Reviews:
Scarletknight17: Sorry for not updating any sooner! But thank you :) I'm pretty excited for this part too, because whilst this chapter focuses more on crime, the next will bring back a lil' romance ;).
LoveroftheKiller: Thank you so much! This story is probably the one I have put the most thought and effort into, because the lore behind the Gotham criminals isn't always heavily delved into, and so many times (I'm excluding Suicide Squad) we always see a hero's origin story, but never heavily talk about the villains. Two Face, Riddler, Scarecrow and many other Gotham villains all have such interesting backstories and thought processes/personalities, and it's fun to actually explore that. And tbh, I also enjoy an unpredictable and dangerous man XD It's probably why I ended up choosing Two Face/Harvey Dent as one of the main characters of the story. Eve is a fantastically fun character to write as well, though a lot of work, so I'm glad that her intelligence is coming off as authentic! Thank you so much for the positive feedback :)
Chapter 2:
"Smile, because it confuses people. Smile, because it is easier than explaining what is killing you inside." ~ Joker
Evangeline Winter has long since pondered if she should even bother with the locks latched upon her front door, for despite the security company they were purchased from being fairly reputable and reliable, the repertoire of regulars that make a habit of flippantly trespassing upon her humble abode have persistently proven the futility of such security measures. This thought, along with numerous others born from the incident earlier that night, presently box one another in the ring within the private investigator's head, some thoughts – such as how she very nearly died – beating other more menial musings into the corner – a prime example would be the lock speculation.
The split in the left corner of her lip stings whenever she pulls her mouth too hard. But, she expostulates with herself, I could have come out of that altercation a lot more worse for wear should it not have been for Kevin and Dante – and, in turn, Two Face.
What a peculiar thing it is to feel indebted to a super criminal. Now Harvey Dent; Harvey Dent she could understand. Mr Dent's capacity for sympathy and differentiating right and wrong has endured all these years, the ex-DA exhibiting this capacity for mercy on scarce occasions. Harvey Dent, in simple terms, is the good cop. He represents the unblemished side of their coin. The side that could potentially result in clemency and absolution. The side where you just may not be harmed.
But Two Face? He, in the same simple terms, is the bad cop. The blemished side of the coin. The side where he is granted permission by chance and chance alone to do however as he pleases with you and your fate. The side where you shall certainly be harmed.
Eve has heard of the possessiveness of the egocentric crime lords in this city. Whether it's over land, money, businesses or women. But what wild fantasy or inexplicit act gave Two Face the absurd, nonsensical notion that she belonged to him?
The private investigator shares these thoughts with Edward Nygma as she tends to him and Dr Crane, only after listening to their own wild, eventful recount of their daring escape of Arkham Asylum. Apparently, it isn't the first time the two masterminds have joint forces to abscond the dreary, monotonous, life-leeching confines of the insane asylum, and likely won't be the last. Edward Nygma and Jonathan Crane are formidable on their own, but together, when they aren't taking cheap, eloquently worded shots at one another, they are a fiendish nightmare that plagues the city in an amalgamation of devilish technology and paralysing fear.
Edward has come to be someone she could nearly classify as a friend, and Evangeline doesn't have many of those. They will always hold a difference of opinion, always be at odds when it comes to the law and morality, but just like the Dark Knight allows the crimes of the notorious Catwoman to slip under his radar in turn for information within the criminal underworld, Eve has refrained from turning the enigmatic villain in, in which Edward has repaid her through updates of the present happenings amongst the super criminals. And amidst this partnership, they have even grown to enjoy the company of one another.
Jonathan Crane, however, would evidently rather be anywhere but in the private investigator's company.
"Roman Sionis is an impulsive mud monkey with a temper that has resulted in the fall of his own empire several times over," the Riddler loftily states, texting away on Eve's phone now that the North Carolinian has patched him up. Not even glimpsing up from the screen, he takes a tentative sip of the freshly brewed cup of coffee from where he homily stands in the kitchen, conversing with Eve who is finishing up with bandaging Dr Crane in the living room.
"It has mentally compromised the mobster and rendered him paranoid. If anyone so much as proves as the slightest threat against him, he exterminates them by breakfast the next morning. The only opposition still around that has withstood his heedless temperament is Dent, who, when he isn't arguing with himself, is deceptively sharp and intuitive. For Harvey – or should I say Two Face – to invest in your well-being and safety, is a power move against Sionis. Not only does it slight him, but now, you're indebted to them, whether you like it or not."
"It's Mr Dent's possessiveness that concerns me more than anything," Eve admits, deft fingers gingerly disinfecting the two cuts along Crane's left cheek. The Master of Fear does nothing but unblinkingly stare at the detective, icy, piercing eyes immensely dissatisfied at Edward's insistence of lying low in Evangeline Winter's apartment. What would Edward do if he were to stick the PI with his fear toxin, the ex-psychologist wonders?
Pretty faces always hide some form of hideousness within. For Jonathan Crane, he learnt that valuable lesson through Sherry Squires; his high school infatuation, the very girl that was dating his foremost childhood bully, Bo Griggs. Crane is not naive nor irrational enough to blame the entirety of female kind for the act of one pretentious teenager alone, but even after the Squires and Griggs incident, time and time again has the Master of Fear seen the heartlessness, vanity and higher-than-thou disposition of beautiful women, as well as men. Not an inkling of kindness was ever shed on him in his childhood, certainly not from his heretical, deranged, religious fanatic of great grandmother. And now? Now Edward Nygma expects him to blindly accept the graciously extended hand of a woman who is a perfect amalgamation of the pretty Sherry Squires and his Christian great grandmother Keeny. The fact that Miss Winter is acting so humane, sympathetic and perfect merely adds insult to injury.
Evangeline Winter is not perfect. Edward can fawn and dote over the private investigator as much as desires, but Jonathan Cranes knows. He knows Evangeline Winter is masking demons behind a disarming, charming smile and gentle, comforting words. She has to be. Oh, the revelry he will bask in once he strips off that mask. Fear is the master of the mind. Through fear – pure, unadulterated fear – all niceties, lies, and veneers become void, exposed as the perjuries they are. Fear is the truth serum of emotions, an intoxicant the brain becomes drunk off until the subject reveals all in their inebriated, magnificently horrified state. Screams, until their throat is raw. Tears, shed for all their wrongdoings. It is beautiful, what fear and guilt, when amalgamated as one, can draw from the tender, burning throat of a crying, pathetic subject. What guilt – what fear, lies deep in the bottom of Evangeline Winter's throat, festering, clawing like a deranged animal to break free from that perfect little smile? The Master of Fear has to repress his own smile at the speculation.
He will find out.
"And what of your brother?" Edward inquires of Winter, just as Dr Crane tunes himself back into the conversation at hand. One dark brow arches curiously upon the pale face of the fear-centric villain, glimpsing between the two other geniuses in the room. Ah, the brother. That may prove to be an... inconvenience. Jonathan does not fret, however. In fact...
That very brother may be the key.
Keys are capable of a vast array of things. Opening. Locking. Switching. Some open one door, others open many more. The private investigator may have utilised her brother as a key to lock up those niggling little secrets, but Crane – with the right words and touch – could in turn exploit the mercenary to unlock those indiscretions. That is, if Miss Winter proves to be more resilient and sagacious than the Master of Fear presumes her to be in his prodding of her first.
"He's doing work for Don Falcone last I knew," Eve answers, ginger fingertips oh so gently applying the butterfly closure to the apple of Crane's left cheek. Such a tender interaction, even with intensity of his icy gaze burning directly into her own warm, mellow stare. The doctors at Arkham do not exercise this level of consideration when patching him up after a failed encounter with the Dark Knight. Batman's self-restraint over cold-blooded murder may delude himself enough for the vigilante to believe that he is morally in the right, but the number of times Crane has found himself in the medical facility within Arkham Asylum, on the verge of greeting Death with his own cold hands, would speak otherwise. More bones broken than intact, a greater ratio of bruises splattered over his body than actual unblemished skin, profusely bleeding both internally and externally. Weeks, sometimes months, are spent in an Arkham Asylum hospital bed, the orderlies as caring and accommodating in their ministrations as the coarse Arkham correction officers. A likely result of the abundance of instances where either he or another Gotham rogue has broken free and maimed, traumatised or killed one of their own.
Kindness, in Arkham Asylum, is rather like light. The sun, even on the hottest, brightest days, does not touch a single dreary gargoyle, cell or office in the asylum. The patients that have been locked up in there for years do not remember the warmth of the star. There are days where even Jonathan begins to question his last memory of the sun. The same could be said for the last time genuine kindness was bestowed upon him.
He would almost believe in moments such as this, that Miss Winter, in her solicitous, compassionate care, is perhaps authentic in her humanity. But Jonathan Crane knows better. Humanity is imperfect, it always will be. He will strip her of her mask, but before he does, he will show her his own.
"You have been rather reticent Jonathan," the Riddler scrutinises Scarecrow, observing him observing Eve. Such silence does not bode well, Edward knows. "Any thoughts of your own that you wish to contribute?"
The Master of Fear has remained motionless for so long, even the air around him has settled. The only sign that he is in fact alive, is the rare blink and rise of his chest. Eyeing the North Carolinian as she packs away the last of the first aid kit, finally having finished tending to his wounds, Crane languidly takes his time answering, words sharply drawn out. "Not particularly, no. I possess no interest in Sionis or Dent. My own studies are far too imperative to involve myself or pay attention to power plays amongst scrambling mob men."
"Tsk tsk, telling lies John?" Ed shakes his head disapprovingly, the exchange piquing Eve's curiosity further. Slipping the first aid kit back into the cupboard above the kitchen counter, the raven haired woman leans closer to the emerald-clad villain, devouring every word, motion, tone and expression.
"After all," the Riddler continues, still toying with Eve's phone in hand, but now staring down the Scarecrow. "You only recently purchased several firearms off of Sionis. Perhaps all those chemicals and toxins are finally affecting your memory, my fear-obsessed confidant."
Eve's hazel eyes widen marginally larger. "Oswald Cobblepot is the only black market arms dealer in Gotham that deals with criminals in power. If Sionis is now covertly selling firearms, Mr Cobblepot will be none too pleased with the development. Does he know?"
The enigmatic villain snorts his amusement into the mug of coffee, leisurely sipping before responding to the PI. "Of course not. Not yet. Sionis only started dealing a little less than two weeks ago. Everyone is aware of Black Mask's position of power in Blüdhaven, Gotham's sister city. There he operates an empire vast enough to rival Carmine Falcone, and has regulated a successful illicit firearms syndicate for four years. In Gotham, however, he has struggled to maintain a foothold, between Cobblepot's higher quality stock and Dent's greater position of power, whilst simultaneously warding off the vigilante Nightwing in Blüdhaven and the Dark Knight here in Gotham. With the Maroni crime family out of the picture, there is less opposition, and more territory to claim. Dent will undoubtedly have his hands full in the upcoming months, as will Cobblepot."
Evangeline Winter ponders upon this. Unlike Sal Maroni, who Eve was capable of besting with enough incriminating evidence after severing all his resources, Roman Sionis' empire would be far more arduous to dismantle, for it stretches across two cities, and also involves an entire black market firearms syndicate. Eve knows when she is out of her depth; she doesn't possess the physical tenacity and prowess required to put a stop to Sionis, and if tonight was any indication, the criminal will not be leaving her be any time soon.
If the media was to learn of the precarious predicament involving Cobblepot, Sionis and Dent, therefore compelling the Dark Knight, the BPD and the GCPD to focus on Sionis as a result of societal pressure however...
"Dr Crane," Eve pipes up, addressing the felon on her lounge amidst walking towards the bedroom that breaks off from the kitchen, for this is precisely what the PI needs to distract her from the attempt on her life tonight. "Where precisely did you purchase these firearms from again?"
"Sionis operates a legal freight yard and dock ten minutes out of the city, between Blüdhaven and Gotham. It's registered under one his forged identities and an off shore bank account, as are numerous of locations purchased by any notorious criminal with half a brain," the ex-psychologist responds, loud enough for the PI to hear from her room, mildly amused at the newfound conviction in Miss Winter's eyes that surfaced the moment Edward mentioned his purchase from the brute of a mobster. She surely cannot be deliberating sending officers or federal agents after him. Roman Sionis is not Salvatore Maroni; he would ruthlessly gun down those officers and proceed to tear her in two before I get the chance to dissect those coveted secrets. Would be entertaining to watch her fall from that elevated pedestal, however. "Of course, there are armed men around every corner. Would be quite the shoot out if you unleashed your little GCPD dogs upon them. Not that the police would possess enough evidence for a warrant in the first place."
As the infamous Scarecrow disinterestedly replies and condescendingly offers his patronising opinion, Edward Nygma regards the PI analytically, fleetingly glancing away when she begins to get undressed, respecting her modesty. The enigmatic super criminal is familiar enough with the North Carolinian by this point to spy when the gears inside her head are grinding, a plan taking shape. When he glimpses at her next, Ed is unable to repress the eyebrow raise upon his face, taking in the newly attired private investigator; sports leggings as dark as coal with a single light stripe running down the outside of each leg; a black, strappy tank with a white sports bra peeking through; black and white Nike running shoes; and an ebony leather jacket. The striking contrast of the colourful, floral dress she was previously adorned in and the now dark, sharp demeanour is startling.
"I have no intentions on hiding behind any officers tonight," Eve evenly dishes out, expression as steady and composed as fine cut marble. "If I can obtain photographic evidence to leak to the media, enough scrutiny will be pinpointed on Sionis for Cobblepot, Dent, the Dark Knight, the Blüdhaven Police Department and the Gotham City Police Department to focus their ire and attention on brining him and his illicit syndicate to a stop."
Striding towards Edward purposefully, she expectantly holds her hand out to the Prince of Puzzles, the criminal in turn relinquishing the detective's phone. Neither Jonathan Crane nor Edward Nygma seem convinced by the attempted steely display, the former borderline bored whilst the latter could nearly be described as mildly concerned. Nearly.
"You weren't even competent enough to fend off three gunmen without the aid of Dent's men an hour prior," the Master of Fear disparages, critically surveying Edward's likely soon-to-be-deceased toy. "You intend to charge into a facility swarming with armed, merciless gangsters, with nothing but your wits? You are brining a camera to gunfight."
"Not quite." After pocketing her phone, Eve reaches behind her to the small of her back, withdrawing the .45 Winchester Magnum from its holster, as well as a taser strikelight and pointedly exhibiting the weapons to the two convicted felons. "I'm bringing a camera, a gun and taser-flashlight to a gunfight."
"I must discourage this detective," Edward finally chimes in his opinion, observing the PI holstering her small weapons. "Simple minded cretins they may be, but they are proficient in pointing a gun and shooting. You simply do not possess the stealth or prowess of Selina Kyle. You are walking into certain death. Have you considered, in the very least, contacting that buffoon of a brother of yours?"
Eve sighs at the mere thought of her over-protective brother joining her endeavours tonight, tongue absent-mindedly running over the fresh cut in her lip. "And allow him to completely derail my operation? No, as much as I care for Nate, I have no intention of engaging in anymore physical altercations tonight. The gun is a mere precaution. If I'm successful, I'll be in and out without Sionis so much as knowing I was even there."
"And if you're not successful?" The Riddler inquires, disregarded coffee now colder than ice.
The private investigator pauses at the front door leading into her business, assuringly smiling at Edward and Jonathan. "Then Mr Sionis will have to learn that an attempt on my life is hardly disheartening enough to scare Evangeline Winter into submission."
With Edward and Jonathan recuperating back in Eve's apartment, the North Carolinian finds herself, not an hour later, peering around the cool, worn left-side corner of a steel freight crate, calculating the safest possible route to manoeuvre around the two armed assailants stonily standing at the mouth of the dock warehouse. It took longer than she would have preferred trying to slip past the watchful eyes of Two Face's men – Kevin and Dante – stationed outside of her apartment complex, but she managed nonetheless, by the skin of her teeth. The taxi trip was short, and getting into the shipyard was simpler than estimated. Traipsing around it, however, has proven to be overly troublesome, even with Dr Crane's forewarning. Everywhere she turns; there are men, armed to the teeth in grade A weaponry. How she hasn't been discovered yet is beyond her, but with her adrenaline on an all time high, Evangeline Winter tries not to over think anything too much, lest she distract her mind to the point of a potential capture.
Deftly, Eve sneaks a quick photo of the two men standing at the entrance of the actual warehouse, the rusted, obscure fishing company sign wearily hanging above the towering opened doors, adding a particular post-apocalyptic feel to the place. All around the raven haired woman are stacks and stacks of the steel freight crates, towering and looming over her, some stacks as tall as the warehouse itself. Unfortunately, all are locked. Though highly life endangering, the likelihood of finding unlocked freight crates with weaponry in the heart of the dockyard – the warehouse – is too high for the detective to pass up.
Not often is it that Eve willingly puts herself in perilous predicaments such as this, but the attack on her life tonight – the haunting memory of staring dead down the barrel of that gun, hopeless, helpless, frozen in fear with a certainty of death if it wasn't for Kevin and Dante – struck something within the private investigator. When the Joker held a blade to her neck the night of the Winter Gala, Eve may have felt more terrified, but not hopeless. The Joker's taunting and threatening was a result of a build up, Eve watched as the altercation played out before her, swaying his interest whilst remaining wary with her words. But tonight? Tonight was a flash. A lightning strike. One second, she was peacefully ambling down the pavement, the next, she was immovably trapped in place in a desolate alleyway, a gun to her temple, her head a tizzy from a harsh slap. There was nothing she could do. Nothing. Evangeline Winter, felt absolutely hopeless.
Sionis has to be stopped. He has made it clear that Eve is on his hit list, and even with Two Face acting as her very own Guardian Devil watching over her, she doesn't feel safe. Not whilst Black Mask is still at large.
One of the guards wanders off momentarily, continuing his patrol. Eve wastes no time in twisting this to her advantage, stepping back and digging a loose penny out of her leather jacket pocket. Fondling the coin in hand, she pegs it at a freight crate across the yard; close enough for her to reach with her toss, but also near enough to the lone guard to hear once the impact of metal on metal rings in the warm night air.
Immediately, the guard moves to inspect the disturbance. Acting quickly, Eve bolts back to the other end of the crate she is hiding behind, tip-toe jogging around the crate tower anti-clockwise until she is standing right outside the warehouse gates. Warily peering around the crate from the other side now, the detective spies the guard still inspecting the noise, bending down to pick up her penny. With his back still turned to the immensely tall, opened warehouse entrance, Eve is light and agile in slinking into the warehouse, instantly creeping around more crates inside as a means of utilizing them as cover.
Patches of light are too few and in between now that she is inside, the bright, glowing moon no longer staring down upon her surroundings like a spotlight. Retrieving the taser strikelight from it's home beside her handgun, the PI cautiously turns the light on, facing the torch down at her feet to avoid alerting any potential guards within the vicinity.
The warehouse is like a maze. One wrong turn could mean a dead end – whether that is an end to a path, or a fatal run in with a guard. Eve chooses her paths wisely, so close to bumping into armed hostiles on more than one occasion. Her heart is so high in her throat; she can feel it thrumming all over her head, behind her eyes, in her ears, against her teeth. Adrenalin, whilst useful in repressing the full extent of a painful injury in the midst of confrontation, is loud and near blinding in instances of stealth and secrecy. When Eve stumbles upon an unlocked crate with the lights off and no criminals presently guarding it, she requires a moment to gather the strength necessary to suppress that very adrenaline before slipping inside the towering box.
Aiming the taser-flashlight around the lengthy shipping container, Evangeline almost drops the light in her alarmed stupor. This single container alone holds boxes upon boxes of cargo. Setting her sights on the closest one, Eve mindfully pries the military style gun crate open, shedding light upon the semi automatic rifles peacefully lying within. "Jesus Almighty..." the private investigator breathes, eyes widening tenfold as realisation dawns upon her. "This single shipping container alone is potentially holding twenty to thirty military grade firearms, and this entire freight yard is housing close to one hundred of these containers..." Try not to think about it too much Eve. "It's enough to build a small militia. Why does Sionis need this many guns?" Mm, definitely try not to think about it too much. At least, not now.
Snapping another few photos before slithering back out of the container again, Eve makes to round a corner when the near-undetectable tread of boots crawls into her ears, close enough that if she gasped, the guard would hear. Agile. Airy. Featherweight. Quick on his toes. He'll be on me in milliseconds; must think fast. Too close to run. Reflexes will likely be lightning fast if he's this deft on his toes. If I crouch and strike from below seconds before he steps into view, the initial shock of the attack from underneath will bestow enough time for me to tase him.
Out of time. Three... two... one—
Flipping the taser option on, Eve rolls out from her crouch nimble and smooth, arm with the taser striking out in a sharp upwards jab at the guard's abdomen. The entire manoeuvre is one fluid motion, one the North Carolinian would be proud of in any other instance. Except, in this particular instance, her adversary is quicker.
And a vigilante.
Startled as he is, the vigilante adroitly blocks the assault and swipes it to the side, trapping the attacking hand and nearly jamming it right into Eve's gut in retaliation. At the very last second he manages to hold off, registering the fact that she isn't, in fact, one of Sionis' men. Eve, in turn, also takes this time to analyse the vigilante, quietly hissing through her teeth at the awkward angle he is bending her wrist.
"Nightwing?" Eve lowly inquires in disbelief, crouched before Blüdhaven's standing defender, completely at his mercy.
"The one and only," Nightwing proudly whispers back, Eve's wrist still locked in his grip, recovering from his own initial shock of seeing this woman right here, right now. It doesn't take long for his own memory to snap into place, recognising the familiar face of the detective. "And you're that PI that took down Maroni a few months back. Everyone in Blüdhaven heard about that little stunt. Well, not little, definitely not little, in fact colour me impressed, I've been trying to dismantle crime syndicates that efficiently for years. Definitely didn't expect to see you running around here though. What did Roman Sionis do to get on your bad side?"
Releasing the wrist of Gotham's Guardian Angel, Eve takes the chance to rise to a stand, massaging the end of the offended appendage and fleetingly surveying the vigilante. Raven hair. Blue eyes. Six feet tall. Voice is deep, but not overtly so. Estimated age is late twenties. Toned, masculine physique. Not built like a brick wall, not like the Dark Knight. Leaner. Subconsciously perched on his on his toes. Dancer's poise. Reminiscent of a ballerina, or an acrobat. Physical dimensions and training match up with hypothesized identity. Mild level of sweat accumulated on corners of temple. Has already exerted himself, yet no alarms or warnings have been sounded. Has thus far evaded detection, same as I.
"Three of his men decided to pay me a visit tonight," Eve answers in a hushed tone. "Dragged me rather unceremoniously into an alleyway. Wasn't particularly enjoyable. The press will have to take a photo of my good side for a little while, unfortunately," the PI gestures pointedly at the cut in her lip, still attempting to calm her beating heart. "Only reason I am even alive right now is because, for some unfathomable reason, Two Face is invested in my well being. Two of his men saved me. The irony."
"Two Face? As in... Harvey Dent, notorious criminal mastermind, big bad mobster, scourge of the Gotham banking community. That Two Face?" The black and blue clad vigilante repeats incredulously, sceptical of the words exiting both our mouths.
Eve rather nonchalantly hums, a pinch of discontent woven into her tone. "Mm, yes. So as you can see – and pardon my language for this – Roman Sionis has effectively earned a position on, as my compatriot Rebecca Daniels would describe it, my 'shit list'."
"And what does walking into a heavily guarded freight yard with nothing but a taser accomplish?" Nightwing sincerely asks, his tone reminiscent of a scolding mother hen, despite Eve likely being a few years his senior. The detective is merely waiting for him to disapprovingly place his hands on his hips and address her with 'young lady'.
"Should the media become enlightened about Sionis' attempt at securing a foothold in Gotham once more – with a black market firearms syndicate no less – the news coverage and societal pressure will incite law enforcement and the Dark Knight to shift their focus onto him, not to mention that the other crime lords – particularly Dent and Cobblepot – will feel slighted by Mr Sionis' attempt at infringing on their revenue and territory. I have no intentions on starting another mob war, far from it, but if I can run Roman out of town until I can figure out a better plan of action, then my life expectancy may just extend by a few more years again," the private investigator softly discloses, huddling in closer to the crime fighter due to the low level of her voice. "Oh, and I didn't walk into a heavily guarded freight yard with just a taser. I have a gun as well, I'm not an amateur."
"Begging your pardon," the vigilante struggles to repress a grin, briefly throwing his hands up in the universal sign of surrender before sobering up again. "I'm guessing by your tenacity that telling you to turn around and go home is out of the question. You did well with Maroni, so I can get behind this for now, see how it plays out. But for future reference; don't walk into life endangering situations like this without the proper training. You may be a champion when it comes to a battle of wits, but words won't protect you from apathetic criminals with guns, vile intentions and no remorse."
Eve isn't so naive as to believe that she would last in a physical altercation with any of the cutthroat thugs that serve Black Mask. Not only are they sizeably built with a higher durability, stronger physique and plenty of criminal confrontations to match, but their moral compass is so ludicrously far off from the North Carolinian's own it's laughable. In her heart, Eve knows should it ever come down to it, she wouldn't be able to take a life; she simply does not possess the capacity to do so. It is not her right to decide the fate of an actual human life, whether that human life deserves to continue on living or not. It is not her place to decide that.
But these people? These people wouldn't care. Many aren't delusional. They fully comprehend humanity's ethical standards, social norms and the justice system's established judicial laws. They are merely missing or neglecting the very thing that Eve's brain filters through every time she is forming an opinion or determining a course of action;
Morality.
Not all criminals, including the seemingly apathetic ones, are wholeheartedly lacking empathy, though. Some do, some don't. If Eve has learnt anything from Bec's dialogues on psychology, it's that there are varying degrees of intensity when it comes to apathy, empathy and anti-social personality disorder. Anti-social personality disorder is what official clinicians generally use instead of the term psychopathy, for when one hears the term 'psychopath' or 'sociopath' or 'psychotic/psychosis' – all of which are different mental illnesses – there is immediately a negative stigma on the terms.
Sociopaths and psychopaths are not inherently evil. Not all are callous. Not all are manipulative. Most, in fact, are high functioning. Many prefer occupations that involve some degree of power, often found to be politicians, doctors, lawyers, judges, businessmen and women, and so on and so forth, but a person could go their entire life without realising that someone they know is a sociopath or psychopath. In fact, psychopathic traits exist, more or less, within everyone. The varying degrees of intensity in the distribution of these traits are obviously different for each person. As professor of psychology and neuroscience Kent Kiehl put it in his book 'The Psychopath Whisperer' "... most people have very low levels of the traits, some people have a bit more of the traits, and only a few people have high levels of the majority of the traits. It's the last group that scientists reserve for the diagnosis of psychopath."
The point is, that despite many of Gotham's prominent, infamous criminal masterminds and lackeys exhibiting particular traits that are associated/found in psychopathy – said traits that blur or eradicate the ethical obligations Eve experiences as an empathetic person – that doesn't necessarily mean they are entirely without reason or concern. They are not delusional. They are aware. They simply do not care, but some – those that exhibit less psychopathy than others –can care. Yes, they do not experience emotions as intensely as others do, but they still possess the capacity to do so.
It is that very capacity, that very possibility, of even the most apathetic, cold and uncaring of Gotham's criminals to feel remorse or consideration for anyone other than themselves that drives Eve to do what she does. Nightwing may be right, words may not protect her from apathetic criminals with guns, vile intentions and no remorse, but if these criminals can experience emotions such as anger, resentment and pride, then Eve holds hope that they are capable of other kinder emotions. Care. Sympathy. Society may have long since given up on them, but she will not. The raven haired woman is aware that yes, perhaps she is naive in this respect, for this puts her at a disadvantage, trying to bring out the best in people who commit horrid, unspeakable deeds and feel no apparent remorse for doing so. Evangeline Winter is aware she will very likely die trying to bring out the humanity in those who appear to have none, but that is who she is. That is her super power. Not her brain, not her detective skills, not her sharp tongue.
Empathy and hope.
It is a dismal world that she lives in, where people write off 'hope' as a cliché or an ignorant ambition. For people to hear, read or see a character in movies, TV shows, books and other stories that is motivated by hope, and instantly write them off as idealistic or boring. Because of this, when Eve expresses her own optimistic views about current global issues to those around her in real life, all she receives are pessimistic reality slaps in return.
The people of the real world have stopped believing in the possibility that good things can happen, even in the most unlikely of places and people. They romanticise and idolise fictional super heroes and redeemable villains, but when faced with real people, real heroes and villains, they cease to believe that they could be anything like those they adore in their stories. Pessimism and the inability to hope for the best affects everyone around them, conditioning the impressionable younger generations to grow up in a world with free will that no longer believes that stories could be anything more than they are; just stories. But every writer's masterpiece reflects a part of themselves, their beliefs, their experiences. All stories have an element of truth in them. Reality.
Stories are caricatures of the real world and real people. So why is it impossible to believe that there are real villains capable of being redeemed, or at least learning from their wrongdoings? Why is it unfathomable to presume that even the most apathetic of people can have a change of heart? Just because they don't take the chance to change, that doesn't mean they are incapable of doing so.
Humanity has been conditioned to see the world as black and white, but Evangeline Winter prefers to see the realities of the world bursting in all of its ambiguous colours.
Comfortingly smiling at the vigilante, Eve pushes aside her own internal musings, holding off on voicing her opinions of the masses of 'apathetic criminals'. In spite of it all, she physically wouldn't last against them, and does comprehend his point. "Will certainly take your warning into consideration next time, thank you."
The crime fighter exasperatedly shakes his head at the evasiveness of the investigator's response, yet finds himself unable to wholeheartedly guise his soft smile. It was that kind of tenacity and conviction that Dick himself held when he finally convinced Bruce to train him to fight crime and help people. With perseverance like that, it's no wonder than Miss Winter was able to take down Salvatore Maroni.
"Just stay behind me and out of sight," Nightwing evenly instructs, slipping back into his more guarded vigilante persona. "If any of Black Mask's men catch sight of you, they'll use you as leverage. Not that I need to tell you that..."
"Understood," Eve complies, attempting to contain her enthusiasm as she shoots a thumbs up his way.
Nightwing, as it turns out, is extraordinarily light on his feet. Whilst Eve cautiously creeps her way around freight crates, silently taking photos of notable illicit assets, the vigilante practically dances from crate to crate, poise absolutely immaculate, gliding around on the tips of his toes, shoes absorbing all contact with the ground to render his landings completely silent. One by one, Black Mask's men fall, never once following Gotham's unspoken, primary rule when under the potential threat of a vigilante visit.
Always look up.
At one point, as Nightwing completes a silent takedown of a thug supervising a cluster of weaponry crates marginally larger than the others found inside the shipping containers, the North Carolinian spies another patrolling mobster walk out from another container, back to her, about to round the corner and discover the vigilante breach. Thinking fast, Eve tip toe runs up behind the felon, closing the distance just as he lands his eyes on Nightwing and the incapacitated guard.
Gun snaps up at the same time Eve's taser snaps out. Before the convict even properly raises the gun at the hero, the taser strikelight finds its home sharply jabbed into his neck, Eve's free hand shooting out and around the waist of the thug to grab a hold of the firearm, lest he accidentally fire in the midst of his convulsions. The PI holds the taser in place for a few seconds, lifting the hefty semi automatic rifle away from the con as he progressively sinks to the floor. Finally releasing him, Eve pulls herself and the taser back from the concussed criminal, the thug now ungracefully collapsing into a jumbled heap on the cool, concrete floor. Gingerly, Eve lies the gun beside him, avoiding causing too much of a commotion with the entire endeavour.
When the detective glances up, she can't help but smile at Nightwing, who is proudly giving her his own thumbs with an escrima stick in each hand. Lightly jogging over to meet him as he drags the unconscious criminal out of sight, the two then proceed to survey the weaponry crates, the vigilante prying one open as Eve flashes her light on what lies inside.
"Dear God..." the private investigator breathes, heart skipping a beat upon identifying the RPGs and grenade launchers within.
"This is heavy duty fire power, and a lot of it. Roman has to be planning something; this is beginning to exceed your every day arms dealer level of weaponry," Nightwing whispers, peering at Eve as she sneaks a quick photo. "Journalists are going to have a field day with all these photos you're getting. Make sure you find the right one to give all of this evidence to, there are still many of them that are bought out by the mob."
"I have one in mind, don't worry," Eve tries to ease the crime fighter, gently beaming at him. "I'm more concerned about who is supplying Mr Sionis with—"
"Entire shipments of highly valuable explosives don't just go fuckin' missing!"
A hand finds its way firmly around Evangeline's waist, pulling her flush against the chest of Blüdhaven's protector. Milliseconds later, the detective has to stifle a small yelp of surprise at her abrupt flying lesson, Nightwing launching them both impressively high in the air with his grapnel launcher, expertly perching the two of them well above on the structural beams of the warehouse ceiling. Once making sure that the PI is well balanced on the beam, Nightwing sinks into a crouch whilst Eve warily seats herself with her legs dangling over the side, the two eventually shifting their focus to the source of the outburst.
Several men walk into view, but the leading man in charge rather evidently stands out amongst the tense lackeys. Garbed in an all black suit with an unbuttoned black dress shirt to match, a stark contrast against his impossibly pale, ghastly skin, Roman Sionis' second hand man Corbin Graves simply exudes the same unsettling, uneasy aura that Roman Sionis is said to possess himself.
Corbin "Gravedigger" Graves is a wall of a man, easily matching Nathaniel Winter and the Dark Knight in size and muscle. Infamous for being a master at torture and intimidation techniques, taught by Roman Sionis himself; the bald, sharp, ruthless criminal first became notorious for biting off a large portion of a police officer's ear in the midst of an interrogation. Eve briefly studied Graves when she educated herself on the top mob men in each crime family, ring and syndicate, and Corbin Graves instils pure, unequivocal nausea within her gut.
Opening the camera option on her phone yet again, the private investigator is quick to take a few photos of the scene playing out below, before swiping on to the video option and selecting record.
"T-The shipment was intercepted before it reached the docks Mr Graves sir," one lackey is man enough to answer, steeling himself before the much larger, imposing figure of Corbin Graves. "The ship itself was found this afternoon, emptied, with all the men shot dead, so it wasn't the Bat—"
"That Two Faced sonuva bitch Dent is the only one with balls big enough to steal an entire shipment of weaponry from the boss like that," Graves threateningly scowls, menacingly stalking close to the crates of RPGs and grenade launchers Eve and Nightwing were standing by seconds ago. "Somebody find out if that bastard is suddenly armed to the teeth with the boss' new toys. I want some fuckin' names before I report this shit to Mask, or you may as well walk up to Face himself and let him have his fun, because when I'm through with you, you'll be fuckin' wishing that Dent got his hands on you instead."
Three men scatter, trying their best to not make it seem like they're fleeing from the scene in a desperate attempt to escape the wrath of their second boss. At the same time, amongst the various grumblings and growling of an ireful Corbin, another flunkey arrives at the scene, as uneasy as the last bearers of bad news. Certainly not a good sign, Eve worries, phone zooming in on the exchange. Graves appears to think the same.
"You better be 'ere to tell me some good fuckin' news Rich," the cold mobster dangerously advises, tone disturbingly, hauntingly low.
The reluctant, loathsome pause before the response is all Nightwing, Eve and Corbin need to hear – or not hear, in this instance – to know that no, Rich is undeniably not here to inform Mr Graves of 'good news'. "We haven't heard back from the men sent after the PI, boss."
An eerie, tense, heart-dropping pause.
"And?"
"A-And we sent men to her apartment to find her just in case—"
"Did they?"
Another pause.
Eve's heart drops.
Edward. Dr Crane.
"Haven't heard back from them either."
Nightwing spares her a side glance, head tilted perplexedly. "You didn't mention they came to your apartment," he mumbles, blue gaze narrowed in on her curiously.
"I didn't know, I had already left to come here," Eve honestly whispers in return, remaining composed and thankful over the ambiguity of the hired muscle's recount. If he had known and spilled the metaphorical beans about Ed and Dr Crane... Eve doesn't know what she would've done, truth be told. Nightwing certainly wouldn't have taken kindly to that titbit of intelligence, and the less Sionis knows about her relations with other criminals, the better.
BANG.
Just like Alexandra Markovic and Sean O'Reilly four months prior, Eve witnesses yet another abrupt, unprompted murder. Corbin is entirely unmoved by the man's death at his hand, but very much affected by the displeasing relegation of information. Eve nearly drops her phone from the suddenness of the outburst.
"If that broad wasn't capable of pullin' the trigger on pussy boy Maroni three months ago, she sure as hell ain't capable of murderin' six of our guys," Corbin barks at the remaining men standing, an ice cold bite coating his tongue. "If it's that brother of hers, I want him dealt with. If it isn't, I wanna know what fucker she's got guardin' her back. Black Mask wants her gone, and either she's gone by the end of the night, or you worthless fuckers are!"
Only two men are left standing beside Graves by the time he has articulately expressed his discontent about the situation, the others having scampered off in attempt to dig up information on her. With just the three of them left now, Nightwing rises back to his full height, glancing pointedly at the PI. 'Stay here,' the vigilante mouths, expertly walking backwards on the beam with such practiced poise he simply has to have been an acrobat or trapeze artist at some point within his life.
Not like I'm going to jump 65 feet (20m) and into the range of an unhinged mobster who wants me dead, but sure, Eve rambles to herself, nodding in consent nonetheless.
With her phone still recording, it's merely moments later, as Corbin begins to suspiciously examine the disturbed lid of the crate Eve and Nightwing were inspecting, that said vigilante flies out from the shadows, cleanly kicking unconscious one of the armed underlings.
"It's Nightbrat!"
As if they were hiding in the shipping containers all along, several guards come swarming out of nowhere in no time at all, elevating Eve's concerns for Blüdhaven's crime fighter. The North Carolinian soon learns that her concerns are redundant, for the vigilante soars, vaults, somersaults and aggressively dances around the hired cons with such ease, she finds herself in awe. Additionally, the commentary is unanticipated, yet thoroughly humorous.
"Nefarious characters; check. Ill-gotten firearms; check. Distinct lack of brain cells; definitely check. Yeah, this is gonna be fun."
"You guys know fifty thousand volts to the head hurts, right?"
"I should shut my eyes, might even things up a little."
"Come on guys, put up a fight, please?"
"You don't stand a chance Nightwing!"
"Why so pessimistic?"
"We're gonna leave you in a pool of blood!"
"Oh no, and I just had my suit dry cleaned."
The sense of humour is a refreshing breath of air to Eve, adding a particular element of entertainment to the otherwise brutal altercation. The growing smile is cleanly wiped off the investigator's face, however, when she notices Graves reaching for an RPG inside one of the crates.
Quick, what to do?
Promptly finishing her recording and pocketing her phone, Evangeline glimpses at the chain precariously attached to and hanging off a support beam to her left, hastily predetermining a course of action.
No time to plan; just do.
Shakily rising to a stand, the detective reaches for the top of the chain wrapped around the beam, swiftly yet precariously walking backwards with balanced, hastened poise. Lifting more and more of the chain towards her, Eve eventually bestows herself with enough length and running start distance to propel herself into a swing. Which, is precisely what the private investigator does.
Staggering into a light jog, Eve quickly launches herself off the support beam and into the air, the chain promptly going taut from gravity and her weight pulling back down again. The North Carolinian's airborne body is falling and swinging faster than her poor heart, said organ high in her throat by now, blocking the screams attempting to tear their way out. Bad idea bad idea bad idea bad idea –
Her aim – which, is obviously directed at Roman Sionis' second hand man about to launch a rocket equipped with an explosive warhead at the black and blue clad crime fighter – is prominently off, so operating on the same adrenaline Eve propelled herself into the air with, Gotham's Guardian Angel bit by bit allows her hands to loosen around the chain, sending her closer and closer to the floor at a semi-controlled rate. With Graves' back to Eve, attentively aiming the RPG at Nightwing, he hardly even bestows himself enough time to discern and register the raven haired woman dropping from the sky, releasing the chain once she's close enough to the ground and utilizing the momentum built up in her swing to flow into a roll. The roll then in turn flows into a sprint, until Eve all but throws herself into the side of the RPG, the shock of the abrupt barrage loosening Graves' grip on the weapon enough that she knocks it clean out of his hands.
It only takes a few seconds for the mobster to identify his assailant, yet Eve twists those seconds to her advantage, projecting herself away from the towering wall of muscle. There isn't the foggiest chance that she could best the cutthroat crook in hand to hand combat, and as of now, the adrenaline thrumming in her veins is mingling with her chest pounding fear, threatening to overwhelm the detective. If she doesn't maintain a level head and her sharp wit, she will die tonight.
Corbin Graves' lips progressively curl into a smile as realisation gradually dawns on him, until the cold con bursts out laughing like the lottery's several million dollar jackpot was just relinquished unto his lap. Squaring his shoulders, the two determinedly stare each other down, Nightwing still handling numerous assailants in the background.
"And I thought tonight was only gonna get worse," the felon grins, teeth reminiscent of a great white shark. "Looks like things are beginning to look up."
"Which is ironic, considering the fact that if more of Gotham's deplorable mobsters and gang bangers actually looked up – just now being a prime example – then you could potentially avoid vigilantes and petite five foot seven women dropping down and handing you your proverbial posterior," Eve snarks back in such a poised manner, that one could not even properly label it as snark, but more along the lines of politely making a point.
Graves scathingly snorts, darkly amused. "So, takin' down Maroni has given you some balls huh? Easy to be a hero when you sit behind a desk, letting GCPD pigs, feds and fuckin' vigilantes knock your enemies down a peg or two."
Heavy, creeping, deliberate footsteps. Even with strained grunts and other aggrieved clamours sounding from the brawl beside them, the torturously, unhurried clack of pricy, aristocratic shoes as they meet the harsh concrete floor thrums in Eve's ears, like a hangover that demands your attention after a night of regrettable or questionable activities that were – at the present time – thought to be a good idea.
"You're like a bloodhound; a bitch who gets their kicks from the chase and the hunt, but not the kill itself. Almost a pity, really. Morals, emotions, religion, the law... so restricting," the deplorable Black Mask mobster deliberately circles the hyper aware PI, painstakingly slow, his cold, indifferent expression moulding into a semblance of hollow disappointment for a fleeting moment. Emphasis on the 'fleeting'. "Doesn't really matter now though. Any other time I would revel in dragging this out, enjoy a little foreplay..."
Click.
For the second time tonight, Evangeline Winter stumbles upon herself jarringly staring down the barrel of a gun.
"... but I'm in a pretty shitty mood and really would just rather kill you now."
Corbin Graves is too far for Eve to yet reach, and should she draw her own gun, the PI would fail to even take the safety off before she finds herself with – as Two Face would quote – 'a bullet between her pretty little eyes'. Like two burned out chunks of coal, his impossibly dark eyes hold no sympathy or true regret for the North Carolinian, just two empty shells, a bottomless void from which no humanity can be found.
And then, the gun goes off.
Several blurring events happen at once, and with the human brain's capacity to only truly focus on one thing at a time, the key figures of the altercation all fail to notice something. Corbin Graves fails to notice Nightwing's impeccably well aimed escrima stick throw, the electro-shock baton soaring sharply through the air in a small, twirling storm cloud of electricity. Evangeline Winter fails to notice a second assailant taking aim at her, too enraptured in evasively ducking Graves' incoming fire. Nightwing failed to notice Eve pickpocket the disruptor gadget from his belt when he grapnel boosted them up atop the support beams, and in turn, Graves failed to notice the detective activate the disruptor during their brief conversation. The only member who did not fail to notice something amidst this scattered chaos, is the unimportant, nameless thug that was previously taking aim at the female detective before perceiving the disrupting device.
Like a lapse in time, a brief interlude that stretches into an eternity, various actions and reactions take place in these few, ephemeral milliseconds. And then, in the time it would take to snap one's fingers; the fallout.
Corbin's gun jams from the disruptor. Nightwing's escrima stick knocks the firearm cleanly out of Graves' grasp, sharply electrifying him in the act. Eve promptly darts out of the line of fire as a precaution, towards a forklift. And the inconsequential, insignificant hired criminal that managed to evade the Blüdhaven vigilante's warpath, unlike his comrades, retrieves a jagged, weighted nearby pipe that another thug had discarded, taking a direct, merciless swing at the otherwise occupied Evangeline Winter's head.
The world around detective Winter does not fade gradually, or spin like it does in the movies. No, the reality of it is; one second, she is outsmarting the opponent holding her at gunpoint, and the next, nothing. No thoughts, no lingering pain, no dawning realisations.
Just, nothing.
A/N: I haven't really delved into much heavy action or Eve's sleuth-stealth yet, so this chapter was definitely quite different to all the other ones so far. I hope it all came off okay, because in my other stories I'm so used to writing a badass, kickass character who is more than capable of holding her own in a fight physically, but Eve has to really resort to her wits in one instead. Lemme know if you guys liked it or not! And if not, what I can maybe improve on.
Thanks for reading and that's all for now, bye! :) xxx
~ T.L