TW: Fleeting mention of an attempted sexual assault (attempt is thwarted), only the fourth paragraph after the three asterisks. Very brief. Also, a poor imitation of southern vernacular and slang from Eve (she's southern, I'm Australian, plz have mercy I tried).

The Challenge

'Raise your words, not your voice. It is rain that grows flowers, not thunder.'
Rumi

Thursday, January 21st
Some sketchy alleyway behind a casino, Gotham City

With a hearty 'oomph', Eve leapt down from the less-than-stable dumpster and admired her handiwork. Like the other cameras she had planted in the last three days, the device was technically set up on public property, meaning it was more than legal—though, she had a funny feeling that if the crime lords and criminals whose businesses she had set these cameras around found said cameras, then being potentially taken to court would likely be the least of her worries.

She had done it though; every mob boss had at least eight cameras monitoring their most profitable and covert businesses, as well as a couple of ones of intrigue. Eve quickly realised that crime lords seem to own or run a protection racket in a lot of business here in Gotham—bars, docks, safe houses, casinos, clubs, cafés, restaurants, hotels and everything in between.

After a day of cross-referencing police arrests and records of notorious locations with the eyewitness accounts and experiences of the homeless population Eve had acquainted herself with, it wasn't too difficult to narrow the field to a handful of businesses under each mob boss. She would have cameras at all of their businesses if she could, but the new cameras she bought on top of her old ones almost ate up her rent and grocery money for the month. If the southerner wanted to cover every mob-owned or racketed business in Gotham, she'd need to have pockets as deep as Rihanna's or Bruce Wayne's.

Eve shivered as the adrenaline spiked in her body. It was a tiny blip, but she revelled in it nonetheless. How far could she go? How much could she push and poke and prod at this until she wound up dead in an alley like Alexandra and Seán? I guess we'll have to push and poke and prod until we find out.

The investigator cast a glance at her watch and was taken aback by the late hour. Almost one-thirty in the morning—it's that late? She could hear Jim and Becca yelling at her now for skulking in dark alleyways in Gotham City past midnight.

I do not have a stabbing scheduled anytime soon, nor do I have any time to pencil one in quite frankly, she thought as closed her little pocket-sized toolkit and tucked it away in her trench coat pocket. She slipped out of the alleyway whilst the street was empty, admitting that it was very likely time to head home.

It didn't take her long to hail a cab. By the time Eve returned to her apartment it was nearing two o'clock and just starting to rain. She only got a little damp on the run between the taxi and lobby door, but she didn't feel it much, not with the fatigue yelling at her progressively louder and louder to go to bed.

Brain needs sleep, she chastised herself, rubbing at her eye as she unlocked her door and set foot inside.

It was after the click of the door closing that the detective felt it.

Soundlessly, she locked the deadbolt, the barrel bolt, and the chain lock. She refused to even budge towards the light switch, instead very slowly turning around.

The entire apartment was drowned in shadows, devouring the light that clawed in through the few windows at the back of the room, but Eve knew her apartment. Like a computer, her eyes analysed even the smallest of details and processed and stored them in her eidetic memory, her hyperthymesia recalling any fact and experience at any point in time. She knew every crack, crevasse, book, dust ball, splinter and corner down to the last millimetre. She knew how the air sat, swarmed and convulsed in every room. She knew where to step to avoid the creaks, and could make her breakfast blindfolded.

It's why she knew the moment she walked through that front door, that something was off.

Her shoulder blades pressed back against the door, eyes jumping about. Everything was overwhelmingly still—almost overwhelmingly still.

A wisp of movement. Barely a breath, bitter and brisk. A draft.

The investigator inspected the state of the windows at the back of the living room. Closed. Closed. Closed—

A pause.

Closed, but—

She squinted at the latch.

Unlocked.

A frown.

I had locked that.

'Evangeline Winter.'

Her lungs caved into her chest as the breath collapsed inside of her, trapped within. Eve fought down the sudden spike of adrenaline that kept yelling at her to move move move move—

She doesn't know how she didn't see him at first, but by then he was unmistakable. The shadows moved around him like the ocean around a shark. When he stepped into the little light crawling in from the window, it was as slow and foreboding as the dorsal fin emerging from the water.

He was a wall of darkness. The towering mass of a silhouette eclipsed the window's light. When he stopped moving, he entirely stopped moving. Eve couldn't even see him breathing.

The wisp of a draft disappeared. Even the air held its breath in his presence.

'This may shock you, but I happen to have a front door.' The words were clunky and hitched, getting caught in her throat on the way out, but once they started Eve couldn't stop. 'However, I can now see that I have apparently miscalculated. I overestimated the value of the locks on the front door when I clearly should have been focusing on the windows. I suppose the damage is done now, however, so…hm—'

Catching her verbal onslaught, she paused, composed, collected her thoughts. Stall and determine approach. 'Are you here for my tea or my lemon squares?'

It was nearly imperceptible, but Eve—hyperaware as she was—zeroed in on the minuscule movement. The fraction of a head tilt. She couldn't see his face but imagined his brows drawing together for a tick, a twitch.

'Lemon squares,' he repeated. It wasn't spoken as an answer, nor a question. It fell more into the realm of whatever his version of disbelief was (a classification Eve determined further into their relationship). However, hearing his voice for the first time sent the southerner into a slight tizzy—it was somehow smooth and gravelly, soothing and threatening. He was quiet, but his voice carried to every inch of the room, a talent Eve had only ever seen her brother possess. All too quickly, she found herself caught in it. A fly in molasses.

'Or my caramel slice,' Eve added after a beat. 'The GCPD Headquarters presently remain undecided about which they prefer, however, the criminal population in the holding cells have come to the conclusion it's the caramel slice. I have yet to expand the sample space into the vigilante population, though, so I assumed Jim informed you about such a grievance and—'

'This isn't a social call, Winter,' the vigilante pressed, the harder edge tearing down the very foundations of her voice. 'Gordon said you are working the Maroni case. He built up quite an image of you, defending your involvement. So far, I'm not convinced.'

The space between Eve's brows creased, lips forming a pout. The remnants of fear that dwelled in her bloodstream froze; not gone, but put in stasis whilst a boldness burned through. It's a trap—you know it's a trap. He's enticing the human instinct to contradict, to defend oneself. Despite knowing this, Eve couldn't quite help herself.

Hazel eyes squinted, sharpened. She couldn't see his face, not with his back to the light, but at that moment his silhouette was enough.

'Height, six-two. Weight, approximately two-hundred and ten pounds. You keep your weight on the balls of your feet and toes, obviously, as it allows for a lighter tread, greater mobility, and a quicker reaction time—however, your left foot is currently flat against the floor, suggesting a mild injury to your Achilles tendon; fresh, likely just occurred before you came here.'

The investigator stopped herself from veering into identity territory. It may provoke him. She didn't want to analyse the man. Analyse the legend.

'You prefer to employ the element of surprise upon meeting someone because it allows you a moment—the briefest of windows, a second—to gauge the nature and intentions of the person in their primal fight-or-flight state. Pair that with your intimidation tactics—like your proclivity to tap into the human fear of the unknown in the dark by lurking in the shadows—and you immediately determine how to approach and confront them in a way that optimises extracting the information you want from them.

'A very common approach is the one you just used on me; the contradiction approach. Human beings are naturally defensive, they require validation of their worth, importance, skill. You've already read everything I have here in the apartment, but that doesn't mean that's everything I know. You were betting on the fact that I would want to not only defend my image but Jim's word by saying that just now. Quite frankly, however, I know my worth. And you know the worth of Jim's word. So really, I don't see what I have to gain from responding to you right now unless you too feel like sharing everything you've accumulated about the Maroni case thus far. And if you are simply here to ask questions about me then I don't see why I should answer any unless you actually treat me with a modicum of respect, or in the very least with some manners.'

The silence that passed between them after the last syllable fell from Evangeline Winter's lips wasn't actually that long, perhaps only two seconds. However, two seconds of choking, stifling silence made Eve hyperaware of a million things about this situation—how she was alone, how he was more experienced with this than her, how the distance between them wasn't really all that much, and how she was goading the wall of muscle that voluntarily ventured out into the streets at night and pulverised criminals that could cut her up and bleed her out in seconds.

With her breath held, Eve waited for those two seconds to pass. When they did, he moved.

At first, he blended back into the dark, almost imperceptible to the human eye if it wasn't for the fact that Eve's eyes had begun to adjust to the lack of light by that point. Then, from the shadows he emerged again, this time keeping the windows to his right as he loomed closer to the investigator, barely five feet away.

The Batman was even more intimidating when you could see him; the city lights only stretched over half of his face. The harsh lines of his cowl and jaw were arresting, sharp. They cut through her concentration, back down to the fear. The bat symbol on his chest glared at her, a warning. Despite the fact Eve wanted nothing more than to level her gaze to his throat, where her height came to rest, she refused to break eye contact with him.

It was five seconds after she had spoken when finally, the Dark Knight opened his mouth.

'Height, five-seven. Weight, roughly one-hundred and thirty pounds. A small toolkit is in the right pocket of your coat—pair that with your recent bank transactions, and it isn't hard to tell that you've spent the entire night setting up your new cameras around town to spy on the criminals of interest in the case so far.'

He took a step closer, Eve tried to take a step back. Her shoulder blades pressed further into the door.

'According to Gordon, kindness comes naturally—and often—to you, but upon meeting someone for the first time, it's obvious to see how you use it and humour to gauge their nature. Human beings require different approaches; some prefer bluntness and coarseness, others gentleness and wit. You quickly ascertain which approach they require in response to the first minute of interaction through not only the content of their speech but its pattern and tone, as well as the person's posture and body language. Given enough time, you find a topic of intrigue or common ground through reading all of this as well as their attire and any other physical attributes.

'You used the first minute of our meeting just now to not only get a grip on your fear but to figure out how to best approach me. You quickly came to the conclusion—the right conclusion—that I do not like to have my time wasted, that observations made about my personal life are best kept out of bounds, and that the only way I'll let you continue is if you prove that you are useful to the investigation of this case.'

So that's what that feels like, hm, was all Eve thought when the Caped Crusader came to a stop, rather indifferent to the evaluation of her person. I mean, I've got nothing to hide, so really that was more exciting than anything. She did not, however, break their stare, even with what should have been a disarming analysation.

Neither detective moved after that, continuing to size each other up. The chill of the unheated apartment was exacerbated by the mild dampness of her clothes. At least, it was before the vigilante invaded her personal space. Now, she was surrounded by harsh edges and warmth. I wonder if that suit possesses a built-in heater?

Eve was also breathing him in by that point, and the longer they stared, the more time she had to notice and itemise his scents.

Gotham grime and pollution, sweat, crusted blood, winter sleet—sewer water? Her nose crinkled. Well, enough of that then. Someone clearly wants to get home and shower.

'Well, now that we're done measuring and comparing each other like a couple of school boys—and you've apparently read all I have thus far anyway—how about that cup of tea? Whilst you ask me whatever questions are stirring in that brooding mind of yours, of course.'

The vigilante's jaw moved a bit, not quite a grinding motion, but a tick nonetheless. Positive or negative? She wondered.

'No, thank you, but I will ask those questions.'

Positive. Perhaps a suppressed smile? A pause. And manners!

'Of course, detective,' the investigator consented, finally slipping out from between the wall of muscle and the door to head towards her kitchen. 'Please, ask away.'

The Dark Knight observed her move about the kitchen in silence for a while, and Eve rather felt like a suspect behind the interrogation room glass. Eventually, he came to a stand in front of the island counter, clenching and unclenching his fists a couple of times.

'You are personally invested in this case.'

A statement and a question. The southerner shrugged. 'I suppose I am, yes.'

'Why?'

Another shrug, this time with only one shoulder. Eve blew on her tea as she answered 'Well, essentially witnessing a few people shot to death in front of you may result in a modicum of personal entanglement on top of the potential lifetime of therapy—'

'Miss Winter.'

'—alas, misplaced sarcasm aside, I…' Her whole body paused. The steam from the mug wound through her gaze. 'It wasn't right.'

Under the cowl, she could almost picture the raised eyebrows. 'It wasn't right?'

The southerner waved a hand at him for the borderline sardonic tone. 'I mean—of course it wasn't right, but, one of my first coherent thoughts in the haze of the aftermath of it all was just the grim acquiescence of "Another day in Gotham".'

Eve had to physically place her tea mug down on the island counter between them. Her hands remained wrapped around it, but they pinched the ceramic while her eyes bore into the Dark Knight's. 'Another day in Gotham. Me, a non-native who has only been here three months witnessed the tragedy, the atrocity that was murder—the murder of nine people in total—and my own body and mind instantly resigned to the fact that violence and blood and death was just "Another day in Gotham". That isn't right.'

Releasing the mug, her hands spread across the counter instead and her stare arrested the vigilante across from her. 'And then I looked at everyone else. Not Alexandra and Seán, who have a name and face because they're "important", but all of the other nameless, faceless men in that alleyway and realised they weren't the first and certainly wouldn't be the last to die without a voice in this war. People, Dark Knight. I understand how it may be easy for their names and faces to blur and disappear into the background of their crimes but that doesn't erase the fact that these are people—people with earthly attachments; friends, families, jobs, passions, lives. And they—they and so many innocents—are dead and going to die. Maroni could see it. Alexandra and Seán could see it. But they didn't care.'

The ice blue of the Batman's stare felt invasive but not unkind, like Winter settling in her bones. Her second favourite season.

'But you do,' he finished for her.

Eve's hands found the mug again and she lifted it back up with certainty. 'I do.'

It was easier to look at him with furniture between them, the North Carolinian realised, and she could see him in full now that she had her back to the windows and his face to the city lights. It only occurred to her then that she could have turned some lights on but he seemed to find comfort in the dark, and for some reason or another, she didn't want to take that away from him.

Silence reigned again, but it didn't feel silent. She was conversing with him, telling him things about her, but not through words born from her mouth—it was the words that lay in her insightful gaze, her cradling smile, her resolute grip, and her open posture.

'You know they don't care for you,' is what the vigilante eventually settled on, breaking the verbal silence. 'The innocents and better people of Gotham may thank you, but they'll move on. Quickly. The only people that will remember you will be all of the wrong kinds of people. People stop paying attention to their heroes and saviours because they trust in the safety they provide, but people never stop paying attention to threats. The criminals of Gotham may not know it yet, but you are a threat. A cup of tea and a lemon square won't make them forget that once they begin to realise it.'

A small quirk twitched at the corner of Eve's mouth. 'You'd be surprised at how disarming southern charm and kindness can be in a city so deprived, Mr Knight. I learnt a lot from my parents growing up—not the kind of lessons they intended, mind you, but lessons nonetheless. Two questions, in particular, are ones that remind me of where my strength and skills lie, and outline where yours do too. So, I ask you Dark Knight: are you strong enough to stand up to the inhumane? Or humane enough to offer them kindness? From where I stand, you are the strong one in this instance—you stand up to them every day. All I can be at this point in time is the humane one. But, I suppose it does take a certain kind of strength to be kind to individuals in a city that has long since forgotten or does not believe in the practice, does it not?'

'Strength, or naiveté?' He asks. 'Your kindness would be extended as an agent of hope. You hope that these individuals could learn of kindness and humanity again. They can't. Arkham's doctors have tried, I have tried. You'll only get yourself hurt in the process.'

'Well now, I never insinuated that kindness was easy, did I?' The southerner clarified, allowing her face to stretch into a full-blown grin. 'It's easy to close and lock yourself up from the world and all of those convoluted emotions—hurt, betrayal, love, grief. Most avoid those feelings after experiencing them once because avoidance is easier than confrontation. I've had my hopes and heart broken many times before Dark Knight, but I'll get up and try again. That is much more difficult, and requires a lot more strength than I think you give it credit for.'

When he didn't immediately reply, Eve relished in the hope that perhaps she gave him some food for thought. She couldn't know—not fully, not with him, not with that impenetrable steel gaze and shadowed visage—but she hoped.

After a few moments, he nodded at her, and she recognised the act for what it was; a departure. It seems he has whatever he was looking for, she surmised. But she could still see that she had yet to—

'Convince me,' the Batman challenged. He had made his way over to the window and paused in front of the unlocked one, eclipsing the light again. 'And be careful, Miss Winter.'

'Only if you do, Mr Knight,' she promised in a hushed tone and spared him another gentle smile as he departed through the window.

Convince me.

Evangeline recalled every challenge he made of her thus far, every doubt, every clash in belief and ideology.

Convince me.

She knew it would take a lot of convincing for a man like him, a man whose standards and expectations couldn't afford to be lower than absolute perfection.

Convince me.

She always loved a good challenge.

Evangeline Winter's fingers grew sore under the labour of her knitting needles, but by that point, she was some way through her crochet scarf. The white yarn—soft, fuzzy, and pristine—trailed ten inches down her lap, the end patterned with three little lemons. It was that scarf, with those three little lemons, that had kept her from insanity the past couple of days.

The North Carolinian reviewed her cameras' footage. It was hours of watching and filtering. Several cameras, several locations. She was never one to sit entirely still through movies, always needing something to occupy her hands or mind. It's why Eve often took up Sudoku or crocheting through such things. Their novelty, however, was beginning to wear off.

Nothing but drug exchanges, general beatings, and homeless people and henchmen relieving their bladders in back alleyways, the investigator sighed, halting her crocheting and plonking the needles and scarf down on her desk.

One camera—which she had viewed live last night—had shown a couple of men attempting to assault a woman in an alleyway behind Two-Face's Apollo Casino, but before Eve could even pick up the phone to call 911, three members of the casino's security had thwarted the attempt and beat the two assaulters within an inch of their life. She honestly hadn't expected them to react so strongly to the inhumane act, even going so far as to care for the woman and bring her inside afterwards. From what Eve had witnessed so far, Gothamites possessed a tendency to look the other way when such acts were being committed. It was reassuring to know that not all of them looked the other way—but also disheartening to think about how astronomically low that bar was being set.

Besides that, and the drug deals, however, there was not much of import or interest. Even Jim had reported that the families had been quiet the past couple of days. Eve was beginning to grow anxious and stir-crazy in the face of it, hounded by the gravelly words that continued to challenge her in the back of her mind.

Convince me.

It's midday, the detective thought with a yawn. I should get some lunch out for once. Stave off my insanity for a moment longer.

It didn't take her long to collect her white coat and wander the Gotham streets in search of a café. For once it wasn't raining or snowing, though the snow still lay everywhere, shovelled to the side so cars could drive and people could walk.

The sequestered café of Rise & Grind called out to her from down the street as Eve turned the corner. It was the closest mob-run-or-protected business to her apartment that she knew of. It sat on the verge of O'Reilly's territory. Upon entering the establishment and sharing a somewhat innocuous conversation with the barista and cashier up front, she gleaned that Maroni had attempted to put up a protection racket of his own merely for the satisfaction to spite O'Reilly and encroach on his turf.

Eve sat with her honeyed camomile tea and buttered banana bread and stewed over the revelation. How had a café on the verge of Don O'Reilly's territory, and sought after by Don Maroni, end up under the protection of Two-Face?

Because it was, it had to be. Jim had it listed under businesses that Mr Dent's henchmen and higher-up accomplices had frequently been sighted at, and though it is unconfirmed and yet to be proven, Hell's Gate Waste Disposal and Legal Services is believed to be a legally owned and operated business under the mandate of Two-Face—and one of their offices was just down the street.

The investigator—though technically on her break—kept a sharp eye out for anyone befitting of a mob profile, chastising herself for not perusing the known operatives in Two-Face's organisation file before this. The closer it neared one o'clock, however, the more crowded and raucous the café grew, and the more distracted Eve became.

I wonder when I'll experience my first crime here in Gotham.

She paused, frowning down at the apple pie she was now picking at.

Rephrase; I wonder when I'll experience my first public crime here in Gotham. That really wasn't intended for my eyes. Perhaps I should just walk into a bank and see if that will do the trick? Public holidays apparently have an abysmal track record. Halloween for the Scarecrow, April Fool's for the Joker, just about every other holiday for someone called 'The Calendar Man' or 'The Holiday Killer'. Is that the same person? It's all a little unclear, but I believe it is. Villain names and gimmicks have a tendency to blur in this city—I know there's a Riddler, but there's also a Cluemaster, and both have near identical—

'Is this seat taken?'

Eve started with a jolt, nearly dropping her fork as it loudly clinked against the plate. She stared up at the man who had apparently entered her vision while she was otherwise occupied and blinked. 'Hm?'

Articulate, Evangeline.

A row of white teeth grinned back at her, stark in contrast against his equally flawless dark complexion. 'Apologies, ma'am. I was wondering if this seat was taken? My associates and I were looking for somewhere to sit, get out of the office for a while, but it appears to be quite crowded in here aside from this table, so…'

He trailed off, hopeful. Eve was too busy analysing him and his associates to notice.

Three gentlemen in immaculately kept suits—designer, expensive. The blonde Caucasian has a Jaeger-LeCoultre watch on his left wrist, while the elected spokesperson with flawless teeth is wearing—she subtly sniffed—Aqua di Giò, Giorgio Armani. There aren't any official businesses that make this kind of money near here.

She skimmed over their postures. Zeroed in on the third gentleman with the small, jagged scar cutting through his jawline. Shrapnel scar, defensive and alert posture, doesn't have his back to any of the entrances or exits in the building. Military training. Discharged veterans and former defensive forces individuals comprise approximately twenty-eight per cent of Gotham's criminal underworld—a negligent government with a lacking mental health and financial support system will do that. Suit fits well—all of theirs do—but not perfectly; a tactic often employed to conceal firearms. One—

The sound of a throat being cleared shattered Eve's thoughts.

Eve blinked up at the men again. Her mouth was indecisive in whether it wished to remain ajar or shut firmly closed. Eventually, she stammered 'Sorry—yes—I mean, no, it isn't taken. You may sit if you wish. Please.'

The three men chuckled. Eve managed a smile through a wince.

'Thank you, ma'am,' the initial spokesperson replied. A pointed steel arrowhead-shaped earring dangled from his left ear. He's well-spoken, but still employs accessible language, the investigator noted, his words prior finally registering. Well-mannered. Possesses the charisma and smile of a car salesman, as the saying goes. He does the talking a lot, quite likely.

'Are you new to the area?' He inquired, inviting her to a conversation in an amiable enough manner. 'I haven't seen you here before. This old place doesn't acquire many customers outside of its repertoire of regulars.'

Now that is a baited question if ever I heard one.

Eve, in gaining her composure back, turned to the left to pick up a napkin and disguised her fleeting glance at the cashier and barista with the act. They were watching—or trying to, without gaining suspicion. Hm.

'Yes, actually,' the detective answered, using the napkin to delicately clean her mouth. She allowed her often suppressed southern drawl to slowly weave it's way back into her tone. 'In fact, I'm new to Gotham as a whole. Only been here three months. It's takin' a little time to acclimatise, but I'm gettin' there.'

The blonde with the watch quirked a brow, a wry grin twitching at his lips. 'Thought I detected a southern accent. Whereabouts you from?'

With a nod and a 'thank you, ma'am' to the waitress that cleared her dishes after serving the gentlemen before her, the southerner propped her elbows on the table and rested her chin atop her folded hands, smiling at the blonde. 'North Carolina honey, born and raised. My mama would've just died if she saw my gapin' mouth and lack of manners just now. She's whiskey in a teacup that woman, always said that you'd catch more flies with honey than vinegar. So far nothin' in this city has scared me quite like her, but with the way things are in the streets right now, who knows. We'll have to see.'

Let's see if the impossibly conspicuous mob men will bite my bait, Eve thought as she dangled the topic of the crime war before them, veiling her bait a bit behind a conclusive 'I'm Evie, by the way.'

The PI stuck her hand out to the gentleman with the lovely smile and earring, to which he shook and responded in kind with 'Michael. It's lovely to meet you, Evie. And these anti-social blockheads are Rob—' he gestured to the blonde with the greased back hair '—and Jack,' he finished, gesturing to the brunet with the shrapnel scar.

Rob and Jack took immediate offence to Michael's segue to their introductions. Rob removed the toothpick from his mouth and used it to indignantly gesture about. 'Ey! I asked the lady a question, I ain't been a mute like this bozo over here.'

Jack, quieter and more reserved than his associates, didn't even spare Rob a glance upon him singling him out. Instead, he shared a small smile with Eve, one that felt as if he was sharing a secret with her. 'This is what happens, Miss Evie, when you decide to take your men out to lunch and instead of a 'thank you', you get called a blockhead, a mute, and a bozo. It appears that hard lines for positions and ranks in the workplace are there for a reason.'

More indignant cries and complaints came from Rob, Michael joining him that time, but Jack simply continued to share a smile with Eve, the North Carolinian enjoying a chuckle to herself. Jack pressed on over their complaints, the small grin slipping from his face as his thick eyebrows drew together. 'Ungrateful associates aside, you seem concerned about the city right now, Miss Evie. I wouldn't worry too much. It's another day in Gotham, it'll pass. Always does.'

Another day in Gotham.

'I can see how those that are familiar with this here town may not find a reason to be as concerned as I, but this city is still new to me. This… unrest in the streets is still new to me. And then there's havin' to worry 'bout this city's more colourful individuals. They all have a habit of bein' too big for their britches until one vigilante or another knocks them down a peg or two,' Eve replied. By mentioning the Gotham rogues at the end, she not only muddled the intent of her prodding a bit further but actually allowed for a conversation to be opened up about the rogues—one of which she surmised they worked for just down the street. Two birds, one stone.

Rob snorted and scratched at his peppered grey five o'clock shadow. 'Colourful individuals has to be the nicest possible way I've ever heard those fuckin' nutcases be referred to as. Can confirm—bein' in the private security business—they are fuckin' insane.'

Michael and Jack reacted at the same time. Michael chastised Rob for his language around 'a proper southern lady' and Jack evenly corrected him with 'Most are insane. Others are just clever. Some are a bit of both.'

'From what I've so far learnt of Gotham's colourful individuals, I'm more inclined to agree with the "clever" assumption,' the investigator admitted, regaining their attention. Not quite where I envisioned this going, but it doesn't hurt to see where this goes. 'Wouldn't go so far as to call them "nutcases".'

All three men looked at her as if she told them that the Joker was running for President.

'You're tellin' me you wouldn't call the Joker a nutcase?' Rob spluttered.

In gauging their reactions, Eve considered her word choice. Carefully. '…I think Gotham underestimates the sanity of the majority of the Rogues Gallery—Joker included—far too often. Lot of wagging tongues in this city; I heard he's diagnosed with a different mental illness just about every Sunday. Seems to me that he wants y'all to think him insane 'cause then you look at him like the porch light's on, but no one's home. He's runnin' circles round Gotham's best psychiatrists, vigilantes and boys in blue all tryin' to pinpoint what mental impairment is makin' him the way he is. What he is, is bored and clever. He clearly understands people better than he lets on and enjoys stirrin' the pot. I think he's manipulatin' and usin' all the implications that come with the label "insane".'

Now all three men were looking at her like she further announced that Batman was running for Vice President.

'That… is an interestin' theory,' Rob acquiesced. His tone was more level, eyes sharper, posture shifted into something more deliberate. He wasn't looking at her like she was some harmless southern sweetheart anymore, and simultaneously, she realised he wasn't quite as crude and unobservant as he would have her believe. Hm, it appears we have both been enjoying playing our parts. 'Seems to me you're pretty clued into the criminal goings-on for bein' so new to town, at least enough so to come to that conclusion.'

Jack may have proclaimed himself as the boss of the three, but it was becoming easier and easier to see that Rob was the brains—or at the very least the investigator. The PI was beginning to believe she was looking in a mirror.

Eve ensured that her posture was open and relaxed, and turned the ring on her middle finger as she nervously laughed 'Yes, well, an impendin' mob war will do that, unfortunately. Everyone—this Maroni character in particular—has got me all kinds of frazzled. Wasn't about to walk into this situation blind as a bat. Growin' up, I only saw this kind of criminal element in the pictures. Still can't decide if I believe it's happenin' or not.'

A huff escapes Michael's nose, something between a snort and a chuckle. 'Could always flip a coin—'

The words were quiet as if they were meant as a joke for himself, but they quickly met their end when Rob gave him a sharp elbow to the ribs. By then it was too late, and if anything, the reprimand only further solidified her speculation.

The investigator held back a grin. Two-Face men indeed.

'Look, Miss Evie,' Jack intervened, drawing her attention. He spared her a smile, and though he meant it to be gentle, it didn't quite reach his eyes. 'I would caution against bringing this topic up too often in public or with people you don't trust. There are a lot of individuals in this city who, for the right price or blackmail, will do just about anything for anyone. Not all of the players on the board are mentioned in the news and papers. But, as I said before, I wouldn't worry too much. Happens more often than not in Gotham, and that crowd usually keeps to themselves, so if you plan on indefinitely living here I wouldn't work your nerves up over it. You'll never catch a break if you do.'

There are a lot of individuals in this city who, for the right price or blackmail, will do just about anything for anyone. Not all of the players on the board are mentioned in the news and papers.

The words rang in her ears.

Not all of the players. The right price or blackmail.

His response to my first criminal name drop was for me to essentially consider other possibilities, particularly, it appears, the possibility that someone else is involved with Maroni—whether it's by payment or by blackmail. Or, perhaps he is trying to insinuate that someone is coercing or tricking Maroni behind the scenes?

She considered his other comments. That crowd usually keeps to themselves. Clearly, he meant for it to sound like he's referring to the mafia characters—but the words could also apply to the Rogues Gallery. But why would they involve themselves in this? Either way, in one response, Jack had given her more avenues of thought and investigation than her cameras had in two days.

The southerner, not wanting the pause following his response to become suspiciously long, ran a hand through the dark tangle atop her head. 'Yes, I s'pose you're right. Mama always had said I was too curious for my own good, and that I'm about as nervous as a cat in a room full of rockers. I appreciate havin' gentlemen like yourselves lookin' out for me. Been a bit of a mixed bag of people since I've moved here. Not everyone seems to want to share in my frankness and optimism.'

'It's not as sunny here in Gotham as it is in North Carolina, unfortunately.' Michael frowned apologetically, no longer nursing his ribs. Everything he said sounded and looked sincere, even to Eve. It was simultaneously reassuring and unnerving. 'You're a breath of fresh air ma'am, don't let Gotham drag you down.'

The words couldn't help but set off a bloom of warmth in the PI. Three men, three criminals, three faces that blend into the rest of the unknown masses under the mob bosses, rogues and crime lords. Criminal or not, they're still people, and if this conversation has proven anything, it's that they're more nuanced than anyone gives them credit for.

Yes, Eve was an optimist, but it was because she saw occurrences such as this more often than most realised—criminals or bad people doing or saying nice things in situations where it wouldn't benefit them whatsoever.

Gotham liked to pretend it was an irredeemable city filled with nefarious, irredeemable people, but that image was cracked. She wasn't naïve enough to believe Gotham or its criminals were redeemable or all capable of reform as a whole, but she was willing to challenge these people case by case and situation by situation. It was the small defiances, acts and preventions that made all the difference.

'Thank you, Michael,' Eve sincerely smiled, feeling fully at ease for the first time since they sat down. 'I really apprecia—'

'Don't you know I'm still standing better than I ever did,
Looking like a true survivor, feeling like a little kid—'

'—te it,' she slowly trailed off, immediately distracted by the phone ringing in her folded-up coat pocket. The chorus of Elton John's "I'm Still Standing" meant it could only be one person calling, but…

Why is he calling?

'Everything okay over there Miss Evie?'

The detective startled, glancing up from her phone to Jack's searching gaze. The shrapnel scars seemed harsher when his face was set so seriously.

'I—yes, sorry, yes,' she stammered and stared back down at the caller ID. The hairs on her arms stood up. Worst-case scenarios flashed before her eyes. Elton John continued to sing. 'I just… wasn't expecting a call from my brother.'

If she had looked up, she would've noticed the equally inquisitive, confused and wary glances of the gentlemen before her. Rob memorised the raw expression on her face—it was the first time since Michael first surprised her that she seemed to be in a world of her own, her once gentle disposition set on edge. He noted the waver in her accent. She wasn't lying, though, she was too caught off guard to be. His torso was tall, and he could see the screen sat down. It plainly read 'Nate'.

'Haven't talked in a while or something?' He poked, one finger tapping slowly on his coffee mug.

Eve's lips formed a line, still staring at the phone. 'Or something.'

The question was enough to shake her from her stupor, though. Sending the call to voicemail, the detective set $85 on the table and shot the men a practised smile. 'Sorry, gentlemen, but I should probably call him back. It was an absolute pleasure meetin' you, hopefully we'll run into each other here again sometime. Lunch is on me for the lovely conversation.'

Michael, Rob and Jack barely shared their goodbyes and appreciation before Eve had slipped her gloves and coat back on and was out the door. The winter air bit at her, but she hardly noticed as she tapped on her brother's contact and dialled the number.

And waited and walked.

And waited and walked.

And waited and—

'Eva. You didn't pick up the first time.'

She felt the tension collapse out of her body in one swift go. She even paused in her stride, as if to physically drop it on the sidewalk. If he was opening with that, then it clearly wasn't a life-threatening situation.

'Damn it, Nate,' Eve choked, regaining her breath. 'Phone calls without a text ahead of time? I was halfway to the grave. You're a menace to my sanity.'

'You lost that long ago,' Nate slowly replied, voice deep, low, monotonous and calm as always. However, Eve could hear the sliver of amusement that picked up his voice for a moment. He wasn't without a mischief streak; it was just sometimes difficult to tell when he was poking fun. 'Working?'

'I was,' the younger Winter replied. 'But it doesn't matter, I think I got what I needed. How's Europe? Work aside, of course.'

'Mm,' is his initial response, the hum more on the grim side of Nathaniel Winter's sound scale. 'Was nice. Found you something you'd like.'

'I sense a "but".'

'But Europol is catching up with me. I'm returning to America. Thought I'd let you know.'

Her brother's truncated answer shouldn't have been much of a shock to the private investigator, yet it nonetheless unsettled her. Nathaniel Winter, back in America? Eve knew her elder sibling would undoubtedly keep to himself, he was always more solitary than her, but the moment he finds out she's in Gotham, well…

'I suppose I should anticipate a few "surprise" visitations from you then?'

'Most likely.' He was so soft, so quiet, and yet so domineering and clear.

The detective caught sight of her apartment building at the end of the street, already envisioning the number of ways he would sneak in there that didn't involve the front door. He better time his visitations well, the last thing I need is a certain vigilante visiting and finding a wanted criminal in my apartment.

'Well, you know you're always welcome, Nate. Just, please try not to track mud into the living room—and keep Black off the couch. You still owe me for the last two.'

'I'll try. Love you.'

'Love you too.'

Click.

The silence of the ended call thrummed in her ears. It was only a matter of time before the other Winter would be on her doorstep.

Convince me.

She had to have the Dark Knight convinced and trusting her by then. If he wasn't an ally or friend by then, then she could very quickly find herself faced with an enemy.

Thanks for reading and that's all for now, bye! :) xxx

T.L