Pamela's body shuddered, her fingers digging into Kate's shoulder muscles, breath hot against her neck as she finished.
"Shit," Kate laughed that smug laugh of hers, slowly letting Pam's feet return completely to the floor. "Somebody was excited."
"Pent up, more like," Pam countered, not wanting to give her the complete satisfaction. She took a moment to catch her breath, pulling her skirt back down to an appropriate length and tucking her blouse in as Kate watched, one dark eyebrow raised—the one with the scar running across it.
After evidently deciding she'd had her fill of the show, Kate turned to pick her Gatorade up off the bar and took a sip, every movement portraying more confidence than any human had a right to. "That so?"
Let's not do this. "Yes, my father's dying and my mother's trying to get me to care, it's adding significant stress to my life," Pam explained, picking her blazer up from where Kate had discarded it on the couch.
"Oh, damn," Kate sort of cringed, losing a bit of her swagger, clearly unsure of how to respond. "Do you—uh—need a hug or something?"
Pam thought to laugh but shook her head instead, already mentally jumping to another topic as she pulled her cellphone out of her purse. "Let's talk about your opener." She fired a quick email off to Kate, whose phone then buzzed on the counter beside her.
Kate hesitated for a moment, like she knew she shouldn't enable Pam's emotional impotence. But eventually, her curiosity got the better of her and she opened the message, clicking on the video link Pam had attached. "Who's this?"
The video depicted a dirty boxing ring in some decrepit warehouse setting, a tattooed blonde with her hair in pigtails and white paint smeared on her face was holding another woman by the back of the neck, forcing her to remain doubled over as she repeatedly kneed her in the face, blood spurting like a faucet from the victim's nose.
"Quinzel, Harleen Quinzel. Have you heard of her?"
"Uh…no…" Kate seemed to be wracking her brain. "She knows she can't do that in the ring though, right? Use her knees? She understands this isn't MMA, yeah?"
"She started in an underground, more street-fight oriented setting," Pam explained. "We'll be introducing her to the mainstream with this match. But she qualified through all the proper channels, so I'm sure she knows the rules."
"OK, well, I'd like you to be positive," Kate didn't sound amused. "Since when do we invite street fighters to opening night?"
Pamela really didn't have the energy to be second guessed today. Although Kate's opinion on who her opponent was did matter somewhat, in reality, she had next to zero say over the final decision. "We're expanding the demographic. It's about filling the stadium, Kate, you know that," she regurgitated Bruce's speech from earlier. "We're story tellers, at the end of the day, and it's time we explore some new plotlines."
Kate laughed at that, flopping down on the couch and interlacing her fingers behind her head. "Story tellers? What a romantic way to say liars."
"Oh, don't tell me you've suddenly developed a conscience," Pamela scoffed, trying her best not to notice how Kate's joggers hung loosely off her hips.
"No," Kate assured her. "Although 'conscience' is the name of my new Lambo. You want a ride?"
Pam allowed a smile at that as she checked her watch. "I'll have to take you up on that some other time." She grabbed her purse while she still had the willpower, slinging it over her shoulder. "The match with Quinzel isn't locked in yet, I still have to meet with her manager. Once we have the fine print hammered out, I'll send you the details."
Kate appeared slightly offended, though she tried to play it off like a joke. "And back to business just like that, huh? I don't think I'm done with you yet."
"Well, I'm done with you," Pam already had the door open, a bit of natural light cutting through the moody ambiance of Kate's spacious basement. "You can take the rest upstairs to your wife."
Pamela never felt as dirty as she thought she would leaving Kate's house. Turned out it could be kind of a turn on, being fucked by someone's wife. And sure, later that night, with a glass of wine or two in her, Pam would likely start to feel that sinking feeling. The one that no amount of self-love or loathing could dissipate. But that was an issue for another time, right now she was perfectly content to look back at the house and wonder if Renee was up there watching her leave.
Renee had to know, right? This had been going on for nearly a year now and Renee was a literal detective for Christ's sake, she had to at least have an inkling. She was always unpleasant around Pamela, but had never actually broached the subject, so…what's a girl to do?
Pamela, like many little girls, had grown up with ambition. A plan, a calling. She was going to save the world! That was the idea, anyway. Until she got her PhD in biochemistry and realized using it for a noble cause was neither lucrative nor terribly rewarding. She simply didn't like people enough to attempt to save them. Profiting off their pain and sleeping with their wives was the much easier slope to slip down.
Pam headed towards the entrance of the Kane estate; her car nearly silent as it crept towards the end of the long driveway bracketed by a pair of slightly overgrown hedges and some rather eccentric looking gargoyles. As she approached it, the gate opened in front of her without Pam being in range of the sensor…the wrought iron giving way to the vehicle Pam immediately recognized as Renee's Cadillac, meaning she hadn't been home. Good. Pam nodded at her through the windshield, a gesture that was not returned, and with that she was back on the main road.
Her first job out of college had been working for a lab that analyzed soil samples near retired nuclear testing sites, trying to determine what—if any—vegetation could be made viable in that harsh environment, and how long it took before the ecosystem showed signs of recovery. Spoiler alert—the results weren't promising.
It was then and there Pam realized how much easier it was to destroy something than to build it back up again, and after a few more futile years of trying to lobby against the stockpiling, testing and utilization of nuclear energy as a weapon of war, she gave up, frankly.
"One new message from Selina Kyle," her car told her. "You get your rocks off yet? Quinzel and her manager are already here."
"Fuck," Pam cursed.
Yes, Pam would have loved to help save the world, but in her experience, after years of studying the effects of man-made climate change and gaining a holistic understanding of the impending doom on our horizon due to lifetimes of negligence, malfeasance and incompetence, she decided maybe it wasn't healthy to waste her life—a relative blip on the radar of human existence—trying to pull humans back from a tipping point that they refused to acknowledge.
"Reply," Pam commanded. "Put them in my office. There in 10."
And so…she began to freelance. Went from working for large agriculture firms, consulting on "sustainable farming practices", to GMO development, to food safety testing in conjunction with the FDA and CDC, finally making the odd jump to being contracted by the USADA (otherwise known as the US Anti-Doping Agency) before realizing that the money was in the people who weren't passing, not the ones who were.
That's when Bruce Wayne and Selina Kyle found her, and how she was introduced to the sordid world of boxing. Who knew punching other humans in the face for sport was such a dirty business?
Pam tapped her foot impatiently as the elevator ascended. For the record, she'd told Quinzel's team 3pm, not 2:30, and they hadn't exactly struck her as the punctual type so she assumed she'd have plenty of time for a house call. Now Pam was beginning to foster a personal vendetta against people who showed up egregiously early to things, it was just as inconvenient as those who were perpetually tardy.
Now, Pam had to give Bruce and Selina some credit, after the whole Antonio Diego debacle (which Bruce still claims no knowledge of), they cleaned house, cutting ties with the testing agencies that allowed Antonio to slip through the cracks pumped to the gills with a then very difficult steroid to detect called 'Venom'. It was Pamela's pioneering testing methods that initially found it, and so Bruce came to her directly, offering her about 3 times her USADA salary (plus what she was getting from those who had no business coming up clean) to work directly for his organization, aka the governing body of all east coast boxing leagues from the streetfighters to the professionals, headquartered in Gotham City. God, was that an unpleasant move.
The elevator doors inched apart and immediately there were words coming her way.
"Dr. Isley!"
"My God, Barbara!" Pam exclaimed as she crossed the lobby towards her office, passing Barbara where she stood at her desk. "You have to be a little less excited to see me."
"Sorry—so sorry." Barbara sat right back down. "Mr. Kerr and Ms. Quinzel are already in your office with Ms. Kyle."
"I'm aware of that, Barbara, thank you," Pam assured her. "Get them some Mountain Dew or whatever it is they drink."
Selina was leaning back against Pam's desk, her arms crossed, making the face that Pam recognized meant she'd rather not be having whatever conversation she was having with whoever was forcing her to have it.
In front of her sat a man and a woman, both appearing to have made themselves comfortable in Pam's leather armchairs. The woman Pam recognized from her research as Harleen (her tattoos looked even less thought-out in person), the man she'd only spoken with over the phone.
"Oh, Pamela, there you are," Selina greeted, looking instantly grateful at no longer being alone with these two. "Glad you could make it."
"Yes, well, it's not often I'm forced to come early to my own meetings." Her smile was tight as she closed the door behind her. "You must be Jared and Harleen."
"That's us," Jared said, not rising to offer her any formal greeting, not even a handshake. Harleen remained silent.
Excellent.
"Pleasure to meet you in person," Pam said, though she hoped her tone communicated the inverse as she circled behind her desk to sit down.
"I was just telling Harleen how happy we are she's joining our family," Selina smiled what Pam knew was a very fake smile. "I actually have a meeting of my own in a few minutes, so perhaps we start with compensation and I can leave you in Pamela's very capable hands for the athlete screening?"
"We want 50% of ticket revenue," Jared started in immediately, his vocal quality already grating.
"That's—," Selina stopped to force out an awkward laugh. "That's completely unreasonable."
Pam let her eyes drift away from Jared and his stupid black satin button down, deciding she could afford to zone-out during this aspect of the conversation. Harleen seemed to be in the same boat, her gaze trained on Selina's Jimmy Choos rather than engaged in the back and forth. Her leg bounced—nervously, perhaps—up and down up and down, the consistent tap tap tap something that only Pam seemed to be bothered by. She was pretty, not handsome like Kate, her features more delicate than Pam was expecting. Of course it helped that she was presently only marred with the remnants of a black eye and a slightly puffy lower lip. She'd looked much worse for wear in the scouting videos. Her eyes were big and blue and they continued to stare, unblinking, at Selina's shoes.
"I don't even get 50% of the ticket revenue and my name's on the damn business license," Selina was saying. "Best I can do is a guaranteed 15% with the option of additional compensation based on pre-sales."
"And that's on top of our pay for the match," Jared clarified.
"Yes," Selina confirmed. "This is the real deal, your money will be coming to you in a check after the contract is signed and the match is completed, not cash in a paper bag or whatever it is you're used to."
Jared rapped his fingers rhythmically on the leather armrest of Pam's chair, appearing to think that over, the metal of his rings scraping against each other. "Fine," he finally acquiesced. "But I want it in writing that Harley isn't some one-and-done warmup. I want multiple fights and I want her to go multiple rounds against Kane in this opener, you got that?"
"Wouldn't be much of a kickoff to the season if she went down after one, now would it?" Selina agreed, though it was clear she wasn't all too pleased with his tone. "And the contract will be good for 5 matches plus the lead up to a title fight, if she qualifies."
"And will she qualify?"
"There are more than a few factors that play into that decision," Selina was dismissive. "Let's just focus on putting on a good show next month, OK?" She blatantly checked her watch and then pushed off the desk, that was evidently her cue to exit. "I'll get the contract drawn up, and if she passes screening, I'll have it forwarded over to you." Selina paused in front of Jared, taking his hand to shake, not accepting any further disrespect for an answer, and even from Pam's vantage point she could tell his grip was weak.
Selina then moved on to Harleen, waiting to see if the younger woman would finally acknowledge her. She didn't. "Fantastic," she clapped her hands. "Well, I'm off. I look forward to seeing what you can do in the ring, Quinzel."
And just like that, Selina was gone, leaving Pamela alone with two characters her mother would probably describe as "unsavory".
"So," Pam began, sitting forward. "Perhaps a better introduction is in order. I'm Dr. Pamela Isley, and my responsibility here is multi-pronged. Firstly, my job is to scout fighters like yourself and determine their viability at this level of competition based on perceived liabilities attributed to…I'm sorry, am I boring you?" she trailed off when Jared let out a massive sigh, something she swore she saw Harleen flinch at.
"My girl came here for a drug test, not your life's story, sweetheart," Jared told her, having the audacity to roll his eyes as he did.
You slimy, G-Eazy looking mother— "Mr. Kerr, it appears you're under the mistaken impression that your penis elevates you to a station above mine."
Harleen suddenly clamped her hand to her mouth to stifle a laugh, earning a death glare from Jared in return.
So she's not a robot, then.
"It would only take a snap of my fingers for 'your girl' to never see the inside of a ring again," Pam warned. "This is not the foot you want to start our relationship off on, I promise. But sure, if you'd like to skip ahead—," she turned her focus to Harley now. "Do you have AIDS, princess?"
"No," Jared answered for her, Harleen's eyes remaining downcast.
"HIV? Hepatitis B or C? Any other known bloodborne pathogens or communicable diseases?
"No," he answered again.
"Well, we'll see about that…" Pam grabbed a file she'd preemptively labeled 'Harleen Quinzel' out of her desk, opening it to record her (his) answers. "Full name?"
Jared raised an eyebrow, glancing pointedly between Pam and the folder she was holding with the answer to her question. "Harleen Quinzel."
"Frances Quinzel. Harleen Frances Quinzel," she finally spoke. "But, uh, you can call me Harley. Everyone does."
Her voice was high and awfully girlish, her Gotham accent thick, an odd contrast to her scarred, tattooed body and the persona she portrayed in the ring.
"Ah, so she speaks," Pam mocked. "How tall are you, Harley?" she really preferred to engage with her rather than Jared. "How much do you weigh?"
"5'6", 150,"…back to Jared, again. "But she'll be down to 140 by next month."
"Good," Pam made a note. "Do you use any illicit substances?"
"Recreationally," was Jared's answer.
"Which ones?"
"Recreational ones."
"So…alcohol? Marijuana?"
"Among other things."
"How illuminating…Any performance enhancing substances?"
"Just caffeine," Jared's smile was mocking.
"Wonderful, well, we'll verify all that with some blood-work." Pam closed the folder, tucking it under her arm as she stood. "The testing will take place down in my lab. Harley, you come with me. Mr. Kerr, my assistant should be by momentarily with some Mountain Dew. Go ahead and make yourself comfortable, it's going to be a while."