Gotham's Discontent
Chapter Fifteen: What's in a Name?
At the breakfast table, there were two things that caught Deedee's eye as she sat down well-rested and feeling invigorated from last night's outing; a peculiar expression of amusement flashed in her emerald eyes when she noticed a portly-sized man sitting across from her with a metal box over his head and the hatch that could show his face was locked by a padlock. Deedee cocked her head to the side. Of course, she didn't know who this man was. However, considering the overall silence of he, Deedee assumed that it was someone procured out of office due to his loosened tie, bound wrists over the arms of his chair and—Deedee curiously stuck her head under the table—yep, his feet were bound too.
Deedee reached for a fresh glass of orange juice, but was surprised to see the headlines of the Gotham Gazette, turned to page 2, folded as if either Galavan or Tabitha wanted her to see it for herself. A big smile broke:
Arkham Asylum Under Questioning for Released Inmate and Dead Officer:
Gotham City's inquiring minds would like to know why just 24 hours ago, Delilah Valeska—a nineteen-year-old circus performer nicknamed the Dancing Torch— "Dancing Torch, huh?" Deedee muttered to herself in approval—was recently released under the cover of night, supposedly with a certificate of sanity but with no press or witnesses to appeal the case against she and her brother, Jerome Valeska, in the death of mother, Lila Valeska. Another detail hidden from the community was that Delilah had murdered an officer of Arkham, Lawrence Greenburg; gruesome details are below. Just as she was released, the daughter of the passed officer has been discovered; Officer Laura Greenburg, 22, had been shot point-blank range in the head; although her body is yet to be found, officers found Officer Greenburg's head spiked on the fence in front of Arkham Asylum's closed gates.
While the GCPD are trying to contact the warden, Warden Carlson Grey, for further questioning, the police department are warning fellow Gothamites to stay on the alert for Delilah "Deedee" Valeska; she is suspected to be armed and dangerous. Her description is as follows: long red hair, green eyes, 5'1, thin. Delilah Valeska's profile describes her as having healed burned marks from her days as a circus performer; if you see her, contact the GCPD immediately.
Deedee squealed in delight, clapping her hands together.
"I see you've seen the morning news," said Galavan, stepping into the dining room. "Was it your idea to showcase Ms. Greenburg's head at Arkham?"
"Thought Jerome would appreciate the theatrics," said Deedee. "He does like an audience."
Galavan strode toward the dining room table, hovering over the newspaper to gaze down at the gruesome image of an open-mouthed Laura Greenburg's head staring into the camera, the bullet still lodged in-between her eyes.
"One would say it writes like a love letter," Galavan said approvingly. "I imagine that Jerome could probably see that lady's head from where his room is located?"
Deedee grinned widely.
"Please."
Deedee and Galavan, as if their conversation had been rudely interrupted by a phone call, turned their heads to face the unknown man locked in a box. Although Galavan didn't seem unfazed about the guest—Most definitely his plus one—Deedee tapped her fingers on the table thoughtfully until—
Galavan's brow raised curiously as Deedee quietly hopped onto the table, her bare feet carefully nimble without knocking over any drinking glasses, pitchers, or the centerpieces—A careful acrobat with precise movement—She grabbed the wooden ladle that set directly next to some breakfast sauce and held it over the lit candelabra. Kissed by the flame, Deedee held the burning ladle to the man in the locked box.
"Is he mine or yours?" asked Deedee playfully, though the light of the flames flashed a sinister blood lust in her eyes.
"As much as I would love to give him to you, my dear," said Galavan charmingly, "this man must be unharmed."
Deedee twirled the wooden ladle in her hand, wielding it like a baton, and steadied it close to the man's clothes, "Ah, his head's in a box, Theo; come on…"
"Put it down," said Galavan.
"Just a tiny flesh wound—it'll hurt for like two seconds, I should know—"
"Do as I say," said Galavan, "and put that down, Deedee."
Deedee frowned. She tossed the flaming ladle into a water pitcher disappointedly. It splashed and sizzled, completely extinguished, steam rolling off it. Deedee jumped off the table, put out, wearing a pouting look like a petulant child.
"No fun." Deedee muttered. Jerome wouldn't have stopped her.
"I don't like repeating myself," said Galavan, and he straightened his tie like a gentleman. "Next time when I tell you to do something, you do it. Understand?"
"Sure," Deedee breathed, clearly annoyed. "So, who is he then? Since he's so important."
Galavan gave her a look that a father would to a spoiled daughter acting out; Deedee strode around the table and plopped down into the wooden chair obediently, though glaring at the silent man opposite her as it had been his fault that she was bereft of what could have been a very good time to refresh on her circus routine.
The man in question made a small, sad whimper.
"Please," he said. "Let me go. I'll do anything."
Galavan turned to him, "I know. But I'd like you to know that I'm serious."
Deedee tapped her fingers impatiently on the table, growing bored.
"Deedee, sweetie," Galavan said, "This is Mayor James."
He waited for Deedee to react, but she was unfazed.
"Congratulations, Senator," she said sarcastically. "So, you kidnapped a politician. What?" Galavan gave her a reproachful look. "It's politics. Politics is a nasty business. And it's Gotham, Theo. Shit happens."
Galavan nodded. "Deedee, I'm a bit disappointed in you. I thought you would admire the fact that—"
"I'm not the visionary, Theo," said Deedee carelessly. "I don't give a fuck about—"
"—Now, Deedee, don't be rude—"
"—about some suit," she continued to speak over Galavan, pointing at Mayor James with a single finger. "So, he's a man you want gone? Lemme do it. I can take care of him for you, don't have to get your hands dirty—"
"Please, no—"
"Shut up!" Deedee snapped, slamming her hand on the table when Mayor James began to beg. The clean plates shuddered in response. "I'm talking."
A moment of silence passed. Galavan clicked his tongue. Yes, Jerome was the one whom he wanted for his schemes. Deedee Valeska was the bloodhound; fetch, and she was a heat-seeking missile under the orders of her psychotic brother. She had clearly felt the blood rush of murder, and as charming and playful as she was, Deedee was too impulsive to admire the grander of schemes that Galavan had in store for Gotham. The only reason why Deedee hadn't been the one to murder Lila was probably because Jerome had stopped her until the right time.
Galavan tongued the inside of his cheek, nodding to himself in silent understanding.
"Tabby." Galavan said, and Deedee turned to find Tabitha standing in the background, propped up against the Aphrodite statue in the middle of the dining room. "Would you please find something for Deedee to do? I believe she's getting a little restless. The grown-ups need to talk."
Deedee's lips curled, irritated. There it is. The condescension.
"Come on, pigeon," Tabitha offered a hand to her, a mild annoyance in her voice at her brother's treatment for the young guest. "Theo, she's nineteen with a taste of freedom. She doesn't want to be locked up in a cage; she wants to fly."
"So," said Galavan, gesturing for them to leave the room, "Let her out of her cage. Deedee's making a small name for herself in the Gotham Gazette." With an appreciative smile, he looked to Deedee: "So make sure your name is on the front page instead of the second, won't you?"