Chapter One: The Return to Gotham
Disclaimer: I don't own the rights to Gotham or any of the plots or characters. I have made my own subplots intertwine with Gotham's main plotlines so some scenes in the episodes will change. I don't profit from any of these, so please don't sue me: I haven't any money. Sylvia is my main OC; supporting OCs are characters I've created in my own mind. I've made up the origins for the DC Comic character, 'White Rabbit'. I don't own the canon DC Comics character themselves, but the origin and OC, Charleen, is my own. I've made up the origins for the DC Comic characters, 'The Kabuki Twins'; i don't own the canon DC Comics character themselves, but the origin and my OCs, Jack and Joel, are my own. And I don't own the DC Character, 'Lark', but I've made up the origins for her. Sylvia Gordon and her origin for becoming Lark are my own.
Author's Note: Now that the political and official stuff is out of the way: Hello, and welcome to my seventh installment! If you're just now joining me, I highly encourage and recommend you start with the first installment of this seven-sequel story called 'Penguin's Weakness'. If you've been with me since then, hello again! And welcome back! :P Kisses and hugs to many of you! For this chapter, there is a Trigger Warning: This chapter includes some non-con touching of a teenager (teenager is tricking people left and right) and it's briefly mentioned here. There's also drug-use in this chapter. That said: Enjoy 😊 Review if you like!
Nearest to the flea was an abandoned apartment complex, condemned for 'unhealthy' living prospects: broken windows, shattered roofing; the mold climbing up the wooden stairs and porch-like vines. The smell of dirty rainwater and wet dog was so acrid, it was as if they'd combined forces.
In a one-bedroom, one-bathroom apartment specifically on the second floor were two people who still took up residence here, despite the warning of possible asbestos.
Currently in the living room of this less than quaint apartment was a teenager whose black hair was cut short, wearing a navy long-sleeve shirt with the sleeves rolled up to the elbow, and a pair of ripped blue jeans. While his eyes were brown in mostly every situation, the sun beaming in through the windows highlighted their amber hues.
He sat on the couch—what was left of it after the moths had eaten through the cushions and the arms—and shoved his hand into a purse that he and his partner, Freddie, had managed to pinch off a married couple during their pleasant walk around town. Whether they'd noticed it had gone missing was not his problem, not now as he counted the cash found inside of it, which came to a total of $800.
Joseph laughed aloud, smacking the table happily.
He called out to his buddy in the restroom, "Hey, Freddie! That bitch must've worn the pants or something, because I think she had all the money in this purse, dude!"
"What?!"
"I said—"
"I heard you!"
"Then why did you say 'what'!"
The toilet flushed after a few tries and joining Joseph in the living room was Frederick.
"I just didn't think I heard you correctly," Freddie explained, running a hand through his tangled dark blonde hair. His gray eyes widened as he smiled impressively at the take: "Wow. You weren't shitting me after all."
"Right?" Joseph threw him the purse; as Freddie caught it, he glanced it over.
"What's this made of, do you think?" asked Freddie, turning the purse over and over in his hand as he distractedly watched Joseph split the cut evenly between them.
One pile was placed in front of him; the other pile of the money was placed in Freddie's direction.
"Fuck if I know, I'm not a girl." Joseph said embarrassingly.
"Lucas might buy it from us for—what do you think—a hundred bucks?"
"Nah, man, it's got that double 'G' on it, see?"
"So less than a hundred?"
"No, dude!"
"What the fuck do I know about 'G's and purses," said Freddie indignantly, throwing the named object down to the floor carelessly.
Joseph smirked at him saying, "The double 'G' there is a name brand sign; it's 'Gucci'. That's a luxury item—expensive shit."
'I thought you said you didn't know anything about purses."
"Just because I know it's Gucci doesn't mean I know what that shit is made of. Could be doll hair and your mom's pubes for all I know—either way, it's worth more than a hundred dollars, and we ain't selling it to Lucas for less than that." Joseph pointed to the table with a hint of finality: "Got it?"
"Hey," Freddie sighed, holding up his hands. "Whatever makes us richer."
"We'd just need someone who knows the price of Gucci to tell us what it's worth." Joseph said slyly, looking at his partner with a small smile.
Freddie peered up at him and he started shaking his head: "No, no, no—no way, man."
"She'd know!"
"She doesn't know that shit!"
"Your mom shops though—"
"—For groceries!" Freddie said incredulously. "She ain't walking around some museum, picking up Rembrandt, you piece of shit. If my parents could afford Gucci, I'd probably be back home trying to get in on that shit."
"Why aren't you?" said Joseph, placing the pile of his partner's money directly in front of him to signify that the counting had concluded.
"Because I like this," said Freddie smoothly, holding up his pile. "This ain't something that Mom and Mama exactly like seeing their baby boy coming home with."
Joseph started giggling.
"What the hell are you laughing about?"
"It's just that you call your Moms different names. 'Mom' and 'Mama'. How do you know which one is Dad?"
Freddie blinked once before he punched Joseph in the arm and said coolly, "You're such an idiot."
"Hey! That kind of hurt!"
"Well, you deserved it. Anyway, they're okay with me hanging out."
"Do they even know you're doing this kind of thing? Robbing little old ladies, doing deals out on the streets—I bet they'd shit their pants if they—"
"They know, they know." Freddie said halfheartedly, sitting back against the couch as he pocketed his share in his purple hoodie. "Mom ain't too happy, but Mama's been telling her to pipe down. As long as I come home every now and then with no gun shots or my head all fucked up, they seem alright with me being out here."
Freddie stood and casually walked towards the cardboard box that sat adjacent to the couch; he rifled through it before he smiled victoriously, taking out a small box that was no bigger than an ashtray; as he did, he strolled back, plopping down on the seat beside Joseph, who peered at him warily.
"Well, at least you wanna go home from time to time," Joseph muttered.
Freddie offered a sympathetic glance. He smiled suddenly: "Wanna…partake?" He opened the box, showing the dime bag of weed indicatively.
"Nah, man. You go 'head."
"More for me, I guess." Freddie pulled out a lighter from the back of his jeans along with the small papers in the box and started peppering the leaves in the center of one.
As he did, Joseph side-glanced him before saying, "You know, I wish my parents were more like yours."
"What, you wish your dad was a lesbian?" Freddie laughed quietly. "I'm sure he'd have a minor objection to that life, don't you think?"
"I'm saying, I wish they were more relaxed like yours."
"Yeah, I know what you mean."
"What is that supposed to mean?"
"It means that I've been to your house before, dude. Your parents are the poster parents for bible-thumping, over-zealous, over-religious—"
"—I get it—"
"—hard-headed, tight-assed—"
"—Dude, fuck off, man! You're pissing me off."
Freddie smirked at him, and said pointedly, "I get what you mean. Anyway, they should worry about you, right?"
"They do. But every time I come home, they're trying to pull me inside Church and it's so boring." Joseph groaned, leaning his head back against the couch with an agonizing drone of a four-year-old. "Always trying to show me the light, and all that bullshit."
"Heh." Freddie took the rolled-up piece of thin paper, licked the side until it was almost as thin as his thumb nail and lit one end. "After that whole thing with Miles, I'd have figured they'd keep you locked up at home or something, or in a convent."
"Convents are for women. Nuns."
"You know what I mean."
"They would, if they knew what happened to him." Joseph admitted, shivering at the thought as he glanced at the bathroom in which Freddie had only used minutes ago. "That shit still creeps me out."
Freddie said smoothly, "Miles got what he got coming to him, though. Treating Charleen like shit after all the money she earned for him. Hell hath no fury like a woman scorned. No shit."
"Miles was a prick, but he didn't deserve to be drowned in a fucking toilet, man."
"You saw how angry Lark was. All Miles did was make it worse. All he had to do was fess up, own his mistakes, and she might've let him live. He went and called Charleen a 'whore'—seemed like he was asking for it. And the way he treated Lark, like she was just a cutthroat, not respecting her reputation and all? Yeah. Miles was a prick. Miles did deserve to drown in a toilet. He might not have deserved that crappy funeral we gave him in that dirt grave and all, but… I mean, if the police got wind of it and found out we were here when it happened…well, it's not worth talking about now anyway."
Joseph side-glanced his partner before he said curiously, "Ever wish you could've helped him out?"
"Nah, man. Lark was pissed. There was no way I'd have tried helping him if given the second chance." Freddie sighed before he dragged on the joint, adding with a strain, "She would've killed us too."
"Who knows. Maybe she still might."
The boys startled, their eyes peering at the front door as soon as it opened. Standing in the doorway was Charleen, although she was dressed very differently than when they'd last seen her. Instead of wearing blue jeans like themselves, and a holster top that she'd taken to wearing when she'd been with Miles, Charleen's new outfit gave each boy a run for their money.
She wore a white strapless romper, exposing her legs, collar, and shoulders; the hem of the shorts fell barely above mid-thigh. Her tennis shoes were white as well, and they matched the rest of her as well as the white bunny ears she wore atop of her head. All contrasted very well with her dark auburn curls as she gazed at them wryly with both her blue and green eye.
"How's it hanging, fellas?" She said airily, stepping inside completely and closing the door with a click.
"What are you doing here?" asked Freddie easily—the weed was helping his nerves, evidently. "You're not here to settle some score, are you?"
"Weird that you say that." Charleen pulled a gun from behind her back, holding it up indicatively. "That's exactly what I was thinking of doing."
"Did Lark put you up to this? What is it: a trial by fire?" Joseph chuckled nervously, standing.
"Sit."
Joseph and Freddie glanced at each other curiously before they sat down, attempting to be cavalier about this whole situation. However, Charleen's strict use of her voice made it harder to be calm, especially as she waved the gun around to her own satisfaction at their obedience.
"And it was funny you mentioned her. Lark." Charleen said easily, smirking at them. She caught sight of the expensive purse that lied on the ground. "She and I have become pretty good friends over the past couple of months; she even looks at me like I'm her kid."
"You don't say," Joseph managed dryly.
"Yeah. I do say. And that means that at any point I feel threatened or like I might be in danger, I could just name your guys' names and then 'poof', all my problems," Charleen breathed, "are gone." She aimed her gun at them. "That means a couple of things. Her, being the mayor's wife: she's got the pull, the know-how; I could get a damn good lawyer if things got a bit messy. Her brother's in the GCPD, so hey, who knows—all this evidence that might be left behind after I fucked you all up could disappear in a minute's notice…not to mention she's got Penguin backing her up all the time."
"Are you threatening us?" Freddie asked.
"She is." Joseph agreed, glaring at him. "Concentrate, man."
"Like I said," Charleen said loudly, bringing their attention back to her. "I could waste you wastes of space right now. Just like she did with Miles. And all would be good in the 'hood if you ask me. Notice that Miles' death never even made it to the newspapers."
"That's because he had no one who cares about him—not even family," Joseph reminded. "All he had were us."
"And you never reported his death."
"Lark would have us killed." Freddie said warily. "It was an easy choice."
"So, if you wanted to waste us," Joseph pointed out, "Why haven't you done that already?"
Charleen lowered her gun: "Because I need you, guys."
Joseph and Freddie exchanged confused glances. Freddie spoke on behalf of them: "Why?"
"Because Lucas is running the Fences in Gotham," said Charleen pointedly. "He's taking 50% of the profits before the Fences are able to spend it and that's fucking with the Underworld's economy."
"Lucas has been running the Fences since Fish Mooney took over."
"No, numb nuts," Charleen corrected. "For a while, no one was. Because Lark allowed everyone to govern themselves. It was a 10% tax at the end of the month. 10% of the profits made by the end of the month went to Penguin—that was the deal. Whoever put Lucas in charge doesn't know that he's been changing the tax without her say-so."
Joseph said with a hysterical giggle, "Where the fuck have you been, Charlie?"
Charleen frowned at him: "Why're you laughing? This affects everyone, you know. The Narrows, the Docks, the—"
"How do you know all that?" Freddie said slowly, tilting his head. "How do you know the percentages and the stuff about the docks and all that?"
"Because I listen." Charleen pointed to her ear. "I've listened to Penguin and Lark talk when they don't think I've been listening. And I know what I'm talking about. Lucas is some 30-year-old has-been fucking convict: he ain't looking at prices or shit like that. And Lark wouldn't put him in charge, because—"
"—That's what I'm saying," Joseph interrupted, standing. "Lark ain't in charge anymore."
Charleen stared at him.
He guffawed, "Where have you been?"
"I left Gotham—had to square things away with a few friends, nothing big—why the fuck does it matter to you anyway?"
He gestured to the outside.
"Did you get a good look at the Flea? Did you see any of that when you decided to come inside and crash our party here?"
"I just thought some fucking kid played with one too many matches—"
"Fuck, I wish: Jerome's followers burnt it down, dude. Jerome's followers basically went fucking AWOL and destroyed half the city. Police finally got them down. That was, what—" (He glanced at Freddie as if this might help him tell time) "four weeks ago?"
"But that doesn't explain why a moron like Lucas got put in charge—'
"—God. Freddie, give me the newspaper."
Freddie blinked at him before holding up his hands in surrender: "I don't got it."
"You had it last!"
"I know the fuck I had it last!"
"Well, where'd you put it?"
"It's in the bathroom!"
"Ah, dude! Gross, man." Joseph gave Charleen the signal to 'wait here' and he left briefly before returning with the newspaper, shoving it in her face: "You see that?"
Charleen glanced down at the newspaper.
In the biggest font and size a newspaper could have on the front was 'Mayor Missing: Who's Running Gotham'. After it was a blurb about how the Mayor had been missing for the past three weeks, and his wife hadn't been available for comment. The Chief-of-Staff, Edward Nygma, had seemingly been the face of grief for the past couple of weeks, whilst Gotham endured some of the most interesting flair of crime it'd seen. The smartest intellectuals and geniuses (an array of librarians, writers, scientists, philosophers) had all been killed within the same time frame.
Charleen threw the paper down angrily, "What the fuck happened while I was gone! What's Lark been doing!"
"No one has seen her." Joseph said with a shrug, sitting down. "She's been as absent as the Mayor, evidently. Which, frankly, brings us back to the reason why Lucas is in charge of all the Fences: Barbara Kean is the new Queen of the Underworld."
Charleen leapt towards him, grabbing his face, and aiming the gun at his jaw as she said harshly, "TAKE THAT BACK!"
"Whoa, whoa!" Freddie said quickly, although it came out slurred as he tried to wrap his mind around how quickly Charleen had started threatening them again. "Take it easy, girl!"
"TAKE IT BACK NOW!" Charleen shouted; her fingernails dug into Joseph's jaw as she pressed the gun against his throat. "Barbara Kean isn't in charge! SAY IT!"
"He's right, Charlie—take it easy, girl—Charlie, hey!" Freddie held out his hand shakily. "He's right!"
Charleen frowned at the two of them: "She can't be! Lark is—"
"—Word is that she basically handed everything to Barbara! Willingly."
"Why!"
"I'd say it has to do something with Penguin going missing if I had to say. Everything's been going haywire, to be honest," Freddie said calmly as Charleen removed the gun and stepped back, glaring at the two. Now that his partner was in the clear, he added carefully, "All the gangs have been taking a piece of her territory—the Paddock people, they've got no territory since she left."
"What about her club?" asked Charleen, shaking her head. "She's still doing that, right?"
"Like I said," Freddie uttered. "No one has really seen Lark since the Penguin went missing. That's why people are looking at re-electing another mayor since she's either gone when business arises, or too zonked out on painkillers to deal with the mess—or I think she's on painkillers. Some of the times I've seen her, she's either staring in thought or just not even responding to anyone. You know her club got bought out by Barbara too? She basically has the deed now."
"Barbara Kean bought 'Lean on Vee's'?"
"Yep. Now she's got another person running it. Don't know who. Don't really care either. That's why Lucas is in charge—cuz of Barbara. And Barbara don't care that Lucas is taking all the money from the Fences; he's been taking all of it. How much does he give to her, though, is what I wanna know."
"Lark loves that club."
"Don't know why: it's just a night club."
"It was a wedding present," Charleen corrected snidely. "You don't just give a wedding gift away."
"Maybe she didn't want the gift to begin with?" Freddie suggested.
"Maybe they should've done a wedding registry," Joseph said callously, glaring at her for having put a gun in his face. "What does it matter?"
"She's not acting right."
"Well, like we said, it might have to do with the Penguin gone missing. Honestly, he's been 'missing' for so long, I think he might be dead and—" Freddie froze in mid-sentence when Charleen pointed the gun at him this time.
"Penguin ain't dead." She said dangerously. "He's 'missing'. That's what the newspaper says. He wouldn't just go missing and not come back. He'd come back for Lark. He'd come back for—"
"—You seem to know Penguin a lot these days," Joseph said slyly. "You and Penguin spent a lot of time together, huh? What else have you two been doing?"
"Ew, gross. I don't like him that way." Charleen said disgustedly. "Get your mind out of the fucking gutter. He's just nice."
"Penguin? Nice?" Freddie laughed. "Wow, I bet you've really been spending some time together if you think he's nice. Anytime I hear about him, he's either killing people or trying to get killed himself."
"I know," Joseph giggled. "He'd be trying to—"
"—SHUT UP!" She aimed the gun at the ceiling and shot two rounds off, silencing the boys instantly. Charleen spoke more steadily although she still glared at them: "Whatever the papers say, Penguin isn't dead. He can't be. As for Lark? Well, I'm gonna fix that."
"Fix what? She's out of the picture. That's the word on the street. Kean is in charge now, and Lucas—"
"—Lucas is shit. He don't understand that he's basically fucking with us and anyone who needs to depend on the Fences to survive. And he can kiss my pasty white ass for all I care. Anyway, I've gotta go fix this shit. Evidently. Seeing as no one else is going to do it."
"Actually, before you go," Joseph asked, holding out a finger, "could you tell us…like, why?" He gestured to her white rabbit ensemble.
Charleen shrugged, saying, "I went to a costume shop—it looked like it was raided, so I thought I'd pop in. Found some cash, some food, and I saw this, and I liked it. Easy. Why? Got something you wanna say?"
"Nooo…" Freddie and Joseph said in unison, shaking their heads.
"That's what I thought."
"So, about settling scores…?" said Joseph carefully. "You're not still upset about Miles and us and all that, are you?"
"Upset?" Charleen smirked. "Nah. Not right now, anyway. There is a way you could make it up to me if you don't wanna die or have me tell Lark that you two tried to make me sleep with you—or whatever lie I can come up with at the time."
"No to dying and no to…that," Freddie said uneasily, wincing at the thought of what Lark would do to them. "Tell us. What do you want?"
"You, two—tell me what Lucas does. Everything he does, and I wanna know what moves he makes."
"So, you want us to be, what, your spies or something?"
"I doubt you two are gonna be worthy of that kind of reputation, but sure. Spies. Let's use that for now."
"And what do we get in return?" asked Joseph. "Spying on Lucas ain't an easy job. He's a fucking convict—assault and battery, possession—you know, he's dangerous."
"Do this for me and when Lark gets back on top," Charleen simpered, "I'll be sure to have her pay you for all your efforts. How's that?"
"And if we get caught?" Joseph challenged.
"Then, I guess you'll die. So, you might want to try and not have Lucas find out you're spying on him for me."
She left the apartment. In turn, Joseph and Freddie glanced at each other with pensive stares before Freddie offered Joseph a drag of his joint. After little to no hesitation, Joseph decided to partake.
"She's a lot bossier than Miles," He noted although not unhappily.
"At least she didn't kill us. Count your blessings, my dude." Freddie sighed with a smile. "Count your blessings."
Finding Lucas wasn't hard. All it took was visiting a couple of bars, asking different bartenders about a felon who recently got out of Black Gate and if they knew where he stayed. Felons were dime-a-dozen; but finding the one who Barbara had placed in charge of running 30 different Fences in Gotham (to include the five that Charleen knew worked throughout the Flea) was the easiest.
Getting an invitation to speak to him was a little different.
Three blocks down from the Narrows was an alley. Not much to look at. If one happened to peer closely at a wall for a little too long, however, they'd find that there was a part of the building's wall that was much too finely painted in contrast to the brick and mortar.
Charleen stood in front of it.
She'd be searched for weapons before she even had a foot within the doorway. Thinking ahead and for the best, she placed the gun she carried in-hand behind a trashcan, peppering it with all the sticky candy wrappers she could find, and covering it with a lid in any case some homeless man decided to investigate. With one long deep exhale, she knocked on the 'wall'.
Five seconds later, it opened just barely as a gruff voice called, "Password?"
"I don't know any goddamn password." Charleen retorted tersely. "I need to talk to Lucas."
"No password, no entry." He started to close the door before she shoved her tennis shoe between the wall itself and the hidden door.
"It's kind of an emergency, buddy."
"No password, no entry."
"Come on!" Charleen encouraged. "I've got…" She smirked. "I've got something you can't refuse."
"What is it?"
"Open the door wider, and I'll show you."
"What is it, though? Tell me first."
"Trust me. It's uh…" Charleen whispered. "It's better if I just show you."
The door slowly opened. A large brute of a man with a large mustache and a golden glass eye peered back at her. When he got a glimpse of her rather immodest outfit, his eyebrows raised interestedly.
"Fifteen minutes with your boss." Charleen offered, holding up her hands. "And I'll give you whatever you like."
"How old are you?" He asked suspiciously.
"Eighteen."
"You don't look that old. You look younger."
"Yeah," Charleen exaggerated a girlish giggle. "I get that a lot. Thank you so much!"
"What's your business with Lucas? He ain't expecting anyone."
"He is expecting me, actually."
"Oh, yeah? What's your name?"
Charleen clicked her tongue expertly, "I don't like to deal with names, honestly. I'm uh…" She smartly gestured to her bunny ears that sat on her head. "They—my friends, anyway—they call me 'White Rabbit'. But you can call me 'Bunny', mister. If you like that more."
She polished her offer with a flirtatious wink in his direction.
"Hmmm…" The brute gave her a once-over, rubbing his mustache thoughtfully. "Bunny, huh? Well, little lady, I'm not one for—"
"—I bet a lot of women wanna be with you," Charleen interrupted seductively, slowly moving towards him. She gently caressed his naked bicep. "With all that muscle and your rugged good looks. I bet a woman could feel safe with you all…night…long."
Whatever his feelings about this before, his uncertainty vanished the moment her hands massaged his arm.
"Alright, alright," He nodded, taking her hand. "You can come in. I'll take you to Lucas, but after…"
"You got it, big guy."
He guided her through what appeared to be a night club with less extravagance as the Sirens club. It lacked its comforting, casual air that Lean on Vee's even possessed and while Charleen was no expert on class, by any means, she gathered that Lucas hadn't any. Card games—mostly poker—were being played at all round tables; strippers danced on poles, and the bartender was just as meaty-looking as the doorman. To Charleen, the music was just nails on a chalkboard.
The brute stopped at a curtain and thumbed in its direction.
"Lucas is back there." He instructed. "You go in, tell him your name, he'll welcome ya with open arms…if he's expecting you. If not…oh wait, that reminds me. I gotta search you."
"That's something you probably should've done at the door before you let me in," Charleen advised with a small smile.
He frowned: "You're telling me how to do my job?"
"Call it 'constructive feedback'."
"Yeah, well…We gotta do this. Arms up, feet: spread."
Charleen nibbled on her own tongue as she did as she was told. She inwardly cringed when his hands slipped a little too high above her thighs to graze his hands between them, 'checking' for weapons. Then he brushed his palms up her sides, moving them over her breasts, and patted her for 'weapons'.
"If you keep that up," Charleen teased (biting back the urge to vomit), "I'll consider this foreplay."
"Thought I'd give you a preview," He grinned, showing his teeth.
"Consider me titillated."
"What's that mean?"
Charleen suppressed the urge to roll her eyes: "Basically 'horny'."
"Aww…yes…tentalated."
"Yeah, yeah, close enough."
"Go on in." He fingered the curtain. "I'll be at the door when you come out."
"Sure thing, Boss." She winked. When he left to go back to his station, she rolled her eyes up to the ceiling. "Putz."
She opened the curtain, sliding inside.
Sitting at a large glass table was a bigger man than the doorman. A five o'clock shadow covered the lower half of his face, as well as his head. He sat alone—there was no one else in the room with him. He was easily a little over six feet tall, and his arms were the size of Charleen's two put together. He wore a black t-shirt, black sweats, and on his right bicep was a heavily inked black skull. Typical gangster.
When Lucas lifted his gaze to see who'd come inside the room, he sent her a hard smile.
"Who the fuck are you?"
"My name ain't important," Charleen answered nonchalantly. She pointed to herself, adding, "But for what's it worth, people call me the 'White Rabbit'."
It sounded good to her when she was making it up. She figured this was something she could stick to.
"My friends call me 'Bunny'."
"This ain't Halloween, little girl." Lucas snickered. "Not since I last checked my calendar."
"It's just something I like to wear."
"Huh. What you want?"
"Did Barbara Kean hire you?" Charleen questioned.
Lucas tilted his head slowly to the side and said curiously, "Now, that's an interesting question to ask. Most people seem to know the answer to that." He sat back in his chair. "What's it to you?"
"I wanted to know if she did."
"And if she did, what does that mean for you?"
"The Fences in Gotham have to give a split of their profits to you," Charleen continued without answering his question. "Right now, they say it's, like, 50%."
"Are you a reporter for the Gotham Gazette?" He laughed. "If I didn't know better, I'd say I'm getting interviewed."
"More like interrogated. Can you just answer the question?"
"Awful lot of disrespect for someone who claims to be such a timid creature. A rabbit, right." Lucas said, his voice ended on an incline, demonstrating disbelief and amusement. "How'd you get in, anyway?"
"Your staff are really horny." Charleen returned honestly.
"With that get-up, I bet you just slipped right in, didn't you?"
"You're taking the 50% of those profits and not giving them all to Barbara Kean." She declared. "You're only giving her some of them, aren't you? You're keeping the rest for yourself. I bet that's something Kean doesn't know about, isn't it?"
"Alright, I've heard enough." Lucas muttered. "Get out of my office. While you still can, little rabbit."
"It's the White Rabbit." Charleen emphasized irately. "And what you're doing is fucking with the economy, dude. Lark had everything—"
"—Ahhh." Lucas drawled, standing to his feet. He moved around the table and stepped towards her; hands clasped together. "That's it, isn't it? You came here on Lark's orders…?"
"Lark didn't order me to do shit."
"Didn't think so—considering how she's been out of the game for a little while. Last I heard, she was getting high in that mansion of hers, trying to douse her pain after finding out that Penguin died. You're her friend." He pointed to her. "Aren't you? You're her friend coming to speak on her behalf. Now and days, we try to cut out those friends—easier to deal with, seeing as she, herself, has been easily subdued."
"Well, you can't cut me out." Charleen sniffed.
"Oh yeah? Why not?" Lucas moved to a wall; sitting against it was a cabinet. From that cabinet, he pulled out a gun, pointing it at her. "Killing Lark's supporters has been easier than trying to convince them to join a gang that supports Barbara Kean. Most of them have taken sides—all except for…fuck…what're their names? Benson…those twins of hers…"
"You can't kill me."
"I can too. Right now, actually."
"Wait, wait!" Charleen held up her hands. "You can't because—because—Because I'm not her friend! I'm her daughter."
"Is that right?" said Lucas, impressed.
"You sound surprised."
"Well, everyone knows Lark and Penguin had a kid, but she died some time ago."
"I'm her adopted daughter, numb skull. And I'm fifteen," Charleen said smartly. "What's it gonna look like if a big convicted criminal like you guns down the teenager of a widow? I don't think anyone—not even Barbara Kean—will forgive that."
Lucas smirked: "You know, I don't think you're really Lark's kid—or anyone's for that matter. But I like your fight. And I like your spirit. And I don't know how you managed to get through all my guards without making a fuss, but however you did, I think that means a lot."
"Really?"
"Yeah, yeah. It's smart." He sat on the edge of his table, observing her. "But I'm guessing you didn't come here to talk about profits and shit. So, what's your angle, uh…Rabbit?"
Charleen held up her chin, saying proudly, "I came to speak, in part, on behalf of the Flea and the Narrows and anyone else who goes to the Fences to pawn shit off for money. If you're taking half their profits, they're not going to be buying what we find—they're going to try and keep what they have because they know they'll still owe you whatever it is they owe at the end of the month."
"You have a point."
"You only give Kean, what, 30% out of the 50 you demand? Lark only asked for 10% and she didn't keep any of it. Penguin got those profits."
"Mm-hmm."
"You're cheating your own people," Charleen stated factually, pointing at him.
"You sound like you might wanna run the biz yourself."
"I'm saying that you're running it a lot shittier than anyone else."
"Big words for such a small little girl."
"This small little girl is half your age, and she can run circles around you—where business is concerned," Charleen reminded curtly.
"Ah." He held up his hand. "How about this. You obviously disagree with my…managerial practices. And you're the first to bring it up to me. So how about this? We make a deal."
"A deal?"
"Yeah, yeah. You will walk out of here, alive. You will go back to whatever hovel you just crawled out, alive. You will go back to doing whatever it was before you decided to waste my time and more importantly, you'll go back to doing that…alive. Meanwhile, I'll do what I want, when I want without anyone's permission but my own."
Charleen said snidely, "You still need Kean's permission. You're operating under her roof. You're operating on her demand. If Lark knew what you were doing—"
"—Lark was a has-been. And you're getting on my nerves. Now get the hell out. Before I make you leave. I don't hurt little girls, but—"
Charleen stormed ahead, ready to strike him the moment he insulted Lark in front of her. She was so close to tearing his eyes out of his skull before he clenched his fingers into a fist and then threw one punch; she collapsed onto her back, holding her jaw. She'd be lying if she said it didn't hurt.
Even with the blood trickling down her lip and from under her nose, she let out a hateful growl, trying for him again. She kicked his shins, scratched his arms, but Lucas—being bigger and vastly stronger—took her arm and pulled it behind her.
She heard the bone crack before she felt it; the moment she did, Charleen screamed and fell onto her knees.
"You're really trying my patience, you little bitch!" Lucas growled. "You want more pain! You want more? Come for me again. Do it. Do it!"
"Fuck…you…" Charleen whimpered, holding her shoulder. "You fucking dislocated my arm, you fucking prick! And—fuck, you broke my nose!"
"GUARDS!"
He called in the troops; three men came in, got her by the arms and legs and then in less than two minutes, they threw her in the alley. She landed on her stomach, and she crawled towards the trashcan just in time before the doorman greedily grinned at her. She reached behind it.
He took two steps before she aimed her gun at his head, cocking back the hammer.
"Don't come near me, you fucking pervert, or I'll fucking shoot you now." Charleen said shakily.
He held up a hand before he waved her away, dismissing her bluff; however, he didn't dare challenge it. He simply moved behind the door, and it closed.
Charleen pulled herself up, getting to her feet. She touched her face, then her shoulder, wincing all the while.
Lucas was smart, evidently. He was strong. There was no way she could fight him on her own.
But Lark…
With her authority, her power, her skill—Charleen knew Lark could intimidate him without even trying.
She slunk towards the street, rubbing her shoulder even as it throbbed mercilessly. She stowed the gun inside the front of her romper, pushing it inside her white sports bra. As soon as it was hidden as well it could be in her clothes, she waved down a taxi, getting inside.
"Where to?" The driver inquired.
"Do you know where the Van Dahl Mansion is?" She asked painfully.
"Yeah, sure do."
"Take me there."
"Will do. Sit tight, Miss." He nodded and glanced at her in concern. "Are you okay?"
"Just…god…" Charleen winced, holding her nose. "Just drive, please."
"Of course. Uh, if you need some bottled water, I've got a whole stash of them under that seat of yours. If you look under." He gestured willfully behind him.
Charleen glanced where he directed her, and she smiled gratefully. A 12-pack of bottled water was, indeed, hidden away underneath the passenger seat.
"Thank you." She said politely.
"Anytime. We should be there in about an hour, or two, give or take."
"Thanks again."
"Anytime." The driver smiled kindly. "You can rest up back there. I'll let you know when we arrive."
"Cool, thanks. I might do that." She lied down in the backseat.
Her nose was swelling. Her shoulder and arm hurt something awful. For the next couple of hours, sleep seemed all too much like a blessing, but she wasn't going to look a gift horse in the mouth. She closed her eyes and thought of Lark and Penguin.
Of Sylvia, when she had taken her in, took care of Miles, and just welcomed her with open arms even after the way Charleen had treated her. She thought Sylvia had been trying to get rid of Isaac and take his place at the Head of the table, when really, she might've been one of Isaac's closest friends. She may have had her moments, but Sylvia's dedication to being protective no less stopped with her. Charleen imagined what Lark would do when she arrived at the mansion, injured and bloodied, and that made her smile.
Of Oswald, Charleen remembered their time together. The movies they watched, the time where she told him about her parents and the accident that had taken their lives. No one had been more understanding of her past.
With these memories intact, Charleen closed her eyes. It made it easier to sleep, remembering these things about them. She wasn't their daughter, but she'd be lying to say she didn't think of them as her own parents. For such a short time, they'd given her a lifetime of acceptance and fond memories than no one else ever had.
