I meant to mention that Damian Wayne is the Robin in this story. I thought it would be proper since the timeline should match up since about this time he and Josephine are roughly eighteen. I also wanted to claim my ownership over Ink and Firetongue. They are my creation and would like the public to know.
You guys, I appreciate your interest in the story, but I would really like to have a couple of reviews so that I know what you think: questions, comments or concerns are welcome, but no flames. They're annoying and make people dislike you. Don't be mean. You guys aren't mean people. You're good people; I mean, you're nice enough to read this chapter, right? Of course.
Without further ado, here is the fourth chapter…
P.S. Little bit of gore at the beginning. Skip it if you don't care for blood and the like….
Raise arm. Strike. Blood. Raise arm. Strike. Blood. Dead. Dodge. Raise arm. Strike more blood. Strike. Blood. Death. Strike Blood. Dodge. Blood. Blood. Blood. Blood.
Josephine's knife glinted from an invisible light as she wielded it against her opponents. They had no chance to dodge her attacks as she masked herself in the shadows of the abandoned toy factory. They were in what would be called the "living room" of her current dwelling. However the irony of its name would soon be fulfilled.
She struck another henchman. Down he fell. She sank into the shadows once more. Stealth recently had been a proper trade to learn in her way of Gotham. Her eyes and ears had been useful to her father as she resembled a bit more of citizen in her disguise than he ever could. Green hair did not exactly wear well during the business hours of industrial Gotham.
The other's surprised faces were progressively shifted to anger as they shouted obscurities into the blackness. This did not bother her. She was used to this ritual. When she had returned to the factory that evening after her failure, she received a note from her father with nothing else on it but its scrawled message, Kill them.
Josephine happily obliged when it was time to recycle the failed henchmen. Armed with her anger and shame from her previous encounter with the bat, she raised pointed the knife at her next target, and leapt from the shadows once more. The dagger pierced his heart, and he had little time to recover before she had climbed onto his back and slit his throat. With a loud gurgle, he sank to the floor in a pool of blood.
And then there were two. By this time, the finalists in her previous slaughters would team together against her with expression of shock and even sometimes hurt streaked on their faces. All she could do was smirk. They brought it on themselves. Deliver them from their own mistakes.
She lifted the knife and charged, sliding out of the way of a punch and stabbing him in the spinal cord. The other, tried to grab her arm, but failed as she also cart wheeled out of reach and threw a fatal blow. The two joined their comrades in the red sea.
The Clown Princess sheathed her knife and stared down at her feet, which had been soaked a rust color. Her reflection shone, the color of her countenance drowned in the crimson, except for her skin's porcelain shade.
The Batcave was filled in Arabic swearing and announcements of imminent revenge. As Damian undressed himself, he violently threw his uniform dangerously near the garbage. He had never been so angry. He was close this time. So close. He wanted to get her. Wanted to throw her in that appalling establishment whose name carried with it a sick and demonic past. For years, he wanted this and whenever they did accomplish this byzantine task, she would escape.
If the League of Assassins dealt in Gotham, we would not have to reproof any sort of problem ever again, he reminisced over his background and training.
He stared towards the mainframe where Bruce Wayne was seated and searching for whereabouts of the Joker. This sort of thing, this whole justice his father claimed was a strange lie to him. No murder, only justice. He was not even allowed to take an eye for an eye to punish his enemies, or even a hand. Death was most certainly earned by most, especially that cheating devil, The Joker and his spawn.
He changed into civilian clothes, the fabric's scent still strange to him even after nearly six years getting used to his new life in Gotham. There had been so many changes. Learning about his father, his father's death, training with Grayson, then the reappearance of Bruce…it was topsy-turvy. There had been a stronger flood of emotions than he expected.
Bruce typed loudly as rapid pace.
Damian was still understanding this man called father. After not having one and being content with that, he still felt tossed through a loop every time his father made decisions for him: Most about what to do with criminals. It was not as he expected, or dreamed of when he learned his father was Bruce Wayne. The man in his image was ruthless and sought the answers, a man of vengeance. This man was him.
For his first two years in Gotham, he trained with Grayson. His previous master had been a bit lighthearted and annoying for Damian's like at first. But he had come to respect him. Truly, he was a student of Bruce Wayne. When Damian dawned the Robin cape, he felt worthy of it.
But since then Grayson had returned to Blüdhaven in his earlier presence as Nightwing.
Tim Drake was gone to university elsewhere as Red Robin.
Things were constantly changing.
He approached the mainframe to find a mug shot of Josephine Quinzel taken from two angles holding her Arkham number.
Bitch, he thought to himself.
"We took in two of her cohorts to Blackgate and the majority of the armory seems to be still in place. I called Commissioner Gordon. He and his police squad are inspecting it for traces of which mob it belongs to."
"And Quinzel?" He asked sourly.
"Gone, but I can't find a trace of her. Most likely she is at one of the old hideouts. She only took two guns with her. Right now, all we can do is wait for her first move."
"Wait? You know where she is. There's obviously something we can do. We can go out and drag her back to that asylum where she belongs. If we were in the League, we-"
"We are not in the League of Shadows, Damian. I never was. I think it will be best if you drop your allegiance to that organization. Remember, you made the choice to stay and serve under me."
"Maybe that was a mistake. Maybe I belonged there more than Gotham."
Here was the argument again. Tongues lashing at each other trying to see which hurts the other worse. It was been especially tense lately. Emotions kept on end now that they were the only two left in the Batcave. Drake had left. Gone somewhere he could establish himself as the first Robin had, except he would be the Red Robin.
Before Damian could further repudiate the family title, Alfred entered the black abyss. Tall, distinguished, and a bit gray, he stood stately until the two recognized his presence.
"Master Bruce," he began, "I hate to interrupt sir," he gave Damian a look of despair, "but I must remind you that the musical arrangements need to be finished for the ball."
"Ball, Alfred?"
"The Masque Ball, sir? You have forgotten it haven't you? Should I better cancel it?"
"No," the Dark Knight tore off his cowl and placed it on a table nearby. The poor lighting revealed Bruce Wayne, his face orange beneath the lighting. "I haven't forgotten it. Keep it on schedule. Batman may have duties, but so does Bruce Wayne. Besides, we need to encourage the patrons to give to the charity."
He turned to leave the Bat Cave, but Damian followed him. He clenched his fists, sticking to his side as his best.
"And you," Bruce wheeled on his son, "We're not finished yet."
Josephine's murdering tirade brought on an adrenaline that could not be quenched with sleep. It left her with a puckish spirit, not detained by anything but a short night on the town, and perhaps, a chance meeting.
The Iceberg Lounge was a well-known sweet spot for the elite during the day.
At night, the story was very well reversed.
It was still a hot spot for the elite, but the opposite side of the fence arrived to take over. Yes, villains, super-villains, small rogues, and sometimes highly paid henchmen made appearance at the extravagant venue. They drank their sorrows away along with their ill-earned adventures with a flying rodent. Yes, the bartenders did not get paid well enough to hear the stories over and over again.
"I almost got 'em," they always seemed to say. The good bartender was pleasant, of course he was paid to be, and eagerly took the money and refilled their drinks until they were portly intoxicated in which they would start a fight and be thrown from the establishment. Mr. Cobblepot, better known as the Penguin, would warn them never to return on the grounds of being barred. However, when the next moon rose, all was forgotten and all were engaged in the same cycle.
Josephine entered the double doors of the facility without much trouble. Penguin's associates knew her by face and knew better than to stand in the way. Even if she was only eighteen.
"Ah Josephine," greeted the Penguin once she'd settled into a table alone.
"Mr. Cobblepot," she replied cordially. She was never rude to him. He liked her well enough and did not prejudice against her for being the mad ass clown's daughter.
"You're here later than usual. No one else with you?"
"No one this evening."
She picked up a menu, eying nothing in particular. She was merely passing the time whilst a nosy couple passed them, obviously disgusted with her presence. The Penguin's eye passed over them with a fake entrepreneur smile.
Once they passed, she leaned in toward him. He leaned in turn, desperate to hear some gossip on the slow night. It had not been a proud couple of weeks for thievery for the Emperor Penguin.
"I wonder if Ichabod is here," she said softly, "if so, could you tell him that Katrina is here for him?"
The Penguin relaxed, understanding her completely. "Very well, I shall deliver the message immediately. May I offer you something while you wait? We have some excellent vodka mixes tonight, especially since our best bartender has returned."
"Jean Parie is here again?"
"Yes, fortunately the court found my best investment not guilty in that ill-fated embezzlement case with Wayne Enterprises."
"A toast to that." She smiled. "But, I don't have a glass."
"My apologies. The best wine for you, my dear."
Josephine settled into her chair a bit more. Being a criminal did pay off for well-mannered underage youths with a taste for fine wine.
A scantily clad waitress brought her the fine crystal. She sipped, savoring the taste. It was sweet, red wine. Not too sweet, bitter, but altogether delectable. She seized a few sips more whilst she watched the crowds around her.
The lounge was unusually empty. Very quiet. Slow nights were uncommon but not completely irrelevant. Something must have happened to brush up the usual crowds.
Josephine seized more of the addictive liquid. The warmth spread throughout her body and she felt herself relax more. Her sore spots from earlier were slowly beginning to drift away into a bad memory.
Soon, the Penguin returned with a small smile on his face. "Mr. Ichabod is here to see you."
"Excellent." She set the crystal on the white clothed table. She stood and followed him down to the lower level where the bar stood near the seal attraction. "Cobblepot, what's going on here? Usually there are loads of people by this hour. Have I scared them all off?"
"No, the Bat was seen around here. As usual the crowds have vanished too. If I get my hands on that rodent, I'll ring him for every cent he's cost my business."
"I'm sure you have nothing to worry about. A little printed birdie told me that this was the finest establishment in Gotham."
As he walked, the Penguin preened at the compliment. She did know how to smooth his feathers.
Dr. Jonathan Crane sat in his usual spot. Straight middle. Aware of the people around and sipping on a nice Chardonnay.
"Thank you, Mr. Cobblepot," Josephine addressed, bowing slightly to him as he wandered to other guests.
"Very well, yes, very well," still under the drug of her influential words.
"Professor," she began.
"Miss Von Tassel, I presume," he said, still not looking at her. When he turned, his eyes were void of amusement. Instead, the bottle glazed over the intelligent blue eyes. "Must we still use these codes?"
"For me, yes. It is important. We don't want the wrong ears listening in on the conversation, yes."
"Of course."
"Rough night, sir?" She took the vacant seat next to him.
"Nightwing,"he grunted.
"Back from Blüdhaven, I see," she stated as a matter of fact. "The holidays brought him, certainly. The experiments are they-"
"No, I managed to salvage some. He could not destroy the entire toxin. We will have to make more for the next experiments." He took another drink.
"He did not harm you then?"
"No, I managed to escape. I used some of the vanishing smoke you sometimes use. There was a pellet on hand." His lip turned up in a shadow of a smirk. Josephine relaxed.
"When is a good time for me to assist you?"
"Tomorrow will be fine. We will work in the day, so that the bat does not catch us."
"Speaking of the bat," she rubbed her shoulder, where is started to ache again.
"You had a run in with him?" His voice was well controlled but there was a hint of concern there.
"Yes," she was going to say more, but the Professor was not exactly a favorite of her father's. He was not allowed to know his plans, ever. Nor did the Joker know about her tirades with the Scarecrow…
"Are you alright?"
"Yes, some bruises and scrapes but I'll be fine to work tomorrow. Thank you for your concern." She rubbed her injured shoulder self-consciously. She did not know why but she found his eyes still glued to the spot. His hand flickered toward her but she thought she might have been wrong; it was probably a trick of the light or alcohol.
"Professor, I think its best that I go home if we are to meet early tomorrow. What time did you say would be best?"
He paused to think. "Noon. Not too early, but plenty of daylight to be safe."
"You won't let the mob get anywhere near the hideout will you?"
"My dear, you always underestimate my abilities. I can take care of myself without you constant protection." He brought the drink to his lips, sipping so softly before setting it back down, a glint in his eye.
Josephine smiled. "I'm glad you find my services so rewarding, doctor, and that I'm not useless as I sometimes feel I am to your impeccable mind."
His look became serious. "You should never think that. Your services are very much appreciated, as always. I may never say so, but these days I don't think I could do this without you."
"Professor, please don't say that. I'm an assistant. You're the planner. The engineer. The Master of Fear. There is no limit to your abilities. The toxin is finally being strong enough to use in a more advantageous situation. We only have to wait a little longer. You will be rewarded for what you do." She paused, unable to meet his gaze. "But I am grateful for your faith in me. You do not know how much that does mean to me."
"Your talents have not been appreciated as of late, I see. But, here is not the place to discuss that. We will reconvene at a more private location tomorrow. I must bid you farewell, my dear."
He stood, leaving the thousand colored crystal on the bar. She stood as well. He offered his hand. She took it. He held it instead of shaking it. For only a moment, then the contact broke. He turned to walk back to his lonely warehouse near the Narrows. And she, to her factory and The Joker.