Catalyea face claim: Camilla Cabello
The mirror on her bathroom door almost seemed to glare back at her, and Leya bit her lip as she watched her reflection breathe deeply, attempting to calm down her heartbeat thudding in her ears.
It was an actual official uniform; something she wasn't used to. It was black and white, (of course) and it was a skirt, which made her pull a face. But the fabric was breathable, and the heels were shorter than her other ones, so that was a plus.
It was a silky, white, button up blouse; the buttons ended much too low for her liking, and the black vest she had to wear over it pushed up her cleavage, or what little she had. A short, skin tight black skirt barely covered the tops of her thighs, but the pantyhose she had to wear did a good job of keeping everything in place. The low heeled, black pumps she had to wear were surprisingly comfortable, but she'd put in some heel cushions just to give something extra for her knees. Four years of ruck marches, buddy carries, racing across the sand in thirty pounds of gear and a serious lack of sleep, mixed with a very ineffective diet of opportune MRE's and energy drinks had left some lasting aches and pains. Namely a bad right knee; not that running around in heels had ever helped.
Her deep brown eyes roamed over to the alarm clock, feeling her anxiety pick up upon seeing the time. 6:30 p.m. She'd have to start walking soon, her shift started at 7:15 and since the Iceberg Lounge was over three miles away, she needed to take the train.
Come on, Leya, you've literally been in firefights and ran under gunfire to drag grown men behind rocks in the desert, but you can't handle some criminals and escaped asylum patients?
Well, to be completely fair to herself, pissing one of them off would bring gunfire, or worse.
The twenty-two-year-old shook her head, chuckling at her own thoughts. Grow some ovaries, chica, you have to make a living!
Grabbing her black peacoat to cover her revealing outfit, she checked her makeup and hair in the mirror one last time, and walked quietly out the door, locking it softly behind her.
Besides, how bad could it really be?
Bohemian Rhapsody floated through her earbuds, the familiar melody calming the blood rushing in her ears. She was in the darker part of Gotham, just a few streets away from the harbor. The familiar, gentle scent of the salt water also did well to calm her down, but she still couldn't control the elephants in her stomach as she approached the club's back entrance.
Inside, the bright white lights were still on, but she knew they weren't open, yet. Women in the same uniform and men in black and white tuxes scurried around, setting up and shouting directions. It was so much more fast-paced than she was used to, and as she rounded the corner, she had to stop.
In front of her was a massive ice sculpture, in the shape of, of course, an iceberg. It was as she got closer that the young girl realized it wasn't ice, it was glass. The lights in the club were bouncing off of it, throwing around gorgeous, prism-like patterns all around it.
"You must be the new girl."
The voice made her jump, tensing, and she whirled around to see another woman standing behind her. She was in her late twenties, and she was absolutely stunning. Long, thick blonde hair ran to the middle of her back, the sides pinned up in an intricate but sexy braid. Her own uniform immediately made Leya feel a bit like a teenager, with the way her hips and breasts filled it out. But upon seeing the kind smile on the woman's face, she felt her insecurity fade. The woman held out her hand.
"I'm Jennifer Fitzgerald, but you can just call me Jen. I'm the manager; the boss told me you'd be coming in."
"Yeah," Leya responded, sticking her own hand out and giving it a firm shake, "I'm Leya."
"Leya," Jen repeated, "that's a really pretty name, is it short for something?"
The dark-haired girl shook her head, pressing her lips together. "Mm-mm. My parents were just pretty big fans of Star Wars."
Jen nodded, laughing a little, "Right; well, let me show you around, boss says you're supposed to be the new Meeting Room waitress."
"Uh-huh," Leya agreed she followed the older woman, "after my old boss got busted for being a snitch, Penguin told me he was looking for one."
As they walked through a swinging, wood door, Jen's face dropped into confusion. "Wait, looking?"
"Um, yeah; why?"
The blonde just shook her head, stopping in front of another door. "Nothing, don't worry about it. I'm just mixed up, it's a big night tonight." Twisting the knob, she led the younger girl into a large room, surrounded by lockers. "This is the storage room, you can just store you stuff in here. This is your locker," she gestured to one right next to the window, "and here's the key, make sure you don't lose it, ok?"
Leya nodded, slipping the small, brass key into her shirt pocket; she'd get a chain for it tomorrow.
Her little orientation wasn't too shocking; she was used to the club and bartending scene, and aside from some fancier drink options and differently located objects, it wasn't that different. The attitudes, the speed, the requirements. Jen helped her run through the preparations for the backroom, which she learned was just a fancy term for the backroom.
As the clock counted down the minutes until opening, Jen turned to her.
"Alright, how do you feel?"
Leya nodded, smoothing out her uniform. "Good; how do I look?"
Jen smirked, moving to adjust the girl's blouse. "Very sexy; especially with this skin of yours, you're practically glowing." Pulling away, her smile twitched. "Leya, you do know what goes down in the Meeting Room, right?"
"I'd assume, from what the boss told me, it's a lot like where I used to work? You know, some quiet meetings?"
Jen nodded, pressing her lips together and twitching her jaw. "Yeah, technically. But," she stepped closer, voice lowering, "I don't think I have to remind you the group that boss does deals with; you're going to be seeing some scary shit up there. So, just," she paused, "don't ever show them anything but your poker face, you got it?"
Leya nodded, some loose curls shifting in front of her face. "Poker face. Trust me, I got it."
The night started off without incident; some drink deliveries, dodging rowdy dancers, and wiping down tables. But as she was finishing putting away a bin of used glasses, Jen nodded at the stairs.
Some of the 'guests' were already there.
Taking a deep breath, Leya climbed the steps, smoothing out her skirt. Schooling her expression, she pulled out her notepad and slipped inside.
The Meeting Room was much swankier than the backroom at Marty's; it consisted of plush, black cushioning around a large, round table. The table was black and white marble, the swirls and glossy finish glinting in the low light. A set of windows, which were actually a one-way mirror, faced the club, showing the inhabitants everything that was happening on the floor below them.
And it already held several guests.
A gorgeous, dark-haired woman, roughly Jen's age, was perched in one corner. Her manicured nails tapped against the marble finish, watching the dancing crowd and pulsing lights beneath her, the loud music making the floor vibrate ever so slightly. Her black hair was cut short, a pixie style, but it looked so gorgeous on her. The dark locks framed her heart-shaped face perfectly, with two bright, almond green eyes catching everything around her. Her skin was pale, but absolutely flawless, as well as her long, muscled limbs. She was clad in dark, leather pants and a skimpy black top, red lips pursed thoughtfully.
Across from her were two figures that almost made Leya freeze. Both were tall men, with brown hair and roughly the same age, the one with darker brown hair slightly older than the other. One sat in a ratted brown suit, back straight, also watching the people below them. He had blue eyes, bright enough to set her on edge. His brown hair was tangled, nearly reaching his shoulders. A set of thick, black glasses were perched on his nose, and she couldn't help but read his expression in a rather pompous way, like he thought himself above everyone else.
The other man had darker hair, cut shorter and closer to his head, styled much neater. His suit was a dark, forest green, the white collar and black tie beneath it nearly pristine. Propped next to him was a cane; half of it was showing, the other half hidden by the table. She spied a matching bowler hat next to him, and her eyes caught a glimpse of two things: a question mark on top of the cane, and a ratted, burlap sack with two holes for eyes and one for a mouth cut out.
She was in the room with Riddler, Scarecrow, and a woman that she didn't know, but was still intimidated by.
Despite her near silent entrance, all three sets of eyes zeroed in on her before she could even shut the door. Keeping her shoulders back, but her gaze towards the table, she pulled out her notepad and pen, softly clearing her throat.
"Good evening; my name is Leya. Mr. Cobblepot will be here soon, may I get you some drinks?"
"Leya?" The woman repeated, the name rolling smoothly over her tongue. She looked over the younger girl. "You must be new; I don't remember seeing you before."
"This is my first day."
The three seemed to find that somewhat amusing, as they all smirked, and the woman nodded.
"Well, let's not make it too difficult on you, right? I'll just have a martini, hun."
As she scribbled the order down, she felt the other two sets of eyes boring into her. Looking up, she made the mistake of meeting the particularly blue ones she'd been avoiding.
"You're awfully young," Scarecrow rasped, sitting forward. "How old are you, Leya?"
Her age was the one answer she knew would be stupid to lie about, so it was the one question she always answered truthfully. "Twenty-two."
"Hmm," the insane criminal hummed quietly, then sat back. "Whiskey; whatever's oldest."
As she wrote it down, the next order wasn't an order at all, but exactly what she should have expected.
"What comes once in a minute, twice in a moment, but never in a thousand years?"
"The letter 'm'."
The answer flew out of her mouth before she even realized she was speaking, and both parties froze, slowly looking up at the other. One in shock, the other in apprehension.
Oh, fuck, is he going to kill me?
But to her surprise, he merely started chuckling. Looking delighted, the riddle-obsessed man nodded, shaking a finger at her.
"Oh, but your age doesn't take away from your intelligence, does it?" He chuckled a bit more before sitting back, undoing a button on his jacket. "I'll have a vodka, darling, neat."
Shoulders still tense, she nodded, forcing a polite smile onto her face. "Excellent choice, sir. I'll be back shortly."
Once she had stepped back out, a breath she didn't even realize she was holding released itself, and she started down the steps, scratching the back of her neck and rubbing it. The whole interaction suddenly made her feel like she'd just slept on her pillow wrong for a week.
Drinks now in hand, she started up the steps, knowing that several more guests would already be there; Penguin said he'd be expecting at least five tonight, and she prayed they would arrive soon. She didn't want to be in that room longer than she had to.
As gracefully as she could with a tray of full glasses in her hand, she opened the door and nudged it with her hip, slipping through and making sure to close it behind her. Cobblepot had explicitly instructed her that no one in the club below could see into the room. Of course, the chances of them seeing past the wall that was planted in front of the door that led down a small hallway and then went into the room would prevent that, but she wasn't about to get her ass reamed on her first night for being negligent.
Inside, she could see that the other four had already joined. Penguin sat at the head of the table, eyes moving to her as she entered. She could already see more figures at the table, and it was enough to make her heart both skip a beat and drop to her stomach, if such a thing was possible.
To his right was a large man, clad in a black, sleeveless shirt and black cargo pants, complete with combat boots, was seated next to her new boss, his own eyes raising to see who had joined them. He had on a black and white mask that looked a lot like the luchador one's she saw on TV when she was still young. But his eyes, a light shade of brown, nearly hazel, were watching her with the same curious, yet slightly confused look that the others had been giving her earlier.
Next to him was a woman, just as beautiful as the dark-haired one, but in a different way. She was a little taller, and maybe a few years older. Dark red hair that ran nearly to her hips, and skin that was tinted…green? Was it the lighting from the club? No, it couldn't be that severe, could it? But her eyes, now those were green; as dramatic as it sounded, they looked like the forest surrounding Machu Pichu from her visit when she was seven. She was dressed in a red, button down shirt, the first few buttons undone to show ample cleavage that made Leya shift the tray slightly in front of her own.
Was that fucking Poison Ivy?
"Ah, here are our drinks," Penguin announced, smiling at the girl as she entered. "Thank you very much, love." He told her as she handed him his Cognac; Jen told her it was always the drink their boss had during his meetings. If she had to guess, Leya would say it was due to having to deal with the people he delt with.
"You're welcome, sir." She responded quietly, moving to set the dark-haired woman's drink down. She nodded at the young girl, who was doing her best to keep her eyes away from the other's as she set their drinks down, then moved to stand before the two newcomers.
"What can I get you to drink?"
"Sex on the Beach, please." The redhead responded, watching the girl's movements with an intrigued smirk on her face. Scribbling the order down, Leya switched her gaze to the man.
"And you, sir?"
"Gold rum, senorita." He responded in a deep, graveling voice, and her eyes flew up to meet his, feeling just the barest amount of familiarity and relief at the sound of her first language.
"¿Tu hablas español?"
The masked man nodded, and she spotted his lips twitching. "Sí niña, me crié en Santa Prisca." He nodded at her, "¿Y tu?"
This was her first sign that something was wrong.
She opened her mouth to tell him Texas, like she told everyone. If there was one lesson she had learned in Gotham, it was that not everyone could be trusted with details of your past. She would tell them her name was Leya, she was from Texas, and that she lived with her mother throughout her childhood until she joined the military. None of it was a technical lie, but it also wasn't the full truth. A perfect middle-ground.
So, when our dear protagonist opened her mouth to say, "Eagle Pass, Texas," I'm sure you could imagine her surprise when what came out of her mouth was, "Cartagea, Colombia; pero crecí en Chiclayo, Perú."
She had just told him, what; the first fifteen percent of her fucking backstory?
Leya froze; as in, actually froze. Pen midway through writing down the word rum when it stopped, and she raised her eyes to meet his in shock.
But none of the other's seemed to notice how startled she was; the man was nodding at her, looking like he had just confirmed a suspicion, while the others were chuckling.
"You have the Peruvian coast dialect, chica," he agreed, "but I wanted to be sure."
"Ozzy, where did you find such a cute little thing?" Ivy asked smoothly, looking thoroughly amused. Penguin shrugged, taking a large sip of his drink.
"She was working with Marty; dumb fucker got busted for trying to rat out the lot, so we had to take him down." He nodded at her. "Leya here was about to be sacked, and I needed a waitress."
"What happened to that young man, Alex?" The other woman at the table wondered aloud, "I personally thought he was doing fine."
More confusion seemed to fester in Leya's gut as Penguin only scoffed. "Please, just because we got our drink within the hour and he only spilled twice doesn't make him a good server."
"I'll be right back with your drinks." Leya told the pair in front of her quietly, nodding at her boss and quickly making for the door. She could feel several of them watching her, but the conversation at the table continued until she had shut the door behind her, numbly moving down the stairs.
What the fuck was that, Leya?! You're suddenly giving away parts of your past to escaped Arkham inmates? What's next, you're going to tell them your birthday and social security number?!
But she could barely focus, she was so horrified and confused. What happened just now wasn't something she could even explain; it was like the words flew out of her mouth, and by the time she even realized she was speaking, the sentence was nearly over. Just like-
Just like with Riddler?
That's right, it had happened when he asked her that question, that riddle. She had been compelled to answer, like she had no other choice.
"Hey, Leya! I need those drink orders!"
The sound of the bartender's voice, (who was named Mason) cut through her thoughts and brought her harshly back into reality. Shaking her head, she handed him the slip of paper, bending down to scratch and rub her ankle. These heels had felt comfortable at first, but now they suddenly seemed to be causing her even more discomfort than her old ones.
Great, one more thing I needed tonight, she groaned inwardly. She watched Mason pour and mix the drinks, resisting the urge to bite her nails. Maybe I shouldn't have quit smoking; I could really use a cigarette right now.
"Alright, Leya," the dark-haired man announced, sliding the tray towards her with a wink, "you're doing great, alright? Don't worry, shift's almost over."
To her surprise, he was right. A glance at the small clock just behind the bar told her it was a quarter to three; her shift would be ending when the club shut down at five a.m.
Mentally walking herself through a pep-talk, she grabbed the tray, shooting Mason a grateful smile. "Thanks, man."
He gave her a friendly wave of his towel as she headed back up the stairs, humming a random tune in her head as she climbed.
As she entered, she caught the very end of their conversation, which seemed to be growing heated.
"All I'm saying," the Riddler was stressing, "is that the Bat and the birds are on high alert right now; the breakout had increased their patrolling by nearly twenty percent. If we just lie low until Mr. Brooding, Dark Knight locks up a few heavy hitters like Joker or Quinn, then they'll start to fall back. That's when we make our move."
"Excellent plan, Nygma," Penguin was rolling his eyes, nearly finished with his drink, (thank goodness she'd grabbed him and the other's another round). "Why didn't any of us think of that?"
"He's got a point, Eddie," the dark-haired woman was pointing out as Leya began to distribute the drinks, "and more importantly, do you really think you can outsmart him?"
"Well, we all know what you've been doing with him, Kyle." The green-clad man sneered back, but the woman, Kyle, leaned forward, eyes blazing.
"Careful, Nygma. I nearly ripped your throat out once, I'll happily do it again."
"Enough!" Penguin's voice cut through, sounding annoyed. The glass over his eye was bouncing light off from the club, almost highlighting the irritated look on his face. "All this bickering will get us nowhere; in case you've forgotten, I require civility when we meet like this. I need to figure out how to move my damned money in time without that God forsaken Nightwing always on my arse!"
The mood in the room changed slightly once she had finished distributing the drinks; it seemed to lighten ever so slightly, Leya would guess that alcohol did that to an individual. She wouldn't know, of course. It had been easily five years since her last drink, and she had no plans on changing that anytime soon.
"Look, we need to be smart." Ivy spoke up, scratching her right shoulder before picking up her drink. "Batman is known for his paranoia; all we need to do is convince him there is no reason to be. I vote we continue, but keep it small. So long as we act like we normally do, he'll have no reason to believe that anything is amiss."
Right as she sat Crane's new drink in front of him, he turned, hand accidentally catching the rim of his glass. The crystal tilted, liquid beginning to spill over the top, and it all went in slow motion after that.
As eyes turned towards the noise, Leya's hand was already moving. Her fingers were right in front of the glass, thought they had originally been by the table's edge, and she grabbed it, keeping it from falling again and setting it upright, a small splash landing on the back of her hand.
The conversation stopped, and Crane turned to her, blue eyes attempting to see into the very back of her brain.
"Excellent reflexes." He commented, watching her carefully. Reining in her own surprise of how quickly she reacted, Leya nodded, forcing her lips to turn up into her regular, polite smile. That gunfire from yesterday must still have her on edge.
"I've been a server for several years now, sir, it happens." She responded indifferently, and he nodded, but his face didn't relax. The conversation at the table resumed, followed by more bickering over the Batman, and Leya grabbed a cloth, wiping off the alcohol absentmindedly before wiping down the table and grabbing her tray, ensuring no one else required anything before she quickly left the room.
Unfortunately, she didn't notice that the alcohol had eroded away some of her concealer, as well as did her wiping with the rag, and Crane had caught the top of a mark on her hand. It wasn't from a pen, it stayed perfectly designed on her skin when she'd scrubbed at it, but it was clear there was more of it underneath some makeup. It looked like a web; or a snowflake, maybe?
Since when did Oswald require his employees to cover their tattoo's?
Turning away from the table, he noticed several servers on the floor beneath him. Sure enough, none of them were covering their body art; if anything, the females were displaying it proudly. So why was their new little waitress attempting to cover hers?
Just what are you hiding, Leya?
At that same time, miles away, someone else was also looking at marks on skin. Only his face was much more grim, blue eyes traveling over the pictures on his screen with as much focus as he possessed, praying he was wrong, but deep down, he knew he wasn't.
He hardly ever was.
A soft bing! Sounded through the hollow air around him, and behind him, two silver elevator doors opened. It looked strange, seeing as they were surrounded by rock and cave wall, but the man did not turn around as a younger, dark-haired male stepped out of the elevator, looking noticeably less tense than his older counterpart.
"What's up, Bruce?"
Bruce Wayne, aka the Batman, did not look away from the screen in front of him as Dick Grayson, aka Nightwing, joined him in front of it. "And why are you looking at flower tattoo's?"
"They're not tattoo's, Dick." He informed his adopted son, voice solemn, "and it's not just any flower. From what I've gathered, it's a cattleya orchid. They're native to Colombia, as well as other parts of northern South America."
Dick nodded, watching the man who had raised him carefully, but Bruce still didn't elaborate. Finally, Dick shook his head. "Ok, I give. What's the significance of a flower from South America?"
"What do you know about soulmates?"
"Soulmates?" The young man echoed, chuckling. "Only what they told us in school; I mean, didn't they die out around the late 1800's?"
"Yes, the romantic ones did." Bruce confirmed, turning to look at his ward. "And what about the platonic one's?"
"I mean, we know even less. The last documented set was in the 1400's; there's rumors some of them were burned in the Salem Witch trials, but no one could ever find proof."
At the end of his sentence, the Dark Knight gave his eldest child his full attention, nodding at the screen. "And do you remember what else was said about one of the women who was burned? Not only did she have platonic marks…"
…but she had several." Dick finished, nodding. "Yeah, I remember having to include that on my essay in eighth grade." His gaze flickered back to the screen, and then his eyes widened, turning back to Bruce slowly. "Wait, wait, you're not telling me…"
Without responding, Bruce hit a button on the glowing keyboard in front of him. Underneath each picture of the black flower, a name popped up. Each one gave Dick more anxiety than the last, some even were hard to believe. He turned to his adopted father again, shaking his head.
"Bruce, Chain's aren't-they're gone, they're not-"
"But are they?" Bruce asked rhetorically. "This is from a set of files, confiscated from Hugo Strange. He'd been noting that some of his patients had the same tattoo, just in different places, but none of them appeared to be involved in any gang activity. Then he began referencing old works, old journals. One belonged to a physician in Greece, who spoke of a young woman. She came to him, panicked, begging him to do something about the marks that covered her skin. When he told her his hypothesis, she killed herself."
"So, you're saying," Dick started, still staring at the screen in horror, "that somewhere out there, half of the Rogue's gallery is on the surface of someone's skin?"
Bruce nodded, eyes narrowed, the smallest hint of worry shadowing his face. "Yes. And if we want to ensure their safety, I think it's best we find them before they do."