Trigger Warning: This fic has its rating for a reason, but please be aware that homophobia, sexual assault, and racism are three heavy and triggering elements in the first half of this chapter, and look after yourself when reading if this is something that particularly resonates with you. Otherwise, I hope the chapter doesn't disappoint.
If someone had asked Brenda Sheppard if she enjoyed her job, she'd have said something along the lines of depends on the day or mind your own goddamn business, but on this particular day, she'd tell them it was absolute shit.
Brenda was looking forward to her hot mess of a bed when she got back to her apartment in Uptown. The lights of the club were strobing at a pace that made her fairly certain she was going to have a seizure, the room getting hotter as the night dragged on. Half-naked women danced on the tables around her, glitter and sequins refracting the light, blurs of movement that got hazier the more she drank, their heels so high she marvelled as to how they hadn't snapped their skinny-ass ankles yet.
"We're celebrating," Roman had told her earlier, making her change into some skimpy romper after citing a made-up dress code before herding her and his entourage into his town car and cracking open the champagne, one giddy girl on each knee as he jeered all the way to his favourite club, The Rabbit Hole. Roman wanted to own his own club, but he wasn't interested in starting from the ground up. He preferred taking the final product—the fruits of another's labour. And he had Vasily Kosov whipped like a bitch just for that purpose.
Including you, huh? she thought, downing what was left of her mojito.
Roman had a way with things like that—making sure you couldn't say no, even if you wanted to. The men and women he'd brought along with him were dancing, throwing their hands up and swaying to the beat, too drunk to notice they weren't moving with the tempo, their backs coated in sweat as they worked out whatever cocktail of drugs they'd snorted or ingested prior. He was too high on his own ego—and whatever else he had in his system—to see that they had nothing to be excited about. Brenda was close to falling asleep despite the blaring noise screaming out of the speakers, spouting rap in a white man's club as the bass rattled her teeth, the golden watch on her wrist showing it was well-past two in the morning.
"Whoo!"
And yet Roman managed to be loud enough to be heard above the cacophony, his smile big as he grinded into some groupie's ass as she danced for him, pressing her back into his chest, his hands close to her breasts. She didn't look any older than seventeen, no matter how much makeup she wore. Looking away, Brenda clicked her tongue and motioned to the bartender waiting on their VIP area for another drink.
She remembered what it was like working for Roman back when he first considered moving back to Gotham, his parents be damned—the fucking brat—when she hadn't needed to stay late and had her evenings to herself, when she had thought Roman charming. Making millions to help him play Godfather had been fun. At first.
Those were the days.
"C'mon and dance, Brenda! Dance," Roman shouted over the music, pointing her way as he mimed slapping the girl's ass before doing a spin, his white dinner jacket twirling with him.
It took everything Brenda had not to roll her eyes. She didn't want to dance; the bastard always got too excited over shit he shouldn't. Shooting up a street and killing over a dozen people wasn't something that warranted elation—it only left them open to get bit in the ass later. Two dead cops being part of that body count would only make the crackdown all the harder.
The smug asshole never listens to a goddamn word I say.
Roman was quick to ignore her suggestion for subtlety, of waiting out the enemy, for Hood to make enough mistakes and getting the cops to handle their problem; that's why they had the strategy of using Gordon's anti-corruption policy to their advantage, pointing him in all the directions that didn't lead to them. Apparently Roman's need to measure his dick against every perceived phallic symbol he thought he saw was a compulsion he was unwilling to do away with.
"Did you snort too much cocaine this morning?" she shouted back without thinking, staring at her fingernails with one high heeled foot propped up on the glass table, small ziplocks of ecstasy and pills and lines of actual coke littering the surface. Brenda had previously scheduled a date that night with a cute girl she'd met at a cocktail bar down in the Financial District earlier in the week. Having to cancel just to watch Roman rave around because he was hopped up on an extra dose of crazy wasn't her idea of a good time, and she was feeling bitter.
Just when you thought your dry spell was over, she thought. Meeting women in her line of work was a rarity, even when she spent so much time in clubs, and men like Roman exemplified all too well why most would be wise to stay in the closet. Too bad you're not one of 'em.
Whatever song Roman was romping to stopped abruptly when he raised his hand in the air, making a gesture that was correctly interpreted as an instant need for the volume to drop, and the new DJ had picked up that cue better than the last one had.
"Oh my fuck—"
The hair on the back of Brenda's neck stood up on end, and she realized too late that tonight was not a good night for quips, for raining on Roman's parade. Alcohol made her tongue too loose, and the words she'd meant to keep in her head had slipped out.
Don't panic.
If there was one thing she always remembered, it was that Roman pounced on fear. She didn't swallow, didn't look away as the people closest to them looked on with curiosity between Roman and Brenda. The sudden absence of the wall of sound after having her body numbed by it was jarring. The regulars had seen Roman and Brenda together, but they thought Roman was just another crazy piece of shit with a big wallet and Brenda was one of his many whores. Brenda knew better than to correct them.
"Can't I just have one thing—ONE THING—without you raggin' on me?" he growled, a roar building in his chest as he pointed a black-gloved finger at her.
Brenda forced herself to be still, to not even blink. She'd weathered his bad moods before, the constant swing between extremes, and being calm was key. Roman liked public spectacle, and she wouldn't give him one.
"That's not what you pay me for." Dragging the corners of her mouth into a smile, she kept it casual—it was best to do that with Roman: not to let him see the effect he was having, even as he stalked towards her. "You knew I was a bitch when you hired me."
Self-deprecation was a safe bet around Roman—pour the acid on yourself so that when he did it, the burn was less substantial.
"Cunt's more like it," he sneered, his handsome face screwed up in a grimace that almost showed how ugly he was on the inside. Standing less than a foot away, so close that she could smell the stale sweat and overpowering cologne clinging to his navy silk shirt and see how unnaturally dilated his eyes were, his gaze lingered on her bare legs. Slowly dragging up, halting for too long on her chest as he smoothed his hair back, Brenda made her breathing remain even when they finally landed on her face. Leaning down, she didn't blink when the small drops of his spit hit her cheeks. "You're lucky I don't fuck you straight."
It wasn't the first time he'd made remarks like that. Most revolved around her exotic looks, the small gap between her two front teeth, being a tease. He saved the not-so-subtle comments of assault and homophobia for when he was really pissed at her.
It was both a blessing and a curse that she knew he didn't really mean it—she was too old for his particular tastes despite being thirty-two, as she had come to learn—but that didn't mean he wouldn't have one of his men do it for him.
"You're too beautiful to be a dyke," he'd said to her early on after he'd paid her retainer's fee and had seen an old photo with her and an ex-girlfriend. Her firm had paid her a lot of money to be Roman's lawyer, and he had given her even more for going above the call of duty and signing up to handle all of his business, and every day had become a negotiation for how much of her dignity she was going to sell.
Her real saving grace was that Roman knew as well as she that she was too integral for his operations to fuck-up on a whim. Replacing her would take time, so he just made her watch when he took his frustrations out on someone else, exercising his ability to be shitty every few days so he felt tough. And Brenda let him feel that way, grateful for how dark her skin covered the intense flush of blood in her cheeks as the back of her eyes burned. She swallowed her retorts when Roman kicked her leg down from the table and dragged her up from her seat by the bicep.
"C'mon now, Brenda," he began, slinging an arm over her shoulder as he led her forward, talking in her ear as they walked across the dance floor, the clubbers parting like the Red Sea, "our little fuckin' rat is supposed to have some news for us. He was quick to call after yesterday's fireworks."
She wanted to clarify that it wasn't fireworks when it involved grenade launchers, but Roman wasn't in the mood for their usual bickering; she should've seen it coming, really. She had lasted the longest out of his entourage and crew for a reason, and the money paid enough for her not to care about his sick preoccupations, his obsession with masks and causing pain, and she didn't come this far for her smart mouth to start screwing her now.
"Did he say he had anything?" she asked, her voice steady despite the tremor in her hand.
Walking up the stairs, the security team nodded their way, hands dropping from the guns at their sides. Vasily had given them a good deal of his men when he joined up with Roman, and he certainly liked putting them to waste.
"Moye tvoye," the Russian shit had said when he had come to kiss the ring. After losing most of his Russian Mafia brethren in the leaderless coup, Vasily was eager to save his own hide and what was left of the Chechen and Dimitrov's crew. The mighty were no longer after the Joker was through with them, and Roman was eager to acquire more pets to leash.
"Yeah, said it was urgent," he scoffed, his bad mood easing back as whatever he'd taken before settled him down, her slip-up fading from memory. This was their own song and dance—she'd say something stupid, he'd start inching for his knives, she'd acquiesce and he'd go back to being smug. "Dent's already waiting. Figured thirty minutes staring at that charred mug would make him more… heh, eager."
His arm slid up hers, the leather caressing her skin. She grit her teeth to stop herself from pulling away.
He's doing it to fuck with you.
That didn't stop her brain from going back to the scene she had seen almost a week ago. All the blood on the floor, how it had caked the bottom of her shoes.
Not your problem if you don't make it.
"The rest is just picking up loose ends, darlin'. Have some faith for once," he said, jostling her before removing his arm. She made herself not move any closer or further away. "Won't be long and even your nappy ass won't have a reason to be so uptight."
You pencil-dick motherfucker.
"You say it like it's a done deal, Roman. He isn't dead yet and there's still—"
He silenced her with a sidelong glare, eyes narrowing. "Didn't I say it already? Have some fucking faith."
She swallowed her retort as they followed the walkway leading to a black door at the end with two large men on either side. Most people thought it was a private area for when the head honchos wanted to get in a quick fuck or deal with the heavier stuff, make a couple of low-end trades. It wasn't entirely wrong—Roman often did the former—but no one had looked to Roman as a crime boss, not in the beginning. He wasn't particularly careful anymore, but what he lacked in caution he made up for in sheer viciousness.
Standing aside, his men punched in the code and swung the door open as they drew near, making sure not to stare for too long at either of them. Brenda didn't know their names, not bothering to memorize their faces anymore, but she guessed by their reaction that they had either been briefed or had cleaned up Roman's messes before.
Before going into the main office, Roman walked to the end of the hall, spinning the locks on one of his heavy cabinets built into the wall. His ego train was going full speed tonight, and he was always one for an audience, but it was never his own face he preferred showing when he was doing real business, as he liked to differentiate, and it wasn't something he could do at Janus.
Janus Cosmetics was the site of his legitimate dealings, his family's company that he was steering into ruin, and where he flaunted one kind of mask—the kind that wanted to shmooze the other socialites of Gotham, earn their respect and deference, and have the opulence he saw with families like the Waynes and Dumas.
He replaced his white jacket with one that was black and embroidered with dark threads of gold in abstract patterns of tribal masks, his white tie stark against his chest. Janus, god of duality, beginnings and endings—was emblematic of Roman's fascination for something inside himself, an area of his mind that Brenda never wanted access to.
The Rabbit Hole was where Roman liked to have fun, where he felt his most powerful. It meant more to him, became a place where he could be, as he often told Brenda, his true self. It had taken her time to discover what he meant, what that looked like the more he thought he was succeeding.
What Roman pulled out last from the cabinet never failed to make Brenda's skin crawl. "After you," he said, motioning to the office door. His voice should've been muffled, but it seemed to resonate more deeply, his gray eyes sharp shards of ice that had something malicious forming behind them. Brenda was quick to look away.
The office wasn't so different from the one at Janus Cosmetics—everything a contrast between white and black, uncomfortable furniture with angular designs and accents of red and gold, the lighting dark with a few well-placed lamps to set the mood as Roman had once said. Sitting at his desk was David Miller, cybersecurity with Homeland and an old addition on Roman'a payroll, and Harvey Dent sitting off to the side, staring at the wall as he turned something over in his hand.
"Gentlemen," Black Mask greeted, throwing his arms out in welcome as he sat in his high-backed chair.
David visibly flinched when he looked at Black Mask, his pasty skin getting paler. Brenda kept her head high as she leaned against the wall beside Black Mask, not looking back as his personal guard shut the door behind them.
"It's been a while since we've gotten an update in person, hasn't it?" Staring at David, Black Mask steepled his hands together, his gaze steady. It wasn't easy looking at a mask made of obsidian and leather, a skull carved to perfectly fit the contours of Roman Sionis's face. "I hope this is good, for your sake."
David swallowed, his Adam's apple bobbing as he panted like he just went up a long set of stairs. "Um, well, it's—it's, um—"
"Spit it out," Black Mask snarled, snapping his body forward and startling David so badly that he almost popped out of his seat.
"They—they added you to their POI list," David forced out, eyes darting between Dent and Black Mask. Dent did make for a terrifying partner in the room—his face was actually half-seared off and showing more of his skull than someone ought without dying. When he was met with a look of confusion from Black Mask, he cleared his throat and continued, "They've started—started looking into you."
Oh, for fuck's sake—
Black Mask burst into laughter, dark and low. David was easily twice the size of him, but he looked like a little boy sitting in that chair, hands digging into the rests and feet burying themselves in the plush carpet.
"I'm sorry, I thought you said something really fucking stupid." Black Mask leaned forward, resting his elbows on his desk. "You wanna try that again?"
His Panterra T-shirt was damp with sweat, and Brenda found out a long time ago to recognize the smell of fear, and David was bathing in it. "Homeland and GCPD—they're looking at you and Janus—"
"No, you fat fucking moron!" Slamming his fists on the desk, Black Mask half-rose out of his chair. Looking at the mask up close didn't make it any prettier, and David seemed close to pissing himself. "What. The. Fuck. Happened? Huh?!" he demanded, barely in control of himself. "What the hell am I paying you for if you can't do your job right?!"
Dent watched the scene unfold with idle interest, eyes flicking back and forth between Black Mask and David before landing on Brenda. Overcompensating much? his expression seemed to say as he lifted one brow and gave a minute shrug of his shoulders. Brenda bit her tongue to keep from laughing in agreement, but she couldn't stop the twitch in the corner of her lips, how she had to turn away and hide her mouth behind her hand.
"I—I'm trying my best—" David spluttered, shrinking further into his chair. When Brenda had first met him, the man had seemed quiet and emotionless, almost permanently bored.
Amazing what fear changes, she thought.
"Brenda, come here a moment."
In a moment that seemed to be suspended in time, Brenda realized that Black Mask wasn't looking at David anymore. He was staring at her.
"What?" she asked stupidly, thinking she missed a chunk of time somewhere in the midst of David's blubbering.
"Come here," he said, patting his lap.
"You—you're not serious," Brenda scoffed, looking to Dent for affirmation. He was just as impassive as before. "Roman—"
"I didn't ask you to speak, did I?"
She swallowed hard, looking from David's terrified face to Dent's carefully empty one. Roman had his covered, but she didn't doubt that he was grinning.
Head still held high, she kept her arms tightly wound around her stomach to keep Black Mask from seeing how badly her hands shook. All too aware of how much skin the romper showed, how it rode up her thighs, she sat where Black Mask indicated, trying to lean on the side so she could keep her legs together, but he tugged her down by the arm, making her land awkwardly, both legs splayed on either side of his and his hand clamped on the back of her neck.
Don't panic, Roman wouldn't—
But Brenda knew that wasn't true. She'd seen him do worse for less.
So much for forgetting about the slip-up.
She should've known better then, too, that expecting Roman to make the smart decision wasn't always his prerogative, especially if he could gratify his immediate impulses.
"Do you think that's good enough? Your best?" Black Mask asked eventually, waiting until Brenda's breathing slowed and was certain she'd stay in place. She almost thought he was talking to her for how his hand dropped to her thigh, but it was David he was addressing.
"M-Mr. Black—Black Mask, sir—"
"Who." It wasn't a question; it was a demand, his hand gripping her leg too tight. Brenda had seen him when what was left of his limited supply of patience was gone, and she didn't want to think about who was going to have their face marked up and fed to them.
It's probably gonna be you.
Focusing on the painting hanging on the wall behind David's head, she kept staring to stave off the panic attack burgeoning in her chest.
"S-Sorry?" David asked, his hairline glistening with sweat as his gaze went from where he was holding Brenda's leg to Black Mask's face, his body vibrating.
"Who's the one sniffing where they shouldn't."
Brenda's fear grew at how calm he sounded now, how the impatience disappeared.
"It's… well… I c-can just handle it, sir—it's—it's no big deal—" David clamped his mouth shut, body going rigid.
On Black Mask's desk was a lacquered box, buffed to a bright shine and spotless. Brenda's gag reflex almost got the better of her when she remembered what had happened the last time he'd opened it. And she was the one in his closest vicinity. She tried standing, but Black Mask buried a hand in her hair, making her sit again as he yanked at the wiry curls, her ass dangerously close to his groin. It took everything she had to stay quiet and not cry.
"Do you think I'm a man who likes being made a fool of, faggot?" Black Mask asked, his hand going further up Brenda's thigh until his fingers hit the hem of her romper, the leather cold and smooth against her skin. Brenda tried to find a reason to hold onto—she was gay for fuck's sake, certainly not in his age bracket, and the person who helped him run his operations. He wouldn't—he wouldn't.
You know that isn't true.
She realized that thinking Roman's ego was any different from any other overcompensating man was a mistake. A flawed theory she realized she had pushed too far.
"Tell me, David, do you think that I'm an idiot? That—hahaha." His voice dropped as he threw his back and laughed, leaning in his chair and dragging Brenda with him, her grip on the armrest the only thing keeping her from resting against him completely. "You'd better have an answer," Black Mask sang, shifting again and moving her with him to flip the lid on the box and expose the extensive collection within—everything from a straight razor to a fish-carving knife to what looked like a melon baller. Brenda's stomach twisted as his fingers caressed the handles.
"N-No, sir—you're not…not an—an idiot, but I—"
"And yet here we are—you sittin' in front of me and wasting my time." He laughed again, the tip of his finger moving in circles along Brenda's inner thigh. She wanted to throw up, her skin rippled, her back shuddering in revulsion, but she made herself remain motionless. "See, I thought we had a good deal going for us at the beginning, David. You steer the investigation, make sure there's always a better candidate—it's not a fucking hard concept, this is Gotham after all—and you tell me when the first sign of trouble is coming. Not the second, not the third, but the FIRST one," he shouted, almost pulling Brenda's hair from the roots as she hissed in pain.
Oh, God—oh, God—
"I think something's in the water tonight, Brenda." Black Mask pulled a knife out of the box and spun it in his hand, the cool surface of his mask touching her cheek. "I think that someone here isn't showing their loyalty very well."
The hand still on her thigh shoved past the fabric of her clothes, going between her legs as she tried to shove him away. "Roman, wait—wait—you're not thinking straight—" He pressed the knife against her throat, keeping her still as a finger slid past the band of her underwear and forced its way inside of her. She bit her lip hard enough to draw blood to keep herself quiet, the tears finally streaming down her cheeks. Dent and David just sat there—the former pretending not to pay attention and the latter unable to tear his eyes away.
"Are you loyal, David? Or did you screw me over like Brenda did?"
Past the pain and shame that made her skin feel it was being burned, one inch at a time, past the terror that made her body freeze, like it didn't belong to her at all anymore, like she'd become a doll she was forced to inhabit but not control, Brenda was confounded. He was insinuating that she'd betrayed him, but she'd never done that—she had a smart mouth and talked back, yes—but she had never sold him out. It went against her best interests—but any attempt to find reason in what was happening evaporated when his finger moved and he trailed the knife down to her breast, pressing harder as she whimpered in terror.
"Do I need to show you what happens to traitors—"
"K-Kane—Miriam!" David shouted, hands bone-white as he gripped the edge of his seat.
Black Mask froze, his hand stopping its ministrations and knife coming away from Brenda's chest. "Come again?" he asked, sounding closer to his usual self than the monster she'd been lucky enough to have just observed until tonight.
But, like Black Mask, she couldn't have heard him right. David had to be pulling shit out of his ass, and she was going to be the one paying for it.
"Mir—Miriam Kane. She's infamous for, you know—"
"I fucking know who the cunt is, you ignoramus."
Pushing Brenda onto the floor, Black Mask's previous demonstration was forgotten. She landed hard on her knee and elbow with a yelp, but she was quick to right herself and press her back against the wall, her breathing ragged and makeup running into her eyes.
"You could've mentioned earlier that she was on the team. That darkie bitch almost flattened Midtown!" he shouted, gesturing wildly with his hands, the knife catching the light and held so loosely in his grip that she thought it might go flying.
Black Mask seemed to forget about her, and Brenda closed her eyes, forcing herself to calm down. She couldn't be this weak in front of them, couldn't sit there and cry even if she wanted to scrub her skin raw with bleach, claw his eyes out of his fucking head, give him a taste of his own medicine. But he didn't care about Brenda's hate, her discomfort or her pain. He just kept talking like she didn't matter at all, like what he did was nothing.
"I didn't—didn't think it was… relevant at the time—" David choked, still not totally recovered from what he'd seen. He was unsettled, blubbering like a boy, and Brenda wanted to hit him for how he just sat there and stared.
"How is it not relevant? When did she even get back?" he mused to himself, turning his head in contemplative thought. He sounded so infuriatingly casual—like he was talking about the weather. "She was Joker's fucktoy or something, wasn't she? I heard rumours about scars."
"I—I wouldn't know. She wore lots of—of thick clothes when we met."
"Yeah, like that doesn't scream issues," he scoffed, throwing the knife back in its box. It was like he was still inside her, like her body was stretched too thin, vision doubling as the alcohol caught up to her. "Any on her face?"
David looked flabbergasted, confused, shrinking further into a chair not built to accommodate his large body. "N-Not… really? Not that… that I noticed."
"Fucking Christ almighty. Useless—" Just as Brenda slumped to find relief in passing out, Black Mask snapped his fingers twice. She was terrified to open her eyes, to see him beckon her over to him again, and she found only a small sense of relief when he motioned to the empty seat next to Dent. "Can she be dealt with? Sidelined?" he asked, following Brenda with his eyes as she forced herself upright, her legs shaking as she walked, until she sat down gingerly where he had indicated and stared straight ahead.
"I don't… think so? I didn't get that vibe. She's… difficult, abrasive—"
"Vibe? We're going off of fucking vibes now?" he snapped, giving David the full force of his attention again. "I don't fucking care how much of a dumb slut she is, I'm asking if she can be dealt with. This fucking moron—I oughta have you skinned right now—"
Black Mask reached for the box again and David almost flipped his chair backwards, hands out in front of him as he stuttered, trying to find the words to change his mind.
"One of the higher-ups specifically assigned her and I couldn't get into her computer—not all the way. She—she's only just getting started, I can steer her back—"
"You'd fucking better, for your sake," Black Mask interrupted, pointing a finger in David's face as he leaned forward. He waited until he was sure he had David's full attention, that he didn't need to repeat himself twice. "I wanna know where she lives, what she's doing at all times, who she's fucking—everything. And you had better give updates—daily ones—about that shitshow of an investigation. Leave nothing out, ya hear me?"
David warbled in relief, his entire body coated in perspiration as he looked at Black Mask with the sincerity of a boy scout. "Yeah—yes, sir. I won't let you down—"
"Get your sweaty face outta my sight, fucking Samwise." He waved a hand in dismissal, leaning back in his chair as he looked off in thought as David darted up and all but sprinted from the room, shutting the door behind him. "Of course she has to be related to a billionaire thundercunt like Wayne, Jesus. That makes shit difficult. Christ," he muttered under his breath, shaking his head.
Standing and coming around his desk, Brenda didn't look at him as Black Mask came closer. She didn't know what she'd do if she did. What he'd do.
Keep your head, you've dealt with worse. Just think of the money, this won't last forever.
"Wasn't that fun?" he asked, gently gripping her chin and forcing her to look up.
Staring at the mask in the shadows gave the concave hollows and sharp, jagged edges more exaggerated dimensions until he looked like some kind of abomination from a Francis Bacon painting. There was plenty of skin showing around his neck and wrists, but he didn't look human at all to her when he was wearing that thing, and she didn't think he wanted to.
"Fun? Fun," she repeated in disbelief, the same attitude that caused his ire resurfacing. It was all she could do not to spit at him, to tell him he was a repulsive lecher, an entitled brat.
Not today, Brenda.
"Oh, baby," he cooed, slapping her cheek lightly with the hand he'd used to violate her, his eyes as hard as the knife he'd held to her throat. "Ya did good. And I hope you learned your lesson this time, huh?"
But she couldn't say any of the things she wanted. Because he was the one paying her more money than she'd ever thought she'd make. Because he was her boss. Because he was the one with the power. Because she had none.
"Say yes, that you understand, Brenda." His grip tightened, and she knew he wasn't far from doing that to her again, from going further.
"Yeah. I understand," she said, swallowing hard and using every iota of discipline she had to stop shaking.
"Good. Now pull yourself together and wipe your face. You look like a burned-out whore."
She could hear the smile in his voice, the smugness of it. Rage lit a fire in her chest, but she had nowhere to direct it but at herself. She'd be needing more than a glass of wine and a joint to make her sleep tonight.
"Now… the best way to deal with our little problem," he said, sitting back at his desk and propping his legs up, hand under his chin in thought.
"Don't tell me you're thinking of something foolish," Dent said for the first time. That was usually Brenda's line, but it seemed that he was taking the lead on being the voice of sanity.
"I'm not, I'm not." Black Mask waved away the notion, sighing. "Well. For now, anyway. Killing her proves the theory right, and doing away with the Prince of Gotham's cousin isn't helpful, even if she is a black sheep."
Brenda's mind worked even when she didn't want it to, when she wanted to be very far away. She had watched the news like everyone else when the Siege happened. She knew what she'd seen in the videos circulated online, the trash spewed out by sleazebags like Jack Ryder—that Kane was a willing participant, a devil-may-care type, a Bonnie to the Joker's Clyde, a rich girl gone horribly wrong. She'd also heard what the Joker's leftovers would say to one another like a gaggle of gossiping hens: that she was nuts, the Joker's toy that he had liked kicking when she was down, a whore that he had let them fuck. The amount of elaborate stories they'd spew about what a good screw she was made Brenda disbelieve everything that came out of their mouths outright. She knew that she didn't know anything at all about Kane—but it was impossible not to account for the fact that she was dangerous, no matter what her original intentions had been. Kane was a wildcard, and they didn't need those in a game where there was already so much on at stake. And Black Mask seemed to enjoy bringing them right to the brink of ruin.
"We still have our asset in Arkham, don't we, Brenda?" Black Mask inquired, tilting his head to the side and staring insistently at her. Her throat closed up, more tears threatening to spill and make her breakdown completely.
That's not gonna happen, she thought. She didn't fight tooth and nail through law school to get where she was only to crumble because she'd made a dumb choice. She'd swallow this like she did with everything else, reason that it was the price of getting rich with dangerous men.
What else were you ever expecting?
"Yes, as long as Strange didn't do any… unnecessary treatments in the last two months," she said, clearing her throat and sitting up straighter, her eyes never wavering from Black Mask's. If she pretended like nothing had happened, he would, too.
"What's the DL with that? Is he still, er… I don't know, waiting around for someone to fuck with when he's out?" he asked, spinning his chair in a circle, foot tapping to some unheard beat.
"I keep telling you that's a bad idea—"
"You don't get to tell me shit," he interjected, chair stopping in place to glare. She pinched herself hard enough to bruise when she jumped at the sound of his voice.
Blinking hard for a moment, she took her time to formulate her thoughts, to find the diplomat buried in her under too much booze. "Joker's an animal you let loose when you're going scorched earth, Roman. We're not there; you'd only lead them right back to you. Laying low is what's smart." Her reasoning was sound, she knew it was. But her word was never enough.
"You're being awfully quiet over there," he said, pointing at Dent and pretending that Brenda didn't exist again.
"You pay me to consult, not interject," Dent replied, the motion of his hand stilling long enough for Brenda to see that it was a coin.
"Well, consult," he said, sweeping out an arm.
Dent's expression grew dark, his sneer more pronounced on the whole side of his face. Roman wasn't the only one who knew the power found in rage. "The Joker's worse than an animal. Don't let him out of the cage unless it's to put him down. Permanently." He resumed his movements with his coin, flipping it across his knuckles absently, staring off until it seemed like he wasn't in the room with them anymore. "Don't just leave it to David to quash that investigation. They didn't try to prosecute Kane when they had the chance—the DOJ probably had something to do with that."
Black Mask cocked his head to the side. "Meaning?"
Dent sighed, rolling his eyes and leaning further into his chair, the picture of disinterest. Brenda wanted to hit him as badly as she wanted to hit Black Mask. "Meaning that she's an attack dog. They have leverage that they can use and get the results they want. Having someone like David run interference isn't going to work for long."
"Are you suggesting something, then?" he asked, his dark mood returning. "Don't keep it to yourself."
Dent sighed again, tucking the coin in his jacket pocket as he turned to give Black Mask his full attention.
"Caution." Black Mask rolled his eyes, ready to dig into Dent and say something stupid, but he held up a hand for Mask to wait. "Direct their attention elsewhere while doing nothing yourself. No more shoot-outs, no more sending hit squads. Let Red Hood sink his own ship and make sure the law hits him hard. If they get one they can prosecute and the other goes quiet? Most of your worries will go away."
Brenda didn't know what to be angrier about—that Dent had repeated almost verbatim what she had been for weeks or Black Mask's more serious consideration of it.
"I'm not sure that I like that option," he said after a moment, after actually giving it some thought rather than dismissing it outright. It was enough to make Brenda want to find a crowbar.
"Doesn't matter if you like it: You asked. There's your answer," Dent scoffed, reaching for his glass of whiskey and downing it, face twisting up as the alcohol burned his ravaged skin.
"Fine," Black Mask said, throwing his hands up before feign-smacking his forehead with the heel of his palm. He took a deep breath in, his tone petulant and reminiscent of twelve-year-old boys she had known another lifetime ago. "We wait, then."
"Our little bird in his nest, Eddie?" Red Hood asked, looking through his night scope binoculars at the bar one storey below. Rolling his eyes when he didn't get a reply, he cleared his throat loudly. "You hear me, you mook?"
"...Yes," came the begrudging response.
"Yes to being a mook or yes that the target's in position?"
Eddie's growl was enough to make Hood chuckle and he relented; there was too much on the line for Eddie to screw something up just to get him back for some petty barb. Roman was out celebrating, beyond Hood's reach with a club full of civilians. He wouldn't take his chances—too many ways a stray bullet could find itself in the wrong body, whether from his gun or Roman's. So Red Hood would do him one better.
An eye for an eye.
"Get ready to set things off when you hear the safeword, got it? Timing's gonna be real important on this one." Eddie grunted in acknowledgement, and it was all he needed before switching frequencies. "Tommy, come in."
"Tommy here, Red," she replied, prompt as always. He shoved his binoculars into the bag at his feet and holstered his pistol before shoving his dagger into the sheath on his thigh. "Got Tzu lined up. Half her gang's inside with the new shipment."
"Good."
Surveillance and due-diligence went a long way—so did having a good chunk of informants on his payroll. Well, informants paid with some of Black Mask's liberated funds. He hadn't gone into this war blind, and he'd been patient, but it was time for action. He wasn't too torn up about losing a couple of scum-faced vermin on his side, casualties of war and all that, and he couldn't be seen not seeking out retribution. Vengeance was born and bred into street life, he knew that better than most, and he'd get what was his.
Tooth for a tooth.
And they'd know never to fuck with him. They'd all know who to fear. They'd all remember who came out on top when the dust settled.
"Get ready to burn the place to the ground."
Vasily Kosov and a good chunk of his men were below, embracing Roman's celebratory spirit and raising their glasses with one another. They thought they got him good, that he was on the lam, like a coward with his tail between his legs hiding from Roman's wrath, that they could have this one night for a break as they broke bread together.
If anything, they should've been more cautious but no one ever accused the people working for Roman of being smart.
"No going back now, is there?" he chuckled to himself, adrenaline giving him a high that made his muscles tighten in anticipation. "Now… just don't get shot this time." He didn't think he could explain away another gunshot wound away to Miriam if she noticed again. Assuming he didn't bleed out tonight.
He wondered what she was doing, how she was holding up since the last time he'd seen her; when she was curled up next to him, sound asleep. He'd stayed at her place only for five or six hours, sleeping for four of those, but he hadn't felt more rested in a long time. She'd woken up a little when he had kissed her head before he left, him murmuring about needing to go to work. He'd wanted to stay longer, indulge the idiot in him and—
He shook his head. He couldn't think about her here. Separating the personal from business was a fine line, something he crossed too often, but he couldn't do that this time. His mind needed to be clear; there couldn't be anything else dancing around and making him do something stupid again.
Standing on the edge of the roof he'd been perched on for the last hour, fixing his mask in place and testing the rappel rope for slack, he made sure it'd hold his weight. He had yet to try this move himself, but he'd seen it in action a couple of times, courtesy of the Bat. It wouldn't be long until Hood moved on to deal with him next.
Switching his radio again, he couldn't help but smile. "Go."
And karma's a bitch.
Red Hood stepped off the ledge of the roof, descending quickly as he aimed at the skylight below and fired twice, shattering the glass and killing one of the men beneath. Cutting the line when he got close, he landed feet first on the long wooden table, dropping immediately to kick one man in the teeth with his steel toed boot by the time they started reaching for their guns.
"Yebena mat'!" one of the Russian fucks shouted, and Red Hood started firing.
Time to dance.
Shooting one in the chest and tackling him, he spun as they fell, using the man as a shield and taking another out at the knees, getting the next in the throat. Putting a round in the man under him for good measure, he kicked at the legs of another charging him, every muscle in sync as he flowed like water through split rock, his blood singing and alive.
Violence made sense. There was order to pain—receiving and inflicting it. A way to bear it and push through. Nothing else mattered. Only where the next shot would come from, when to duck and when to cave someone's face in.
Getting them before they got you.
And Red Hood did what Jason Todd had been born to do. What he'd always been good at. The military had made sure of that.
His arm vibrated when he pistol-whipped one man in the face, bracing the next moment to drive his kris dagger into another grabbing him from behind, feeling it pierce the skin right between their ribs. Dodging left and rolling under a table to keep shooting, slugs landed in a bastard's shins and dropped him to the floor for Hood to get a headshot. He didn't see their faces, only felt their bone and cartilage give way under his fist, the recoil when he pulled the trigger, the bursts of blood dotting the skin of his arms when it painted the room red.
There'd been eleven by his count before he'd jumped, and now they were down to four.
It was almost like his days back in training, dodging and weaving, finding cover only to pop up and hit the target in as little time as possible, counting the rounds and reloading his magazine in fluid, practiced movements.
It was almost like the past and present intermingled, experiences layering until they became one, the smell of gunpowder as close to the smell of home he'd ever experienced.
It was after he shook his head that he found himself braced behind a door frame, bullets embedding themselves in the wood as the Russians returned fire, shouting to one another and moving in, and Red Hood reloaded his pistol.
"Ponyal yego!"
Ah, shit.
A man charged forward, rounding the corner and getting in a right hook to Hood's mask. He felt it crack, the metal and hard plastic cutting his skin, before he grabbed the man's arm and put it into a lock at the elbow. Dropping, he snapped the man's arm against his knee, putting a bullet in the bastard's brain, ending his shriek.
He was getting tired, but he wasn't finished yet.
Shooting blindly, he ran and dived back into the main bar room, the accompanying scream telling him he'd gotten at least one in the leg, and he rolled, keeping low to the ground until he got behind a fallen table.
Keep going, get this done.
Breathing hard, he couldn't tell if he was grinning or grimacing, the stench of piss and vodka overbearing even with most of his face covered. This whole thing was mad; painful, too, for how the stitches pulled at his side, his muscles protesting as the lactic acid built up, but it was thrilling.
Fucking hell, you're nuts.
Firing a bullet into the man he'd previously crippled, he left cover long enough to clip another one in the shoulder. When he pulled the trigger again and it jammed, he threw the gun at a man running at him. It was by no means light, hitting him in the mouth and disorienting him enough for Red Hood to clear the table and sink his dagger into the man's chest cavity.
'C'mon, Lazarus—harder, harder, harder!'
He forgot where he was again, everything just a series of movements as he put the last of Vasily's men down. One by one.
'No place for pussies here, soldier! Dig in, C'MON—'
Gritting his teeth, Red Hood hit harder, the studded knuckles built into his gloves digging in as they cracked against the man's face beneath him. Blood sprayed out, coating his fist and adding to the growing pool on the floor. He only stopped when another came up behind him, Red Hood whipping the back of his fist around to hit the man's ear, making him fall hard and slap his skull against the dirty tile.
He stilled when the room went quiet, the only sound his distorted breathing coming through the mask he'd need to either fix or completely replace. Leaning down, he wiped his bloody fists against one of the dead men's shirts, clicking his tongue as he stood in the carnage and his surge of vindication left him, leaving him feeling more hollow than before.
"I did say please," he grunted, shaking out his fists.
Oh, wait… no, I didn't.
No one was left to contradict him, and he caught his breath, flexing the feeling back into his fingers, turning off his brain like they'd taught him back in Basic. Staring after the dead wouldn't do anything; neither would remorse. He'd done what needed to be done; Red Hood knew that. He kept repeating that simple mantra in his head.
They got what was coming.
He found Vasily's body behind the bar counter, limbs splayed out and eyes staring at nothing. The man had dealt in human trafficking and prostitution, selling people for whatever sick shit popped into their damaged brains. He was the one responsible for that group of women and kids in that basement, waiting for the continuation of hell that Mask and this piece of shit had arranged. Mei Tzu, down in the East End—everything she'd worked for would be up in flames if Tommy did everything right—dealt heroin to teens, had kids as her peddlers.
These people deserved to die. The world didn't need them. There was nothing to feel bad about here. Nothing.
That's all he kept thinking when he was tackled to the ground.
Batman had been on patrol all night, the rain had started pouring after two in the morning, slipping between the gaps in his gear and making his skin clammy underneath.
His head had been swirling with conflicting thoughts, urges to go back to the Manor or to spend more time with Miriam, but he had worked hard to banish all of them, to concentrate. He'd had four more hours before the sun rose, and he'd intended to do as many circuits of the Narrows, Burnley, and the East End as he could. Things on the front of Bruce Wayne's life were better, but his time needed to be spent on Gotham, keeping it from falling to a place he couldn't save it from—from where he'd already let it sink. And he'd do it alone.
He'd been following a lead given to him by a dealer he'd encountered earlier that night, racing through the streets on his Pod. 'Burnley belongs to Hood—we never go there—they say he's got a safe house there,' he'd said as Batman had him against an alley wall, his gauntlet pressing on the man's throat.
And so that had been where he'd spent most of his night, monitoring from the rooftops, surveilling the groups he'd come across, waiting to hear the right words in his amplifier for a lead. He'd known that things wouldn't stay quiet for long. That Black Mask's increasing aggression wouldn't go unanswered, that Gordon was struggling to contain the threat alone and Hill had been setting him up to fail, that Red Hood would hit back, but Batman had never expected this.
Last time, Red Hood had set Batman up, caught him by surprise. But now Batman had been ready, even if he hadn't known exactly where to look, and he'd been three blocks away when the shooting had broken out.
Launching himself onto the rooftop of the building closest, a rundown fourplex, Batman raced against time. The body count of the gang war was already too high, there was no de-escalating now—only ending it—and Gordon couldn't handle this on his own. Batman needed to keep more from dying, to keep all of this from getting worse.
He would.
Blood pumping in his ears, Batman leapt and glided between buildings, approaching a bar he knew was run by what was left of the Kosov and Dimitrov families. The sound of gunfire and screaming grew louder, rapid bursts followed by repeated single shots suggesting a lone gunman against a group.
No time to hesitate.
The skylight was already broken, dark red liquid pooling under bodies laying on the floor. One man was standing, panting hard, hood dropped back with black hair slick with sweat. He had a pistol in his hand, gloved knuckles coated in blood.
Red Hood.
Batman jumped—launching off the table and springing forward, he tackled the man to the floor.
Hood's body had been borderline limp, but now it was like he'd come back to life. Two cracks of lightning strikes and blocks, an elbow clipped Batman in the jaw as his fist hit Hood in the solar plexus, grunts of effort escaping them as they grappled.
Fight harder—
Knocking each other back, Batman blocked a roundhouse kick aimed for his head only for Red Hood to bring up the other leg, hooking it around his neck and bringing them both down to the floor.
Need to be faster—
Rolling back and ready to strike, Red Hood was gone—standing four feet away with his dagger drawn.
"Ha! Always so fast, aren't you, Dark Knight?" he taunted, the deep distortion inflected with a pitch recognizable as human. Flipping his knife around until the tip was pointed down, fists raised after he pulled his hood back over his head, he covered what Batman thought was a streak of white at his widow's peak. "Past thought, past instinct, eh?" He laughed, rolling his neck as Batman braced himself, reaching for the string of cable attached to his belt. "Always acting—"
Batman rushed forward, Hood's knife driving down toward his shoulder and grazing it before Batman feigned left, the blade finding a spot between the plates of his armour. Grabbing a fallen pool cue, Batman swung and hit Hood in the chest, making him double over so he could land another blow on his back. Hooking a batarang wrapped with a cable around Hood's neck as he jumped behind him, Batman yanked, ready to immobilize him.
But Red Hood was quick—quicker than Batman had encountered even with members of the League of Shadows during his years of training.
Bringing his knife up, Hood cut the cable before Batman could cinch it tight, rolling back and righting himself, breathing hard. "Gonna have to do better than that, old man," he said, raising his arms and rolling his shoulders, ready for the next round.
"This ends. Tonight," Batman growled, the bottom of his boots sticky with blood. "Your days of murdering are done."
They circled one another, Red Hood flexing his hands and shaking out the blows Batman had landed. Batman glowered, his muscles tight and ready to burst. There wasn't much to see of his face but Red Hood was younger, he must be, and he was trained. The longer he watched, the more came together for Batman.
Military. Must be special ops for this skill level. But why is he here, operating in Gotham?
Hood laughed, sardonic and rueful. "Nah, I'm not a murderer. Killer, yeah—but I haven't killed anyone that didn't deserve it."
The distance between them shrunk, each waiting for the other to make the next move. Batman had always done best with the element of surprise, utilizing the dark. Here, fluorescent lights gave the bar a ghostly hue, all blue-tones and flickering bulbs.
"All because you wanna take the high road, huh? Who's the real killer—the one doing what needs to be done for the many, or the coward trying to keep his hands clean while the rest suffers?" He laughed again, almost throwing his head back as he switched hands to ready his dagger. "Gotham's evil. And you have to fight her where she lives. I live there. I'm doing what you won't. Becoming the you you're supposed to be. Working down the long list of sane acts you refuse to commit."
Batman almost stilled, his gaze intense as his mind whirred. He had to remind himself that this enemy was different than the others he'd fought before. He wasn't like Ra's with his plans for a purge, cleansing the city with fire to start again. He wasn't like the Joker, a devil who wanted to watch as the city ate herself, feed off the good of her people until there was nothing left. This man thought he was doing something legitimately good. That he was the next step beyond him. That this was working toward the conclusion his legacy was meant to be.
When did he go wrong, and how could Batman right the city's course? Had he missed this like so much else?
But Batman couldn't let himself believe that.
He wouldn't.
"No, you won't," Batman said, hardening his resolve as he stepped forward.
When the sound of sirens blared down the street, coming closer, Red Hood snarled, dropping his fists as he backed up toward the rear of the bar.
Back-up.
"You know what they say, don't you?" Red Hood said, bringing Batman's attention back to what was happening in the room. Hood's hand tapped on something by his ear through the hood. Batman approached, ready for Hood to attack again. "When life gives you lemons..."
Too late did Batman sense that something was wrong, that Hood's voice had changed, how his dagger was sheathed and he was inching away.
"You give life C4."
Batman had just enough time to throw himself backwards out of a window before a blast of heat and debris followed, the force throwing him back and smacking his head against the concrete sidewalk. By the time he rose, the bar was hollowed out, replaced with flame and burning bodies as the ground rumbled, shattering booms resounding throughout the East End.
And Batman had a feeling that Red Hood wouldn't be one of the bodies left behind.
I've established a bickering, banter-filled relationship between Brenda and Roman up until this point in this story, and I did that specifically. Men like Roman do have fragile egos and do not take well to being "embarrassed" in public. In a setting where it's clear he's in charge and the people there are being paid by him to do work for him, that invokes a different reaction than if the same thing happened in public, where his image is more impacted in his mind, then that infringes upon his already fragile sense of self. Sexual assault isn't about desire or attraction - it's about power. The same goes for using homophobic and racist insults and comments - it's a way for the people using those actions and languages to exert control over others, and Roman - and other men like him - are all about control and the power they think they're entitled to.
Here are the Russian translations for the phrases I use in the chapter:
Moye tvoye — what's mine is yours
Yebena mat' — holy shit
Ponyal yego — got him
The next chapter should be out on time, and remember that teaser from a couple weeks back? Chapter 16 will be called "We're All a Little Mad Here", and I hope you have an idea of where it's going... but I'm excited to share it with you all! Stay safe and thank you for your lovely words and reviews - especially JohnJoestar17 and Minstorai! I appreciate you guys so much, thank you for everything! 💖
