Our story begins in a basic studio apartment.
It was roomy, as far as studio's go. The resident had sectioned off a small space at the very back with a bookshelf and some gauzy, white curtains for her bed. Directly off to the right of that was the bathroom, small as it was. Her kitchen was to the right as soon as you walked in, and to the left she'd created a small living area, complete with an old couch she'd found at thrift store and deep cleaned herself before even bringing it up to her apartment. It didn't look too bad, seeing as she'd purposefully gotten a black one to make sure stains weren't too evident to whoever was visiting. A TV, actually quite sizeable given how long she'd saved up for it, sat on a simple stand that was loaded with DVD's underneath.
The apartment had some comforting touches. A fluffy white rug, lights strung around the whole studio despite the large one right in the center. Just above the bed, multiple photo's were tacked up, depicting our resident with multiple different people, landscapes of a country she no longer lived in but desperately missed, all smiles and joy. The kitchen was filled with mismatched plates, pots, pans, and cutlery, nothing ever in a complete set.
The apartment was peaceful, and aside from the soft sound of the shower running and music coming from a stereo in the corner, not much was happening at seven at night, the sun outside having already gone down.
But that was when our resident's story officially begun.
The dark-haired girl flung her bathroom door open, cursing quietly in Spanish as she slipped into the cold air. Goosebumps rose along her arms and legs as she left the warm, steamy bathroom and crossed over to her dresser, yanking it open to grab her undergarments. Her 'uniform' was already laid out on her bed, shoes lying haphazardly by her door. She spied the alarm clock, perched on the nightstand that sat just next to her bed, and swore again, this time in English.
She stumbled back into the bathroom, throwing on her traditional makeup and moving to throw her damp hair into a high ponytail. She didn't have time to straighten it, so she rushed to run some product through her hair that would (hopefully) make it look less 'I-definitely-didn't-have-time-to-do-my-hair' and more 'effortless-messy-waves'.
Once she was finished throwing on her mascara, (and successfully poking herself in the eye once or twice) she rushed out to slather lotion onto her dark skin and snatched up her 'uniform'. If the girl was being honest, she wouldn't call it that. Mikey told her when she first started working there that it only had certain requirements. 1. The top had to be dark red 2. No slacks 3. No slogans or logos 4. Shoes had to be black and finally 5. If you were female, it had to be at least a little sexy and you had to wear heels.
Now, our resident didn't mind heels; she enjoyed the feminine things in life. But running around, delivering drinks, dodging inebriated patrons groping hands and going up and down the club's stairs in her four-inch heels wasn't exactly what she would call 'productive', and it definitely wasn't comfortable.
Once her usual quarter-sleeve red blouse was on and some faded, a little-too-tight jeans were now resting in place, she surveyed her skin, already noting what she would need to cover.
To the untrained eye, they looked like tattoos. Very random, but tasteful, and all black, gray, or both. No colors.
But our main character knew differently.
The twelve marks on her skin had been there since the day she was born; a sure sign the people they represented were all older than her; by how much, she couldn't be sure. Grabbing the tube of waterproof, body mark concealer she'd first started using not too long ago, she went from top to bottom.
First, a black question mark on the back of her neck. Since she kept her hair long, it was usually easy to hide, but her hair had to be up for work. Next, a yin-yang symbol on her chest, just above her left breast. Then, a poker game's Royal Flush ran across her right ribs, followed by a black pawprint that she always suspected was feline on her left hip. Those would be just fine, covered by her shirt, as well as her legs.
On the back of her left calf was an outline of something, most likely an animal, but she'd never been able to get a good enough angle on it to see it clearly. A black scythe ran the length of her right thigh, the blade curling around to the front, and a vine that started at her left hip ran down to wrap around her knee.
Up on her arms, she had to take extra care to cover the snowflake sitting on the back of her right hand; it was intricate and beautiful and the only one of her marks she actually truly liked. Next, on her left forearm, a set of five tally marks glared at her, crudely designed with jagged edges. On her other forearm, a set of five diamonds wrapped around the circumference of her arm and were always a bitch to fully cover. Finally, on her right bicep, a black and gray design of reptile-like scales glared at her.
Finally done, our protagonist grabbed her phone from where it was charging on her nightstand and rushed to her front door, snatching her jacket and bag from the couch as she ran.
"Wallet, phone, keys…" she muttered quietly, stuffing them all into her bag, and finally grabbing her heeled boots, jamming her feet in and barely managing to sufficiently tie them before she was out the door.
Gotham at night was just as creepy as you would imagine it to be. It always seemed like something out of a horror movie, but if you were to ask our character, she would simply shrug and say, "It's home."
Of course, Gotham hadn't always been Cataleya Ramos's home. Born in Cartagea, Colombia to a textile worker and a housewife, Santiago and Martha Ramos, her family moved to Chiclayo, Peru when she was three and her father lost his job. Not too long afterwards, her parents had another baby; her little brother, Santiago Jr.
Life in the large, crime-ridden city wasn't always great. They weren't allowed to stray too far from the apartment, and they couldn't be outside after dark. But the two children would go out to the small plot of land behind their building, filled with dead grass and sand, and they did what they could. Piling old, wooden pallets together to make a castle, where she was the queen, and he was her noble knight and personal bodyguard. Together, they fought off the vicious wolves, (trashcans) ogres, (recycling bins) and the fearsome dragon, (the garbage truck that parked for a few hours while the garbage guys got lunch from the restaurant on the first floor of their building).
For six years, life was wonderful. They weren't well off, but Santiago and Martha adored their children, and their children loves each other and their parents. Their parents worked hard to ensure food was in their bellies and that they were warm at night, but the children never noticed. Because, when you're that age, you're blissfully naïve as long as your basic needs are met. It was one month after Cataleya's ninth birthday when it happened.
When tragedy struck.
They were just playing, like they normally did. Cataleya ran down the sidewalk, squealing as her little brother ran after her with the large, plastic squirt gun she'd been given for her birthday. The cold water was a blessing on such a hot, August day, especially since she always had to wear clothing that covered her marks.
Santiago Jr. had run out of water, and shouted to his sister, telling her he needed to turn back. His small, worn sneakers crunched on the loose gravel as he began to turn.
It all happened so fast, yet thinking back, it was like the girl could watch it in slow motion. As she pivoted around to follow her brother, the sound of squealing tires caught her ears. Then a motor, louder and louder, barreling towards them. Her brown eyes lifted, catching sight of the large truck. Her little brother went to run across the street, and her mouth opened, hands outstretched, a scream in her throat-
-but it was too late.
After the funeral, her parents slowly began to spiral. All her mother did was cry, and Martha Ramos became deathly afraid to allow her only living child out of the house. Her father's drinking only increased, and nothing seemed to pull him out of it. His wife never left, even when she should have, desperately attempting to pull her husband pack towards herself and her daughter. But, no matter how hard he tried, Santiago Sr. had lost a vital part of himself after his son's funeral. A year and a half later, he collapsed from alcohol poisoning outside a bar and froze to death.
Now alone, Martha and thirteen-year-old Cataleya moved to the US. Settling in Eagle Pass, Texas, the pair gained citizenship and Martha worked odd jobs as she went to school at night, desperate to provide for her daughter. They didn't have much, but the young girl grew even closer with her mother, watching as she worked hard to raise her to be a strong, independent, and hardworking young woman.
Her mother struggled with English, having only spoke Spanish and some Portuguese throughout her life in Brazil and Colombia, which became an obstacle in obtaining solid work. When Cataleya reached fifteen, she started working odd jobs in an attempt to help her mother. For those short three years, it almost seemed like they would be able to move on, to be happy.
But Fate was so, so cruel.
Martha was diagnosed with Leukemia after her daughter's sixteenth birthday. They were already struggling with money, and Cataleya was forced to drop out of high school, obtaining her GED and joining the Army a year later in an attempt to be able to afford treatments. But it was too late.
In the last year of her daughter's contract, Martha Ramos died.
After such a long, painful battle with the poison in her body, she'd begged her last surviving child to allow her peace. Most of her mother's family traveled up to say their goodbye's and support the last member of the Ramos family. It was in a small hospital room that the twenty-year-old held onto her mother's hand, sobbing and laughing as they looked over pictures and re-lived happier times. Then, at 12:01 a.m., she kissed her daughter's head, and went to join her husband and son.
Cataleya's family traveled back down to Colombia and Brazil, offering to house her once her military contract was finished in less than year. But the young woman couldn't. Despite how much she missed her home, she knew it would never be the same, missing such important parts of herself. The memories were simply too painful. So, once she had been honorably discharged, she packed her bags and moved as far away as she knew.
And it just so happened to be Gotham, New Jersey.
She was unused to the cold, but adapting was what Cataleya Martha Ramos did. She started work at an underground, somewhat-shady club called Marty's. The owner was involved in some pretty dark business deals, but that meant she was paid under the table and got to keep all of her tips without any questions asked, so she didn't bat an eye, and simply did her best.
Which brings us back to the present.
Shivering against the chill that was becoming ever more present in the nightly breeze, she slipped down the stairs and ducked into the club through the back entrance, a soft sigh of relief passing her lips as she was met with warmth.
They still had an hour till opening, and the other server's and bartenders were turning chairs upright, wiping down tables and bar surfaces, stacking plates and sorting silverware. Upon hearing her footsteps, a tall blonde looked up from her spot at the bar.
"Leya!" She greeted brightly, blue eyes shining, "I thought for sure you weren't going to make it!"
Her voice was teasing, but the dark-haired, younger woman shot a nervous look at the clock by the bar as she clocked in, heartbeat slowing when she saw she still had two minutes to spare.
"Are you kidding? Marty would've had my head." She groaned, snatching up a rag and starting to help Andrew, the bar tender, wipe down the glasses. He smirked in her direction.
"Oh, we were all kind of hoping he'd start something so we could watch you rip him a new one in Spanish again." He chuckled, joined by some giggles from the other members of the staff. Leya rolled her eyes as the blonde joined in again.
"Yeah, that was hilarious! He looked like he was close to shitting his pants when you started in on the cursing." She choked out through her laughter, and the younger girl bit her lip to hold back the grin that took up at the memory. She'd smacked the hand of a rather grabby patron off of her, and Marty had the gall to act like she'd assaulted him.
"Well, if he learned to mind his own damn business…" she started, her own laughter bubbling to the surface, when a high, annoying voice interrupted her.
"Who needs to learn to mind their business?"
The light-hearted atmosphere died almost immediately, the employee's scattering like cockroaches when the lights came on, running off to complete any task that wasn't near the speaker.
Marty Russo was, in short, an asshole. I wish there was a long backstory to tell you that explained his asshole ways, but there wasn't. He was rude, loud, selfish, cheap as hell, and a pervert. He and Leya had been butting heads since he first hired her, but she was what brought in most of their regular patrons, and not many people willingly came to him for work like she did, so they did their best to stay out of the other's way.
Except for these times, anyway. At times like this, Leya knew that she had to keep her mouth shut, as much as she wanted to just slam her fist into his temple.
"No one, Marty." Andrew grumbled, giving Leya's arm a comforting squeeze before grabbing a bin of glasses and starting for the kitchen. The owner glared after the bartender but didn't dare make a move. Andrew was nearly six inches taller and about two-hundred pounds, it wasn't a fight that would last too long. Clearing his throat, he turned back to Leya, who was doing her best to ignore him as she stacked some bottles for display behind the bar.
"I see you're on time, tonight."
"When am I ever not on time?" (It was a stupid response, she was one tardy away from a formal warning, but she wasn't going to give him the satisfaction).
He snorted derisively, but didn't answer, instead walking round the block the exit to the bar, bracing his hand on the counter.
"Look, Marie called in sick tonight, and I've got an important business deal going down at one. So, that means you'll be covering the back room tonight."
Indignation and some anxiety flared in her chest, but as she turned to open her mouth, Marty was already walking away. "Don't even try to say no, Leya, I've already given your normal section to Jerome. So, if you don't want to work it, I can always send you home."
Her fists clenched so hard, her knuckles turned white, but she swallowed the fury and slammed the bottle a little harder than necessary onto the glass shelf, wincing when it clanked down loudly.
The backroom was not a coveted position. It was where Marty did his 'business deals', which meant whatever server assigned was dealing with other club owners, mob bosses, and crime family heads. The tipping wasn't great, at least not good enough for what the job required from you, it was far enough away from the kitchen that made it difficult to be quick, and the patrons always had the attention spans of kindergartners. The first two girls, Eliza and Jessalyn, had both left their shifts crying, swearing they never wanted to go back. Finally, Marie, a middle-aged woman that had no problems keeping a steely look and could probably hand a few goons their asses in a fight, had offered to take up the spot. It had only been a year, but she hadn't buckled under the pressure yet, so Leya assumed things were good.
She didn't want the position; she was good at her job, but not that good, and she didn't want to risk death. But she also couldn't get sent home tonight; rent was due next week, and she was about one hundred dollars short. If she missed another payment, her landlord would be on her ass again. Not to mention her fridge was beginning to look rather sparse, and the mouse problem in her apartment wasn't getting any better; she needed more traps.
So, with a deep breath, she snatched up her notepad and pen, and continued with preparation.
The patrons were arriving around twelve-thirty; if criminals were anything, they were punctual. She never saw them enter, (Marty's 'special guests' always used the back entrance connected to the room) but as she returned with some appetizers for the table, several had already begun to file in.
First, there was Salvatore Maroni. A little thick around the middle, the forty-something man sat on the chair his bodyguard pulled out, snuffing out his cigar as he did. Following him, another man in a royal blue, pin-striped suit strolled to the chair across from him. Carmine Falcone. The family heads kissed each other's cheeks, offering warm greetings, but even Leya could sense the tension. Maybe that was why they were there? Discussing recent conflicts?
"What can I get you gentleman?" She asked, keeping her voice light and easy to hear, but indifferent and not too cheerful. Both men looked up, nodding at her.
"I'll have a scotch, my dear, neat." Falcone answered his gruff voice. He was older, around sixty now, and looked a bit more tired than he normally did whenever she saw a picture in the newspaper, discussing his most recent escapades. Nodding, she wrote down the order and turned to Maroni, who's eyes were lingering a little too long on her hips for her liking.
"I'll have the same, but on the rocks." He told her smoothly, and she scribbled it down, keeping her composure as he leaned a little too close. "You must be new. Where's Marie?"
"She's out sick tonight, my name is Leya." She answered without skipping a beat, resisting the urge to take a step back. Maroni nodded, a lecherous smile on his face as his eyes dipped to her blouse before coming back to her face.
"Beautiful name for a very beautiful girl." He told her, voice slippery like an eel, and she fought the creeping feeling in her spine. She nodded at him, forcing a small smile onto her face.
"Thank you very much, sir-"
"Already hitting on the waitstaff, Sal?" A new voice called out, slightly muffled, and she looked up to see a bright white suit, complete with a black silk shirt and shoes, coming in the door. But what really caught her attention was the black, skull-like mask that covered his face, revealing only two gray eyes that pierced her own.
Black Mask.
Fuck, so this was a meeting.
"Can I get a gin and tonic, sweet cheeks? Thanks." He told her, sinking into the chair closest to the door. She nodded wordlessly, scribbling the order down, and nodded to the men. "Where's Cobblepot?"
"Probably dealing with some issues at the Lounge, he'll be here." Falcone waved off, not looking particularly interested in what the younger man was saying.
"Mr. Russo should be in shortly, I'll be back with your drinks soon." She then walked out of the room, fighting the urge to run as she heard them begin to converse, voices soon muffled by the heavy wooden door.
Once the drinks were done, she grabbed another two baskets of bread and walked back, loud heels most likely announcing her arrival, as she nudged the door open and stepped carefully inside, seeing the table was now full. The last two patrons had joined. Marty sat at the head of the table, a cigar in his hand, and at the other end, Oswald Cobblepot, aka "The Penguin", was watching the man carefully.
Upon her entrance, the five sets of eyes flickered her way, and four sets returned back to their business. But one continued to watch her, observing her as she entered. She passed the drinks around, including the martini that Marty always had, and she pulled her notepad back out as she approached the last mob boss, pen poised on the paper.
"What can I get you to drink, sir?"
"Cognac, love, VSOP." He answered in a thick, Cockney accent, but she could feel his eyes on her face, narrowed. Out of the corner of her own, it was hard to read his expression. Suspicion…no… curiosity, maybe? Doing her best to brush it off, she looked up around the table.
"And can I get you gentlemen anything else to eat?"
"Some more dip for the breadsticks, Leya. Thank you." Marty told her, waving a hand in a brush-off motion that said, leave. Nodding, she took her cue with gratitude, and left the room as gracefully as she could, feeling a pair of eyes boring into her back as she left.
Upon dropping off the order to Andy, she lifted her leg to scratch an itch on her calf as she waited, taking a deep breath. The backroom was stuffy, seeing as there was only one vent and no windows, and even the smokey, bar-scented air of the main dining area smelled was fresher. Luckily, Andy was a tad backed up, meaning she got a quick, five minute break before she had to go back. She took the chance to sit on a chair, giving her aching feet a break and scratching her leg. Things were going well, and they would continue that way, so long as she stayed quiet and was seen, not heard. It was an old saying that drove her crazy, but when it came to her survival, she was willing to make an exception.
Once the drink was done, she grabbed some more mozzarella dip and headed to the back again, glancing at the clock and realizing that she only had another three hours on her shift. With a sigh of relief, she prayed the men would only want one or two more rounds as she gently nudged the door open, catching the middle of their conversation.
"-and the Bat isn't stupid. Neither are his little birds, for that matter. We're better off storing the bills in the armory." Maroni was saying. His words were clearly met with some mixed reactions, since the tension in Black Mask's shoulders showed he didn't particularly agree, Falcone looked thoughtful, Marty looked thoughtful and nervous, and Penguin just looked a little bored. Once she entered, she felt his eyes on her again, but she did her best to avoid his gaze as she set the drink down, noticing the black smudge of a tattoo under the sleeve of his coat.
"Thank you, love." He told her smoothly, reaching into his pocket and pulling out a folded set of bills. "There you are."
She didn't stop to count the bills, (which she never did, it was bad manners and even the slightest suggestion to these men that they might be stiffing her would set them off) but she could have sworn she spotted a fifty, and she took them, nodding.
"Thank you very much, sir."
"So polite, this one." Maroni spoke up again, and looked her over before turning back to Marty. "Where'd you find her, Marty?"
"Careful, Sal," Falcone chided, "she looks about the same age as your son."
The younger man held up his hands, looking affronted. "Hey, who said I was hitting on her? Beautiful young woman, I can't point it out?" He winked at Leya. "It's just a compliment, sweetheart, you know that, right?"
Yeah, right, you perverted fuck. "Of course, sir."
Penguin snorted from his seat, taking a puff of his cigar. "You're old enough to be her father, Sal, so why don't you leave the poor girl alone?"
"What, Cobblepot, like you've never gotten friendly with a younger woman?" Maroni sneered, and Penguin rolled his eyes.
"I like blondes, you cretin, and I also like my women a little older than barely legal." He turned to Leya, "No offense, dearie."
"None taken, sir." She responded, watching the exchange carefully. It wasn't really offensive, she was barely twenty-two, and was aware that she still looked like a teenager. Marty nodded at her, still looking somewhat anxious.
"Please wait outside the door for a few minutes, Leya, we'll be done soon."
"What, is this talk making you a bit tense, there, Marty?" Penguin asked, eyes narrowing in the younger man's direction. "I'd think you'd be fully invested, seeing as it's you the fuzz are after, as well."
"Oh, I-I-of course! We're just short-staffed, so I would like Leya to-"
"Unless, of course," Black Mask spoke up, piercing gray eyes turning to the club owner, "you already ratted us out."
Marty spluttered, his face beginning to look pale, and Leya took several steps back. The tension in the air was rising, and for some reason, she could read Penguin's face and body language perfectly. She just knew he was itching to punish Marty, she could see it in his face. He looked pissed.
"Yes, that's one hole in this whole thing," Falcone joined in, throwing back the last bit of his drink before he continued, "the cops seemed to know our money was on those trucks, even though we'd already gotten them onto the false trail." His look darkened, and as Leya continued to back up, she saw Marty's bodyguards, Johnny and Austin, step closer. At this movement, the other's own protection detail tensed, faces solemn. "And we already established, when we were setting up the plan, that only someone on the inside could have let them know."
Marty was at a loss for words, and the waitress could see beads of sweat beginning to break out across his forehead. Her breathing hitched slightly, and she saw Penguin shift, his head tilting just slightly in her direction at the movement.
Had he heard that?
"See, none of us spoke up." Black Mask chimed in, tilting his head dangerously at Marty. "Cause we were all together the night before the police raid, discussing our plan at the Lounge." He nodded at Penguin, then looked back to Marty. "Which only leaves you."
For a second, the man in question's face seemed to switch to green, then white, then red, then back to white again. It probably would have been comical if his life wasn't in danger, and Leya watched carefully, back against the far wall of the room.
"Please, I-I," he stumbled out, sounding close to tears, "I would never-"
"You're lying, Marty." Penguin accused firmly, looking around the table. "And I think we all know what happens to snitches."
It happened so fast, Leya almost didn't catch it. Austin and Johnny both yanked their handguns out, moving to point them, but Falcone and Penguin's men were faster. They were already firing, suppressors keeping the noise softer than normal as they planted two shots each into the men's chests. The noise made her jump, and her hand reflexively moved to ghost over her own thigh. Of course, nothing was there, but at the sound of familiar gun fire, her hands felt empty without a weapon, and it made her chest tighten.
Both men dropped, and the bodyguard's stored their guns away while Maroni motioned to his goons to move forward, grabbing a cowering Marty by his arms.
"Wait, wait!" He cried in panic, struggling, "wait, you can have anything you want! My club, my house, p-please don't kill me!"
"Oh, we won't Marty, not yet." Falcone assured casually, moving to stand. "But don't worry, you'll be begging for it, soon." He nodded at the men, and they lugged the now crying man outside. Leya watched his struggling form be carried out, the muscles in her shoulders wound tight enough to bounce a coin off. Maroni, Falcone, and Black Mask all nodded to her, dropping some money onto the table, before bidding each other goodbye and walking out. It wasn't until he spoke that she realized Penguin was the only one left.
"Alright, there, love?"
She looked up at his voice, and nodded, swallowing. "Yes, sir, just surprising."
"You didn't look all that shocked at the gunfire." He noted, watching her with intrigue. "How long have you lived in Gotham, now?"
"Only a few years, sir." She told him, doing her best to keep her answers vague. She never gave out more information than she needed to. "I've been around."
Her answer seemed to amuse him, for whatever reason, and he laughed uproariously, finishing his drink and snubbing out his cigar. "Well, it would appear you're out of a job, now, yeah?"
The realization hit her with the force of a brick to the chest, and she realized he was right. Fuck, what did she do now? She didn't actually have any references now, and this job wasn't technically legal, especially when it came down to taxes.
"Well, lucky for you, darling, I happen to be in need of a new staff member." His words, if anything, completely shocked her. She looked back up at him, (or, directly across, seeing as he wasn't that tall) to see him watching her carefully. "I'll need someone with experience in serving some, interesting characters." He looked around, sneering at the atmosphere, "And I can promise you it'll pay better than this dump."
Normally, she would have said no. Working for an underground business these past few years had been stressful enough, and why would she subject herself to that again? She wouldn't, she couldn't. She wasn't going to…right?
But the more she thought about, the more she wondered if it was the best idea to turn down such an offer. As far as paperwork went, she didn't have any experience, no real references, no true income, and an expired food handlers license. Should she really be turning her nose up at this?
Biting her lip, she turned back to Penguin and nodded. "You've got yourself a deal."
A smile grew onto the older man's face, and he nodded. "Excellent, excellent. Now, we'd best get you home before someone places you at the scene of these heathens." He nodded at one of his men. "Chester here will walk you."
"No, that's really-"
"Don't turn down kindness, love," Penguin told her, voice dropping a few octaves in a warning, "especially from the likes of me."
His words chilled her, and she nodded, forcing a smile onto her face as the man followed her to grab her things from the backroom.
It wouldn't be until later that she realized the black smudge under his coat sleeve she'd seen wasn't a tattoo; it had been a black outline of a cattleya orchid, her namesake. She also wouldn't notice until later that he'd been scratching at it with her around.