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Chapter One:

Rookie

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The clock is pushing six by the time I walk in. It's always smart to make it look like you care about your job – especially if you really do. My uniform is laundered every week, pressed and starched, and I make sure to keep it looking that way even if I can't afford to take it in. Most of the others don't give a shit about their appearance. They don't work half as hard for their positions either. They know people. They take a hit on the job, working Vice in the shittiest part of town. Some of them are just damn lucky. I'm not that lucky.

I reach my desk just as the door to the Captain's office creaks open. The rusty hinges still haven't been fixed, after all this time. "Nina, in here. Now."

"Yes, Captain." I reply. We're always given half a second to set down our things – coat, coffee, and more often than not our gun and holster. I leave them behind and report to my superior before he gets any wise ideas that I'm hard of hearing.

I shut the door behind me. There's a fresh-faced kid with doe eyes waiting too, standing before Cap's desk, and his uniform looks almost as pristine as mine. Rookie. I can see it in his face. No lines around the mouth, no dark circles framing his full cheeks. He carries the same kind of optimism they all walk in with and lose when they take their first beat. He'll lose it soon, I can guess that much about him.

"Meet your new partner, Officer Blake," Cap gestures to the rook, looking mildly disinterested in the matter. "Enjoy."

"Sir, I only just lost Hernandez-"

"Your point?"

"I mean no disrespect," I tell him. "Only that there's a mourning period, sir, before we're assigned new partners."

"I'm sure you don't, Nina," he nods, at least having the decency to look at me as he delivers the bad news. "But I've decided to overlook what is, and always has been, more of a guideline than actual procedure. You'll go out with Blake tonight, show him the ropes. It's his first beat. Be easy on him."

Be easy on him. Funny, I never got that sort of treatment from my own older, more experienced partners when I first came in. He must have given the opposite advice. I was as soft as new leather when I walked through that door – looking much like Blake here. Doe-eyed, promising, youthful; I was altogether ignorant of the way the world worked and just what kind of greasy cogs made it run. By the time my first month in the force was up, there were cracks running through me. No more of that soft rookie's skin. Hardness took its place and filled in the cracks life left behind. I was a stronger person for it. It's his hardened exterior that keeps a cop safe from falling apart on the inside when he takes a crippling blow.

I bite my tongue and nod compliantly. "Of course, sir. I'll be happy to introduce Blake to the ropes."

"Oh and Nina…"

Reaching the door, I turn around and face the old, weather-beaten man sitting behind his desk. His dark eyes are almost hidden beneath heavy, wilted skin. "Set up your new partner with his own workspace. Just in case."

"Yes, sir."

Once I'm out, I can breathe again. The tightness goes out of my shoulders and I resume my own easy gait. I'm so relieved to be out of the Captain's sight that I almost forget about the fresh-faced little shadow trailing behind me.

"Good," I tell him as I flop down in my chair, already feeling the bone-deep exhaustion set in before the shift has even started. "You're not a talker."

He smiles a little, a smirk as stiff as whipcord, and his eyes almost disappear. "Depends on the topic."

"There's your desk." I point to the empty space that used to be second home to my old partner, a hard-nosed Puerto Rican with a penchant for rolling his own cigarettes. There's still ashes swept under the legs of his chair and spare paper taped behind one of the drawers.

There's a certain edge of awkwardness in the way he familiarizes himself with his new surroundings. Especially the desk itself. He runs his hand over the pitted wood surface, slow and purposeful, as if he's getting to know it, introducing himself politely to an old salt. Only after he's looked everything over, considered the state of his new furnishings, does he sit down and make himself comfortable. You'd think he was inspecting a slab of meat at the butcher's downtown instead of a beat up piece of shit desk that's been here since before he was born.

The air of discomfort doesn't leave. He doesn't show it outwardly, tries to hide it behind his mask of pumped up male bravado, but I can still see it. He can't hide it from me.

I have paperwork to fill out and turn in before I can start my beat, but he has nothing. Not even a cup of coffee to take with him on that long night ahead of us. He sits in his chair, hands folded in his lap like a schoolboy. I almost want to give him half my share, let him have his first taste of real cop work, but I have my integrity to uphold. Taking pity on rookies who will soon know how it's done and how to do it isn't going to get me anywhere. Because while he's out earning the acceptance of his vets and the praise of his Captain, I'll still be getting catcalls and summons to the big man's office by my first name. It's not worth it. He'll survive.

It's as if he knows he doesn't belong, that he's going to have to work hard to make himself fit along with the rest of the grain. I wouldn't lie to him if he asked – it's not just hard work. It's a struggle. The veterans underestimate those below them, especially female cops and rookies. Rookies are inexperienced, green around the edges and wet behind the ears (a reasonable explanation for why so many get booted, it's hard to absorb much of anything with water sloshing around in your head). I can't say if female cops have it worse or not. There's not enough of us around to establish any sort of standard. From personal experience, I'd say we have our work cut out for us. We're not taken seriously. Until further notice, we're just asses in a uniform. We're the butt of jokes and bear the brunt of insult. But it's not so bad – when the work finally pays off, we can't say we didn't do it for nothing.

"It's going to be a long night," I tell him, my pen still scratching away. "You don't drink coffee?"

"Didn't need to, where I came from."

"Well, around here it's daily bread," I say. "Better than falling asleep on the clock while you're getting used to the new hours."

He's quiet for a long moment. I can feel him watching me as I write. "How long have you been here?"

"Long enough," I answer curtly, biting back my more acerbic reply. None of your damn business, rook.

"You don't look any older than twenty five."

"Probably."

"Don't like talking about yourself?"

"Not on the job."

"Look," he starts, and there's a timbre to his voice that I haven't heard in the few minutes I've know him. Deeper, darker, as if it's hiding something more violent underneath. "I know you think I'm going to treat you like your old partner, like the other guys around here. You're wrong."

"I think you mistake my indifference for dislike. We're on the same team, rookie." I cross one last 't' and shuffle the papers together. I look up at him, my new partner. The same strain of calm nonchalance I kept especially for my old partner settles back in the pit of my gut, right where it always was before. "Just because I won't blow smoke up your ass doesn't mean I hate you."

He seems unmoved by my openness. "I don't want praise if I haven't earned it."

I manage a tight-lipped smile, but it doesn't reach my eyes. "Good. I think we'll get along just fine then."

.

.

.

By eight o' clock, I'm backing the old patrol car out of the lot. Officer Blake is very quiet in the seat next to me. At least his hands aren't folded neatly in his lap anymore. Instead, he has his fingers wrapped around a Styrofoam coffee cup, though it's gone untouched since he picked it up on our way out the door. No cream, no sugar. I can usually tell something about a guy by the way he takes his coffee. My old partner, Hernandez, liked a few drops of tequila in his, but only when he thought I wasn't looking. It must have tasted better that way.

Blake either liked it black enough to make your hair stand on end or he just hadn't the time to embellish it. Most men I knew who liked their coffee black were no nonsense. Their girls, work, and lifestyles were a mirror image of themselves. Severe. Brooding. Particular. One I knew had a touch of darkness to him that would make the average passerby on the street take a second look, make sure it wasn't some devil grinning back at them. He also would've put a chaser of cocaine in his coffee if policy wasn't so set against it.

That didn't seem like Blake, though. He's probably just as much a goody two shoes as I am. The sort of guy that knows every rule has its purpose or else it wouldn't have been implemented in the first place. The law is sacred. Fair, just, and faithful to those who serve it well.

I look down at my own coffee. Blacker than pitch.

"So, what's our neighborhood?"

"Dealer hot spot. I keep the kids from buying and chase the hustlers out as best I can."

"No arrests?"

"A few. It's been Vice's jurisdiction ever since they based a sting operation in my part of town. They're looking for the queen bee so I stay out of it."

"What're we doing there then?"

"Mostly keeping up appearances. As long as I'm there making small arrests, taking reports, and keeping watch, they're not wondering about what's going on in their own ranks."

I pull up next to the curb, a sleepy convenience store to our right and an abandoned building across the street. Blake sets his untouched coffee in the cup holder and takes a look around. Not a soul in sight, just the shop keep standing behind his register looking worse for wear and waiting for the night rush to start. I'm not all that surprised. I'll see a few stragglers coming home from work here and there, but the neighborhood doesn't wake up until after ten, when the clubs nearby start throbbing with heavy, gut-rattling music. I switch on the scanner and then the radio, turning it to the local sports station.

He catches my eye, confused. "What are you doing?"

"I've gotta ask your permission to check the game?" I scoff, turning it up louder.

"I don't really care, just as long as we can hear the scanner," he replies, then seems to change his mind. "What's the score?"

"Second inning, so far two zip in our favor."

"Gotham Knights?

"Is there anyone else?"

He smiles. "I was always more into the Griffins myself."

I didn't want to tell him my story. Why it mattered which game I listened to, why black and gold, why baseball at all. Those colors, this team – it was just that to him. A team. He could probably care less if it were a Knights game or a Griffins game blaring over the silence of the cab, as long as it wasn't quiet and awkward between us (like most first nights on the job always are). But to me, it's the only aspect of my life that holds any sentimental value. It's all I have room for in the cramped corners of my capacity for idealism and nostalgia. I remember the days, when I didn't have to listen to the roar of the crowd and the feel the thrill of a homerun over a radio, but was there – really there. I could smell everything, taste everything, and the colors were so vivid that every time I close my eyes I paint my dreams with them. A certain cologne would crawl up into my nose, nuzzle warm and close in my head, and I still have that memory too. It's a vague one, uncertain and baseless, but I keep as dear to me as the others all the same.

"Griffins suck this year." I remark, completely deadpan.

"Their year's coming, I can feel it."

He says it like a true man of faith.

I wonder, idly, how he can still hold on to hope in a world like this.

I don't want to know where he came from. Who he is, why he's here – none of it. If it were up to me, I'd do this job by myself. I'd enjoy my Friday night games and my black coffee and my beat on my own and answer to no one but my own rose-tinted view of justice. That's just not how it is. In a perfect world, maybe, but we share this earth with devils who breed chaos and call themselves men with cause. Corrupt politicians. Crooked cops. Deadbeats like the Joker with nothing better to do than tear cities to the ground and dance on the ashes. The truth is I'm tired. I want peace. I want to go to sleep without a gun tucked under my pillow, worrying about whether or not I'll have to use it. I came here to do my part, try to save what little of the world I can from the madmen that try to steal it for themselves. But sooner or later, when I'm older, I want to leave Gotham. I want to leave and never look back.

It isn't that I hate John Blake. Just that he's another nuisance I'll have to get used to. Like being called Nina by my superiors, like I'm some kind of doughnut grabbing, coffee fetching secretary. Or being catcalled and mocked as I lead a handcuffed scumbag toward the back of the station to be booked. The hardest part will be watching Blake get promoted. I'll still be sitting there at my desk with a new rookie to take care of and nurture like some mother hen, still beating while he's out solving cases and catching real criminals (not just the sleazy hustlers that try to pick up on thirteen year old girls). I'll learn not to resent him before long. It takes time to put together a good, convincing mask.

"Those one of your guys?"

I realize I've been staring out the window, at the abandoned building across the street. A rumbling cheer from the crowd blasts out of the speakers. I wonder how long he's let me sit there, brooding in my own jealousy.

"Which one?"

A group of guys has begun to gather outside the convenience store. Mostly young, mid twenties, with their caps turned backwards and their jeans sagging past their knees. There's a couple of middle aged burn outs in the mix. They're the ones that try too hard, keeping their cheeks clean shaven and the holes in the knees of their pants. One of them stands out from the rest, his pacing more jittery and distracted than the others around him.

I nod to the one walking in circles. "Yeah, that's him."

"What's he done?"

"Meth dealer. Doesn't care who he's selling to either…"

Blake's expression changes, furrowing his brow so deep that the shadows make his eyes look black. "Why don't we arrest him now?"

I take a sip of my coffee. "Can't."

"Why not?" He sounds frustrated. It's a natural state of being for those particularly idealistic rookies, when they see something evil being done right in front of them and can't do a thing about it. It's something he's just going to have to get used to - the sooner, the better.

"He's one of the big fish Vice is after," I snap back. "If I fuck up their sting, then he could get away for sure."

"I thought being a police officer meant going after the bad guys."

"Wrong," I reply. "That's Batman's job. We just follow orders."

"Then what the hell do you get paid to do?"

"Sit around, drink coffee, and listen to the rookies complain."

"This is bullshit," Blake snarls darkly.

"Get used to it."

I turn down the game as something especially juicy comes up on the scanner. Got a 10-70, possibly drunk, downtown –

"You want action, Blake? Here's your chance."

I start the car and pull away from the curb. The meth dealer quiets his pacing for a moment, looks up, and watches us as we disappear into late traffic.

(So, I do hope this is a good start. Enjoy and let me know how I'm doing from time to time! And thank you so much to those who reviewed, favorited and alerted this story.)

disclaimer - i don't own john blake. only my character.