigh, she leans over to pick it up; hands hovering over it for a moment before she snatches it up off the carpet.
Holding it up to the light, she observes it; and has the sudden, insane thought of turning it into a quill and gifting it to a certain defective.
Mortification floods her. I can't believe you'd think that! she admonishes herself. The very concept—the mere thought of it!—ludicrous at best and downright dangerous at worse, to be so forward.
"You'd probably just stab her in the neck with it, anyway," her ever-present companion yawns from her position in the small mirror hung above the upright piano.
Ed considers throwing something at her. "I wouldn't."
"Maybe that's why she left," Mirror Ed continues. "She figured out what a freak you are—"
Ed stands sharply; the feather combs falling from her lap and clattering to the ground. "She wouldn't," she hisses. "She hasn't." She has to believe it, or else—or else—
With a half strangled sob, she drops back onto the loveseat. Mirror Ed's voice is in her ear now. "I'm just trying to protect you," she croons.
Ed claps her hands over her ears; the buzzing of the electric wires in the walls suddenly unbearable. "Shut up," she snarls. "Shut up shut up shut up..."
Clear as day, Mirror Ed laughs.
The next day, she wakes up early, the sun shining through the small window in her room brightly—it's coming up on late spring now, and the sun is rising nice and early. Checking her clock shows that it's half past five. She stretches, wings curling into existence as she sits up, and she makes her way to the shower, turning on the water to a pleasant coolness.
Scrubbing shampoo through her hair, she hums a nonsensical tune to herself; contemplating the work that lies ahead of her for the day. She has to write some reports, and some of the samples she's collected need to go into the centrifuge, but otherwise, her day is sort of wide open.
I hope I see Jamie, she thinks absentmindedly; and then stares wide eyed at the tile across from her. In the corner, she can hear Mirror Ed cackling, but right now, she's focused on the surprise of it—has she really grown so attached to the detective? Apparently so.
Rinsing herself off, she climbs out of the shower and towels off, slipping into a clean change of clothes; pops a piece of toast with cheese on it into the oven and when it comes out adds some vegetables to it and brews her morning tea.
Mirror Ed hasn't seen fit to make an appearance; but Ed isn't going to look a gift horse in the mouth, so she doesn't question it; just goes about the rest of her morning routine, sipping her tea as she reads through the latest news.
When she gets into work, nothing seems to be out of the ordinary; so she heads over to Jamie's desk; disappointed, once again, to find it empty. Bullock's desk isn't occupied either, but that's not much of a surprise—the man isn't exactly an early bird.
With a sigh, she casts a final glance at Jamie's desk, as if doing so will somehow make the woman appear, and then makes her way down to the lower levels.
On the way to her lab, she runs into Kristen; who greets her with a nod. "Hey, Ed."
"Hi, Kristen," Ed returns. "Anything for me today?" It's a little ritual of theirs—if Kristen finds anything she thinks Ed might enjoy taking a look at, she passes the files along to her when they run into each other in the morning.
Kristen smiles. "Actually, I think I do," she says, producing a file from her cart. "Here—it's about a forger who hid riddles in his artwork in code."
Ed lights up. "Wow! Neat. Thanks, Kristen!"
"No problem," the other woman returns, warmly. "Now, I'd better get to the archives." With that, she makes her way past Ed, leaving the other standing in the hallway before she remembers that she might be blocking the way and scuttles off towards her lab.
When she gets into the lab, the first order of business is loading the various samples into the centrifuge. After that, it's the dreaded reports. Those take a few hours, and by then, she decides to bow out and call it an early lunch break.
She's just about to rise when there's a knock on the doorframe. "Come in!" she calls without looking up; and a few moments later, a familiar gait makes itself known. Looking up, she finds a frowning Osvalda Cobblepot in front of her desk.
"What can I do for you today?" she asks, as politely as she can; and watches the other exhale sharply; and suddenly wonders if the tension in the room is palatable not only to her but to the other as well.
"Jamie," Cobblepot begins. "Have you seen her? She hasn't been replying to my texts."
A sudden stab of jealousy goes through her. Cobblepot has Jamie's number?
She does her best to ignore it. "No—I haven't seen her in the past two days," she replies. "She was looking into trying to track down Jer—Doctor Henry Marks," she corrects herself. She doesn't know the extent to which the other knows about the case, and it never hurts to be safe.
This time the other's twitch is full-body; her dark wings juddering with the motion. "Jervis Tetch," she says, the name coming out like an oath. "She was tracking down Jervis Tetch," she says, more evenly this time. "I supplied her with a lead."
Mirror Ed sees fit to comment at that exact moment. "So you're not the only one trying to get her killed."
Ed flinches; barely suppressing the motion. To Cobblepot, she says, trying to keep her voice even, "What does this have to do with me?", trying not to let it show just how anxious the information has made her for Jamie's wellbeing.
Cobblepot blinks at her, slowly; and then says, "I have a restaurant to run; and as such cannot go running around looking for her. However, I thought perhaps you would have a more forgiving schedule."
"What makes you think I'd be willing to look for her?" It comes out without her meaning to; a streak of defiance.
The look Cobblepot gives her is flat. "Do not pretend," she says, "that you do not care for her. We both know it would be a lie."
Ed's shoulders slump. "Fine," she says. "Give me the address, and I'll leave work early and stop by."
Cobblepot nods. "Excellent," she says, and grabs a pen from Ed's pen cup, and a stickynote, and jots down, in impeccable handwriting, an address in the Narrows. "There," she says. "Now, if you'll excuse me, I'm afraid I must go, as I cannot entrust Bamonte's to an underling for long."
Ed jerks her head; watches the other retreat out into the hallway and disappear.
Dragging in a deep sigh, she wonders, What have you got yourself into, Jamie?
The day seems to drag on; and it feels like years before five o'clock rolls around and she can finally reasonably call it a day early. Dragging herself up from her desk, she shakes out her wings, and puts away everything into its place, then takes the stickynote and inputs her phone's map app.
As she makes her way out into the precinct proper, she suddenly realises the place is in an uproar. "What's going on?" she asks one of the officers.
"Apparently someone killed a cop," the woman replies. "Down in the Narrows," she adds, to Ed's questioning look.
Ed's heart rate picks up. No, she thinks, horror filling her veins, please don't be Jamie.
Darting around the officers, she makes her way out to where she's parked her car and gets in, driving over the speed limit the entire way to the building. When she gets there, there's a few police officers standing outside, and an ambulance as well. Getting out, she makes her way over to them. "Excuse me," she says, trying not to let her voice shake, and flashes her badge.
They let her through without a fuss, and she makes her way up the stairs—the elevator is cordoned off—to the top floor. There's only one apartment, and the door is wide open, another police officer at the door and two emergency personnel visible within.
Her heart in her throat, she makes her way inside. There are two figures lying on the ground, one of them by the window, the other a little further away. One of them has curly hair, a top hat having tumbled off his head and to the side—Jervis Tetch, she realises after a moment.
The other is Detective Harvey Bullock; a gunshot wound straight through his chest.
Making her way back to the officer at the door, she asks, "Were there any other bodies?"
He shakes his head. "Just the two of them," he says. "We think there was a third party, but whoever it was, managed to get away unharmed—or at least, unshot, since there aren't any blood spatters that can't be attributed to the two vics."
Ed nods numbly. "Thank you," she murmurs, and slips back out.
The path out of the apartment building is one taken in numb relief. Numbness over not knowing what happened to Jamie; relief that she didn't die there, at either Tetch's or Bullock's hand. That has to count for something. And on top of that: a burning desire to find Jamie.
"You shouldn't go looking for her," Mirror Ed says; flickering as she sinks into step beside Ed. "You'll just wind up finishing the job that Tetch and Bullock didn't manage to."
"Shut up," she mutters. "I'm going to go to Cobblepot and ask her for help."
Mirror Ed raises a brow. "You've sunk low," she comments; and dodges around one of the other pedestrians. "Asking a mobster...what would your poor father think? Then again," she cackles, "he always did think you'd turn to crime eventually."
Ed twitches and resists the urge to shout. She's in public, after all, and doing so would be a good way to get someone to call 911 on her behalf, and that's the last thing she needs. Plus, Cobblepot is her best bet.
It doesn't take much looking for her to find Bamonte's address; an apparently popular restaurant in downtown Gotham, the address is just a click away on google. She taps give me directions and lets her phone do the rest of the work for her.
Making her way downtown, she parks and enters Bamonte's. When the waiter comes over to her, she says, quietly, "Excuse me, I need to speak with—" and flounders for a moment as she tries to remember if Cobblepot mentioned her position at Bamonte's.
Thankfully, the other appears from the back just then; a cane in her hand, now; and, catching sight of her, makes her way towards her. "I'll take care of her," she says to the waiter; an obvious dismissal; one the young man is wise enough to take. Leading Ed towards the back of the restaurant, Cobblepot situates them into an isolated booth. "Did you find her?" she demands; and Ed notices her nails look bitten down.
Ed shakes her head. "No," she says, "but the last place she was—both Tetch and Bullock were there. Dead," she adds.
Cobblepot's face hardens. "Something must have happened," she mutters; the hand on her cane tightening to white-knuckledness. "Perhaps they attacked her? But why would she disappear...?"
Ed hesitates. In the back of her mind, the memory of the horrible warehouse she and Jamie visited surfaces; specifically, the letter. "I...think I might know the answer," she says. "But I can't tell you here," she adds. "Meet me at Jamie's tonight at eight—her adopted daughter, Selina, knows me, and will be willing to let us in. Jamie was looking into...a thing, by herself, I believe, and I think that might have something to do with it."
"It's connected to Jervis Tetch, isn't it?" Cobblepot asks; and then sighs. "Very well," she says, grudgingly; wings fluttering behind her as she shifts her weight. "I'm not happy about it, but I understand the necessity."
"Alright," Ed echoes. "Well, I'll see you tonight then."
"I'll escort you out," Cobblepot says, rising, and Ed rises as well; letting the other guide her back to her car; doesn't think too deeply about it because she just might have a crisis if she does consider the fact that she's being escorted to her car by a mobster for too long.
After Cobblepot leaves, Ed sits in her car for a long while. She's retracted her wings so that they don't squish awkwardly against the back of the seat, but she flexes her fingers, letting them flow into talons. Watching the transformation for a moment, she jerks her head away as memories flood her mind: Tom's anger exploding once again, this time becoming more violent than ever before. How he had lunged at her, knife in hand. How Mirror Ed had screamed at her to do something and how her fingers had warped, and suddenly, found purchase in his neck, the red blood gushing over them.
And then, later: laying on the floor, terrified of herself. Calling Kristen, sobbing as she had explained what had happened. Burying the body, and fabricating a lie that the man had left the city abruptly.
Now, staring blankly out the window, she wonders if looking for Jamie is the right choice—what if she can't control herself again and she kills Jamie?
Swallowing thickly, she shakes her head. No. She has to find Jamie—the other might be in real, serious trouble.
Seven-thirty comes by, and then quarter to eight; and Ed draws a deep breath and puts her book down, pulling on her shoes and making her way out back to where her car's parked. The drive to Jamie's flat passes in tense silence despite the fact that she's the only one in the car.
When she gets there, she takes the stairs two at a time; suddenly wondering how Selina has been in the absence of her guardian. When she gets up to the detective's apartment, Cobblepot is already waiting in front of the door; shoulders tense; wings tucked away into oblivion, the sharp lines of her suit accenting the slightness of her figure. The dark fabric makes her skin look even more pale, almost moonlight-pale.
Catching sight of Ed, she jerks her head. "Nygma."
"Cobblepot," Ed acknowledges; and steps forward to rap on the door; three times, sharply, in succession.
A moment later, there's the sound of footsteps; and then the door opens to reveal Selina's round face, framed by frizzying curls. "Ed!" she says; and then: "Cobblepot."
"Hi," Ed says, offering a tentative smile. "Can we come in?"
Selina's gaze is fixed on Cobblepot. "What for?"
Cobblepot sighs. "I know you aren't fond of me," she begins, "but we are trying to find Jamie—we believe there are documents she kept that may lead us to her within her apartment."
"Please," Ed adds. "We just want to find her and make sure she's alright."
Selina wavers; and then, with a sigh, steps aside. "Alright," she says.
Cobblepot enters first; and Ed follows after her a moment later. Cobblepot obviously doesn't know which room is Jamie's, and Selina picks up on it; gesturing towards the second door to the right of the living room. Ed nods gratefully, and they make their way in to the room.
It's surprisingly tidy, save for a pile of papers strewn across the desk; and Ed makes her way towards the desk, going through the papers, looking for Potolsky's letter. She finds it in the desk drawer, at the bottom, along with a scant amount of information on Jervis Tetch. The letter has scribbled notes in the margin, and she passes it over to Cobblepot.
The other reads it in silence; twitching about halfway through. "The Court..." she murmurs. "I have...heard whispers of them, but I never thought they were anything more than superstitious, paranoid nonsense."
Ed shakes her head. "I've seen evidence firsthand," she says, grimly; and explains the contents of the warehouse. When she finishes, Cobblepot looks—disturbed, almost, though she masks the expression rapidly.
"We should go to the Wayne boy," Cobblepot says, finally. "He has connections that neither of us do, and, if the letter is correct, is already looking into the Court. He might be able to help us."
Ed nods. "I agree," she says. "I'll need to take time off of work, though, if we want to look into this."
Cobblepot gives her a wry look. "We? You truly do care about her, if you're willing to work with a criminal."
"Oh, shut up," Ed snaps. "Listen, I'm not happy about it, but she's more important than any reservations I might have about you, so stop—stop that—that weird judgmental thing you have going on. It's stupid, anyway, since I know you care about her just as much."
Cobblepot's jaw twitches; and then she sticks out her hand. "Fine," she says, grudgingly. "Truce?"
"...truce," Ed agrees, and takes her hand. There's a brief, almost electric jolt, but it subsides almost instantly, and Ed doesn't give it any thought.
They gather the relevant papers, and Ed makes sure Selina has the funds necessary to purchase food for the next week, and tells her sternly to stay out of trouble and to go to the GCPD and ask for Kristen Kringle if she needs help. Selina calls her dramatic, but agrees.
Just as she's about to slip out the door to where Cobblepot's waiting for her in the hallway, Selina says, "Wait."
Ed stops; and Selina approaches her hesitantly, before giving her an awkward hug. "Thank you," she murmurs.
Ed pats her back. "I'll do my best to find her," she promises.
Selina steps away and nods. "Goodbye," she says; and Ed dips her head in return before slipping out the door.
Ed and Cobblepot walk out of the building together. It only takes a few moments for them to realise that they've parked in the same direction, and resign themselves to walking together for the duration of the time it takes to get to their vehicles.
"I should give you my number," Cobblepot says, abruptly. "So you can contact me," she clarifies. "I would rather you didn't come to Bamonte's—a cop visiting too often would arouse suspicion."
"I'm a forensic analyst," Ed snaps, instinctively; and then, more grudgingly, "fine." Unlocking her phone, she hands it to the other woman, who inputs her contact.
"There," she says. "Text me once you have your paperwork to take leave in order."
Ed nods. "Alright," she says; and they walk in silence the rest of the way. Apparently, they've parked in the same parking lot, and so they only split off from each other in the last few moments.
Climbing into her car, Ed leans against the seat with a heavy sigh. She hasn't taken leave since...well, since she started working, to be honest. She should have enough time to take a week off—though the paperwork is going to be a nightmare.
The paperwork is, indeed, a nightmare. Coupled with the fact that she has other work to do, it takes her all of the next day to complete it; and she only just manages to turn it in to the Captain for approval at the last moment possible.
The woman raises a sceptical brow at her when she states the intent of her forms, but she accepts them without raising an issue, which Ed counts as a win. When she exits the precinct, she pulls out her phone and navigates to the contact that Cobblepot gave her; texts, Paperwork done.
Good, comes the response a few minutes later. Meet me at Grand Park, by the statue of the founders at seven o'clock.
Ed checks the time. That's in twenty minutes. She sighs, deciding that dinner is probably not going to happen any time soon. Alright, she replies; and makes her way towards the bus stop, having opted not to drive to work that day.
The bus ride to Grand Park takes about fifteen minutes; and Ed spends the entire time on the edge of her seat with anxiety. What if Cobblepot has decided to rescind her offer of help? What if Jamie's been found, dead? Surely she would have heard about it if that were the case, right?
When she finally gets off at the stop, she's a barely contained ball of nerves; and has to take multiple calming breaths to try and centre herself. It only half works.
Cobblepot is waiting, as promised, in front of the statue of the founders; the metal rising high above them; casting the shorter woman in its formitable shadow. Somehow, though, rather than dwarfing her, it seems to make her larger. Ed finds herself shrinking in comparison.
"Cobblepot," she greets.
Cobblepot dips her head towards Ed. "I shall be blunt," she says. "It's been three days since the good Detective disappeared, and our window to find her is quickly shrinking. As such, I believe it would be a good idea to go to the Wayne boy today. Unless," she adds, with a glare, "you have any opposition to that."
Ed bristles. "I'd like to find her just as much as you do," she snaps. "So, no, I don't have any opposition."
The other smiles; shark-like. "Good," she says. "I brought my car. We'll take it to the Wayne manor."
"For all you know I could have brought my own car," Ed says, mulishly. "Perhaps I'd prefer to take it, instead."
Cobblepot levels her a flat look. "I don't trust any car of yours to not blow up in your face," she says bluntly; and turns, walking away quickly, presumably towards her car.
Ed blinks. "Rude," she hisses; and follows after the other at an awkward gait. "What the heck does Jamie even see in you? Something other than your charming personality, I mean."
Cobblepot's wings judder. "I could ask the same of you," she shoots back.
"Well, at least I'm not a criminal."
"Well at least I'm not the sort of woman who twitches at nothing and sideyes shadows," Cobblepot snaps.
Mirror Ed, who's decided to come along for the ride, apparently, having appeared in the corner of her vision, cackles. "She's got you there," she says, smiling widely.
"Shut up," Ed hisses, to the both of them.
"Witty," Cobblepot says; and then stops in front of a smart black car. "Get in."
"Pretty sure you're not supposed to just get in to a criminal's car," Ed snarks. "Bad practice, lack of common sense, whatnot."
Cobblepot lets out a growl. "Get in," she says, "or you can very well walk."
Ed raises her hands. "Fine," she says, "but if you run us off the road and kill us both, I'll drag you back from the grave just to kill you again."
"You'd already be dead—"
Ed groans. "You know what, just shut up and drive."
Surprisingly, Cobblepot doesn't raise a fuss about it; just puts the car into gear and presses on the gas pedal a bit overzealously, making the car shoot forward out of the parking spot.
She's...upset, Ed realises, after a beat; the realisation coming as a shock. Why would she be upset? Surely, she doesn't care about Ed's words...right?
A long, long time passes; and they're within sight of Wayne Manor when Ed finally says, quietly, "I'm sorry."
Cobblepot nearly swerves off the dirt road. "What?"
"I'm sorry," Ed says, more firmly. "I think I crossed a line in our...bickering, and I'm sorry. It was wrong of me."
Cobblepot's frame is tense and held in purposeful stillness; and then she sighs and says, "I appreciate the apology."
Ed nods. "It's the right thing to do."
A wry half-smile stretches across Cobblepot's face. "I think I know why Jamie is so fond of you," she says, quietly.
They've arrived at the manor; and they both get out, closing the car doors behind them. Cobblepot takes the lead up to the manor doors, knocking sharply. A few moments later, a pale-faced youth answers—Ed recognises him as Bruce Wayne. "May I help you?" he asks, politely.
Cobblepot nods, pulling out the papers they retrieved from Jamie's desk. "We need help locating someone," she says. "In return, we have information on the Court, and someone whom we believe opperated under them."
Wayne's face goes even paler; and his gaze darts around, as if checking to see if anyone might be listening in on them. "Come in," he says, "it's best we don't talk of that sort of stuff out in the open." With that, he leads them inside and into a study, with corkboards tacked up on the walls and paper clippings pinned up, strung together by pieces of red string.
"Sit," he says, indicating two of the chairs. "May I take those papers?"
Cobblepot hesitates for a moment, glancing, bizarrely, at Ed. After a beat, she realises the other is waiting for her response. She nods her head, and the other aquisces, passing the papers to the boy. "The letter was written by Stan Potolsky," Ed explains. "You might remember him. And the other papers are what J—Detective Gordon managed to dig up on the man we believe to have worked with the Court, Jervis Tetch."
"He's dead, now," Cobblepot says, "but I believe that if we find his...base, as it were, where he was operating from, we may be able to glean more information about the Court itself."
Wayne nods. "Right," he says, "yeah, okay. Now, who was it you needed my help finding?"
Cobblepot purses her lips. "Detective Gordon," she says, finally. "She's been missing for three days, following an altercation with Tetch. Last known location, 34 Assumption Street."
Wayne blinks. "Right," he says, again. "Okay. Well, I can probably pull some strings and get CCTV for the area."
"Excellent," says Cobblepot, "just one more thing—"
Whatever she was going to say is cut off as a dark-haired boy pops his head into the room. He bears a striking resemblance to Wayne himself. "Alfred says that tea's in ten minutes," he announces; and then, catching sight of Ed and Cobblepot, his posture becomes more guarded. "Hello. You haven't been here before."
"No, they haven't," Wayne agrees. "They're just visiting—information exchange, they need a favour."
The boy regards them for a moment, and then nods, disappearing back into the hallway.
"Forgive Thomas," Wayne says, "he's...not accustomed to people."
"Is he a relative of yours?" Ed asks, curiously; and a sardonic smile crosses Wayne's lips.
"In a way," he agrees. "Now, I'm afraid that I'll have to escort you to your vehicle, and get to tea—Alfred hates it when I'm late. Oh—" he pauses, rooting around the mess of papers on the small desk, and pulls out a legal pad and a pen, holding them out to Ed and Cobblepot—"leave me your numbers, though, so I can text you when I have the CCTV footage."
Ed dutifully scribbles down her number, and then passes the pad to Cobblepot, who does the same. Then they rise, and Wayne escorts them out to Cobblepot's car.
When they get into the car, Cobblepot sits ramrod straight in her seat for a moment, hands clenched on the steering wheel, white knuckled. Her expression is guarded and her eyes stare straight ahead, and it doesn't take even Ed long to realise she's mad.
Ed clears her throat awkwardly. "We'll find her," she says. "I know you probably feel kind of—" she scouts around for a word—"powerless," she says, finally, "to only be able to sit and wait until Wayne gets back to us—"
Cobblepot whips around; a snarl on her lips. "Don't presume to know what I'm thinking," she hisses.
Ed raises her hands placatingly. "Well, I feel powerless," she says. "And I wouldn't...blame you if you did too."
The other stares at her for a long moment; and then sighs, slumping back down into her seat. "It's just—frustrating," she says, finally. "I wish I were—further along. Then I'd have more power, and we wouldn't need to go to Wayne for help."
"What, like a Don?" Ed says, incredulously. "Look, no offence, but I can't really picture you as—"
"—as someone with power—?"
"—as some sort of asshole lording over your underlings," Ed corrects. "Sure, you've been abrasive with me, but you care about people. I can't imagine you giving that up."
Cobblepot deflates slightly. "I know," she admits, finally.
"That's not a bad thing," Ed hastens to add. "It can even be a huge asset to you." She offers the other woman a tentative smile.
Like the sun breaking out of the clouds, Cobblepot returns it. "I...have been, perhaps, a bit harsh with you," she admits. "And I'm not proud to admit it. So...I—" She purses her lips. "I apologise."
"Apology accepted," Ed says, with a nod. "Now, we should probably get out of the driveway before we get in trouble for it or something."
Cobblepot huffs. "Probably," she agrees, and starts the car.
"Goddamnit!"
Maroni's shout is audible from the other side of the restaurant; and Osvalda instinctively freezes before continuing about her inspection of the kitchen. Whatever Maroni's upset about will filter back to her eventually.
It does a few hours later. She's just walking through the restaurant proper when she hears two waiters murmuring amongst themselves.
"Did you hear Don Maroni earlier?" one asks. "He sounded pissed about something."
"Apparently, his attack on Falcone didn't go off as expected," the other replies. "Falcone was injured, but he's in the hospital now, and he's out of urgent care."
The first waiter sighs. "I really hope retribution isn't to bad," she says. "My family lives on the border of Maroni territory."
Osvalda's heard enough; quickly, she pulls out her phone and opens up the news app. Sure enough, there's an article about the attack on Falcone's private residence—apparently, two thugs with semiautomatic guns attacked Falcone while he was out tending to his chickens.
According to the article, he's currently being cared for in one of the more expensive suites at Gotham General.
Osvalda smiles. She's got enough information to take action now.
Half an hour later sees her pulling up at Gotham General after a quick call to a friend inside the hospital. The man meets her at the back, glancing around nervously, before he escorts her inside and up to the hallway Falcone's suite is in.
He refuses to take her all the way, but she does convince him to give her the room number. After that, she pulls the blade away from his throat and lets him scamper off.
Opening the door to the suite, she slips inside. Falcone's voice drifts across the room. "I already had a meal."
Osvalda smiles sharply. "I'm not a hospital employee, Don Falcone."
He starts at her voice; reaching for the panic button; but Osvalda, quick as a snake, darts forward and grabs it, severing the cord. "You," he hisses. "I knew you'd cause trouble for me."
"Indeed," Osvalda agrees, and unhooks him from the machines monitoring his vitals. He's too weak to do anything but threaten her ineffectually. "I'd say I'm sorry to do this," she says, as she readies herself to plunge the knife into his heart, "but given you tried to have me killed, well—I'm really not."
With that, she stabs the knife downwards. Blood bubbles up around the wound, and Falcone splutters for a few moments; blood bubbling up out of his mouth, choking him; and she pulls it away after a moment, watching in satisfaction as the light in his eyes dim.
Giving herself a small smile, she washes off the knife in the sink and snaps it shut, slipping it into her pocket, and makes her way out of the suite.
When she gets back to Bamonte's, the place is in an uproar. She snags one of the waiters. "What's going on?"
He gives her a surprised look. "Haven't you heard?" he says. "Fish Mooney and Don Maroni met up to negotiate territories while Don Falcone was still in the emergency room, and Mooney killed Maroni."
Osvalda lets go of him. Things are progressing slightly differently than expected, but she can adapt to it.
It doesn't take her long to find out that Mooney has returned to her nightclub. After that, it's only a matter of acquiring a gun and getting inside undetected through the back entrance of the nightclub. That's not particularly hard—Mooney always banked on her reputation to deter people from trying to sneak in through there than any actual enforced security.
When she gets inside, she casts a quick look around for Butch Gilzean; smiling when she doesn't catch sight of him anywhere—only Mooney, alone, at a table, back to Osvalda.
Osvalda makes her way over quietly. She's already cocked the gun, so it's just a matter of pressing it to the base of Mooney's head. "Hello, Fish," she says, gleefully.
Mooney stills. "Penguin," she snarls. "How the fuck are you still alive?"
Osvalda shrugs; carefully keeping the gun steady. "Good fortune," she replies. "Though, I'm afraid, you won't be experiencing the same."
And with that, she pulls the trigger.
Blood sprays across the booth; and the glass Mooney was holding drops and shatters. Osvalda pulls the gun away.
There's the sound of heavy footsteps, and Osvalda whirls around, ignoring the way the motion jolts pain through her leg, and trains the gun on Butch Gilzean's surprised face. "Try anything and I'll shoot you too," she promises.
Butch's shoulders slump. "What do you want?" he says, tiredly.
Osvalda smiles jaggedly. "I want you to get the word out that Gotham has a new king," she replies.
Butch gives a chuckle. "Falcone's still alive."
"Not anymore," Os shoots back. "Of course, it'll take them a bit to realise it, but I can promise you, there's a four-inch-deep knife wound straight to his heart. Now," she says, "if you do as I said and get the word out, I won't have to shoot you."
Butch Gilzean, for all his faults, is excellent at realising when power has shifted; and he backs away carefully. "I'm going, I'm going," he promises, and makes his way out the back.
Os smiles, setting the gun down on the table Mooney's slumped over, and makes her way out the front, whistling a jaunty tune.
The goals for the day met, she makes her way home. Her mother greets her at the door with a hug and the scent of baked goods wafting out towards her. "Oh, how I have missed you!" she cries.
Osvalda smiles sheepishly. "Sorry I've been gone so much, mom," she says. "Work has been really demanding."
Her mother wags a finger at her. "No excuse," she scolds. "Now come, come, I have made goulash."
The goulash is excellent; and over dinner, her mother needles her about all the time she's spent away from home. "I have hardly seen you at all," she frets. "What has been keeping you from your mother?"
Osvalda hesitates; before admitting the truth—or, at least, some of it. "My dear friend has gone missing," she says. "I'm trying to find her."
Gertrude frowns. "Missing...that is not good," she says.
Osvalda pokes at her goulash. "Yeah," she says. "I'm—I'm worried about her, you know? Since I don't know if she's safe or not, I mean."
"I know the feeling," Gertrud nods, "when you worry about someone you love because they are gone—just like how I worried about you."
Osvalda sputters. "Love might be a little hasty," she protests, "really, mom—"
Her mother hushes her. "I know love when I see it," she says, firmly. "It has been written across your face since you opened your mouth to talk about her. I would know—I had the same expression when I was with your father."
Intrigued, Osvalda leans forward. Her mother never talks about her father. "Oh?"
Gertrude smiles, half sad. "Yes," she says. "We were very happy together, Elijah and I—before his family found out about me, at least." Now, her expression fades into one of mourning.
Osvalda's blood boils. "Did they—mom, did they threaten you?" she asks.
Gertrude stirs her goulash. "I had not been in the states for long," she explains. "They said they would report me if I did not leave your father, and they were a wealthy family. I was too afraid, especially since I was pregnant with you by then. Elijah, he looked for me," she adds, "I heard about it, but I was too scared to let him find me. Eventually, he must have given up."
Osvalda's heart clenches; and she reaches across the table to take her mother's hand. "I'm so sorry," she murmurs; head whirring with plans. "I promise I'll figure out a way to make it right."
After dinner, she begins to look into the elite of Gotham, and finds one man who fits the information her mother revealed: Elijah Van Dahl. As soon as I find Jamie, she promises to herself and, silently, to her mother, I'll reveal myself to him.