AN: Okay, I must be nucking futs, because I did decide to continue this; I was just getting too many other ideas. I'm still not sure about a few bits of future casting, so I'll just go with what I do have for now. I'd love more reaction, especially from the comic fans, so please spread the word. :) (Though I do know I have to be writing this for myself, not for reviews and eyeballs, and I am - I think I'll go nuts if I don't put down these ideas somehow...)
Hope the quality is keeping up for those of you who are reading this...
She screamed. It was a piercing, horrified sound that almost seemed to go through Batman's skull.
"Stop! Stop it! You fucking murderer!"
Batman ignored her as the vines dropped to his feet, brown and decaying. The large, toothed bulb that had been biting his arm (almost getting through the Kevlar-based armor) withered, collapsing in on itself like a rotting peach. The poison was starting to dissipate, but Batman kept the gas mask on; there was more than a little herbicide to worry about breathing in.
Lifting his arm towards the sky, he fired his grappling hook, which attached itself firmly to one of the girders above. His thumb flicked a switch, and the hook began reeling itself in, pulling him upwards. In seconds, he was on the catwalk above, confronting her directly.
She was a shapely woman, her chest and pelvis wrapped tightly in layer upon layer of jade colored silk (no plant-derived cloth for her - not ever). Her long black hair was streaked with the occasional stripe of green, crowned with a circlet of woven branches, her bare feet smooth and supple, despite walking everywhere without shoes. She appeared to be a perfectly normal, if stunningly attractive, young woman, except for two features: her intensely emerald eyes, an unusual color for a person of her apparent racial heritage, and her lips, plump and almost bloody red, despite neither a surgeon nor lipstick ever touching them. These lips were now twisted with rage, these eyes blazing with hatred.
"It's over, Dr. Lopez," he said quietly.
"Fuck you, meatbag!" she shrieked. "Don't use that name with me again unless you want your appendix yanked out through your asshole!" Batman winced, the words reminding him much too much of his confrontation with Blaine Anderson.
"Where are the hostages?"
"You want them? Look for them yourself! They deserve whatever they get for raping this planet!" She crossed her arms defiantly, not even trembling as Batman approached her. "Fucking so-called 'entrepreneurs' and 'pillars of the community.' I'll be glad when every single one of you humans is in the ground, finally doing something useful: fertilizing the plants!"
"You're human too." He was closer now; he could reach out and just barely brush the tip of her nose.
"Fuck you!" She didn't back away, not even a step.
"This isn't the way..."
"Well, guess what, Frankenbat? I've tried all the other ways. Dozens of people have tried all the other ways. This is the only one left. No one listens. No one cares." She cocked her head, her enraged glare giving way to a small smile. "But you care, don't you? Maybe not about this planet... But about me."
He didn't answer her.
"Yeah..." Her smile grew wider, her voice lower, more sensuous. "You actually don't want me to get hurt, do you?" Now she was the one closing the gap between them, her bare feet practically gliding over the cold metal of the catwalk. "You've always been soft-hearted that way, haven't you?" Batman could feel his heart pounding despite himself as her body pressed against his. "It's strange... I can't seem to charm you the way I can most men. Are you really that strong-willed? Or...?" She reached up, slipping the gas mask off his face, wrapping her arms around his neck. Her breath tickled his chin. "All the times we've... met, and I've never even given you a kiss..."
It felt like he was drowning in the greenness of her eyes, wide and inviting.
Her lips quirked as she puckered, gently pulling his face towards hers. She didn't hear the soft hiss, but half a second later, her eyes widened, the beauty of their vibrant color ironically even greater in her surprise. "Oh," she whispered. Then the color, the green, vanished beneath her closing eyelids, and she slumped backwards into his arms.
Batman carefully lowered her to the floor, slipping the sedative back into his belt. He shook his head; that shouldn't have gotten so far, that shouldn't have been needed. But it seemed that her hold on men, even on one like him, was getting stronger each time they met. He made a mental note to impress this fact on Arkham's administration.
He straightened, rising to his full height. The night wasn't over; he still had hostages to locate, probably treat. But at least the bulk of the insanity was over.
Then again, there was always the next night. And the next.
David Karofsky was, of course, fashionably late to his own party. He simply breezed into the room, murmuring apologies. "Sometimes those little naps of mine get away from me. Sorry about that."
The Karofsky Foundation's annual charity gala was in full swing. The dance floor was crowded with tuxedos and designer gowns, the tables filled with fois gras and champagne flowing freely. It wasn't often that Gotham's elite was able to spend thousands of dollars a plate on a cause more worthwhile than putting a hand puppet into a Senate seat; even this even was mostly a means to feel good about moral failings, deflect negative publicity about falling wages and benefits, or just get on the front page of the Gazette as a "philanthropist." Still, David thought, money is money, and the causes it would go to didn't care about the whys.
But he hated this. He hated the schmoozing and the shallowness and the sheer fucking irrelevance of it all. He wasn't needed here; he was needed out there, amongst junkies and dirty alleys and other things that the people in this room paid a lot of cash to not have to see or even think about. But he'd learned long ago that he couldn't avoid things like this. "You are not Batman," William once said to him in a far blunter voice than he'd ever heard from the butler before. "You are David Karofsky, and he, in my humble opinion, is a far better person. And as David Karofsky, you have a responsibility to yourself and to Gotham that far outstrips putting on a suit and punching a mugger." David had sighed and grumbled, but in the end, how could he refuse William? He never could, not even as a willful kid.
He picked his way amongst the tables, grinning and greeting and pointing to men and women he frankly didn't give much of a damn about. "Dean! Good to see you! Isla, you look stunning tonight! Hey, Vic, glad you could make it!" He turned, and his smile turned into an actual genuine expression of pleasure. "Commissioner! Chief Flanagan! You got my tickets!"
Police Commissioner Russell Fabray and Chief of Police Rory Flanagan rose from their table simultaneously. The commissioner's graying blond hair was slicked back, shining in the overhead lights. "It was our pleasure," he said, firmly shaking David's hand.
"It was very kind of ye to invite us," the baby-faced chief added as he offered his own handshake, his lilting brogue not keeping him from being heard over the blaring dance music. "I don't mind telling ye, I don't think we have quite the salary for these kinds of events."
"Which is a shame, as far as I'm concerned. Our public servants deserve a lot better."
"Please repeat that to the mayor the next time you see him," Fabray chuckled. He paused for a moment, smiling as a young woman in a wheelchair rolled towards them. "Oh, there you are, honey! David, you remember my daughter Quinn?"
David gave an easy smile. "Of course." He leaned down and picked up one of her hands, kissing its back. "Enchante. Very good to see you again, Miss Fabray."
Quinn rolled her eyes. "Same here," she said with a hint of sarcasm. "So where's your latest boy toy?" She was used to the insults by now; David had insisted on them to separate the two in the minds of the public. She knew he'd never been fully comfortable allowing her in his world to begin with, but ever since the shooting... It was only after a lot of time and repeated reminders that she had been targeted as the Commissioner's daughter, not as his associate, that David let her continue to help him. And even then, this was one of the conditions he refused to budge on.
"Quinn..." the commissioner murmured.
"Oh, he's around here somewhere..." David replied airily. "Ah, there! Honey, come here!" He waved over a tall, handsome man with tightly curled-shoulder length hair. He had the barest facial fuzz (which made him look more charming than sloppy) and skin tanned by careful hours under a lamp. David took the man's hand at his approach. "This is... ah..." He frowned, snapping his fingers as he pretended to think. "Eduardo!"
"Armando," the man replied in a smooth European accent. His complete lack of apparent offense at the flub told David all he needed to know about Armando's motives: a few weeks in Gotham paid for by one of the richest men in the world. But then, that was exactly why David picked him up. His role was cheap at twice the price.
David never had a problem being openly homosexual. Considering all the other, more important things he was hiding, he could never bring himself to care much about that particular fact. Besides, he knew full well that a lot of the public still hung onto a lot of stereotypes about gay men - stereotypes that were annoying, but inordinately useful in creating an image that would cloak the important secrets, breaking any possible mental connection between his worlds, drawing attention away from his build and any slips in behavior. The gold diggers were an unfortunate but necessary side effect.
"Right." David laughed carelessly, wondering if only his ears could hear its hollowness. "We met a few months ago in Paris..."
"Brussels."
"Right. Anyway, he was in the area, so I told him to stop on by Gotham. He was going to stay at the Hilton, but come on! With all those nasty bedbugs and stains all over the place? I told him, you're staying at the Chatsworth and that's that! Penthouse suite and everything!" Armando had tried to angle for the mansion, but that, of course, had been out of the question. It didn't take much to satisfy him, though - just the ritziest hotel in the city.
"David is most generous," Armando said smoothly. A leer passed over his face as he regarded David, which made David's stomach turn, but he kept up the false smile. He was very good at that.
David grabbed a glass of champagne from a passing waiter and put it to his lips. As he did, his gaze wandered, as it was wont to do, looking for signs of trouble, analyzing escape and evacuation routes. It was only when his eyes passed the bar in the southwest corner of the room that they stopped dead.
A slender brown haired man in a tuxedo (one David immediately recognized as coming from a top designer - a brand new style) was leaning against the bar, sipping at his own glass of champagne and regarding the crowd in a way much like David was. Even from this distance, he could see the other man's sparkling blue eyes, the creaminess of his smooth skin, the slight purse of his lips.
Then the other man's head turned slightly, towards David. Their eyes locked.
David tore his gaze away, his heart pounding for some reason he couldn't fully fathom. He turned back to the somewhat curious looking commissioner and chief, forcing his smile to return. "If you'll excuse me, folks, I have the urge to dance." Before he could change his mind, he quickly grabbed Armando's hand. "Come on, Eduardo."
"Armando." He gave the others a small nod before David pulled him onto the dance floor.
David's mind was whirling. He had to resist the urge to look over his shoulder, back towards the bar. Why was he being like this? He faced down homicidal lunatics and gun-toting thugs practically every night, and a mere glance at this man sent him into a minor panic? Why?
The fact that he had no answer was the most terrifying part of all.
Quinn frowned.
"Something the matter?" her father asked with mild concern.
There was a lot, in fact, the matter. David's reaction just then was quite uncharacteristic. Perhaps she'd been dealing with him too long, with the cowl and the voice and the scowls. All that time, she thought she believed in one thing: that he was unshakable. Of course, that stolidity in times of stress had come at terrible cost, and she still exhausted herself trying to insert a lever into the titanium safe that was his emotions, no matter how futile she knew it was. To see him so... feeling, just by a glance (where? she wasn't able to see what he was staring at - damn chair)... It cracked every mental image she had of David. It chilled her to the bone.
"Nothing," she finally said to her father. She was somewhat sad to find how much better she was at this "lying to the face of a man she loved" business than she was when this all began. "It's just that... I can't believe someone like him is some kind of patron saint for Gotham. I just wish he'd take life more seriously." Quinn almost laughed out loud even as the absurd words escaped her lips; how many times had she, subtly or otherwise, pleaded with David to do the exact opposite?
"Don't be so hard on him, Quinn," Commissioner Fabray replied. "I'm sure his life has a lot of responsibilities neither you or I can even imagine. Besides, David's a good man. He's a lot stronger than you think."
Quinn looked up at him, startled; there was that errant thought again: does he know? Even when he was an arrogant, controlling, overbearing blowhard, he was still a damn good cop. And as one of Batman's oldest confidants... perhaps even friends... Could he possibly...?
She knew she could never ask. All she could do was watch as her father casually sipped his champagne.
In his private moments, Kurt laughed a lot at the carelessness of the rich. For all their material wealth, and concerns about keeping it, they could be stunningly sloppy, as though they thought, by very dint of their privilege, that they were untouchable.
Take this shindig, for instance. All he needed to get in was a good tux and a Photoshopped invitation. Not that he knew what the real invitations looked like, but what did that matter? A little charm, a little song and dance, a little waving around of the invitation, and the security guard utterly forgot that he never had a good look at the thing, allowing Kurt access with a smile and a "have a good time, sir."
And indeed, he was having quite a good time, as his eyes scanned the sparklies that passed by. Four point two carats, marquise cut... Very nice... Hmm, mediocre pearls at best, but still worth five figures easy... Tsk, tsk, cubic zirconium, and not even very convincing... I guess you or your husband had a few gambling debts, didn't you, dearie? He was on his second glass of champagne (and no more; he had to keep his wits about him, after all) when his eyes met his.
Well, well, David Karofsky, Gotham's favorite son. He'd seen the man on magazine covers and in gossip rags, of course, but this was the first time he'd ever seen him in person, and my, real life was even better. He was tall and handsome, though his tuxedo did nothing for the fine body that Kurt could tell was underneath. For a moment, just a moment, Kurt admired the view, thinking nothing of the famed manor in which he lived, of the treasures that undoubtedly lay within.
The spell was broken when Karofsky turned and pulled the blandly good-looking slug next to him onto the dance floor. Kurt shook his head in chagrin; what the hell was that about? Look at him, indulging in a crush like some schoolgirl. Distractions like that can get you killed, Hummel, he chided himself.
Nevertheless, perhaps this was a sign; it wouldn't do to be in Gotham and not at least try to cultivate the acquaintance of David Karofsky. If nothing else, he could be the key to the homes of his fellow rich and famous. And with Karofsky's reputation... well, the way into his confidence was clear.
He charged towards the dance floor, putting his empty glass onto the tray of a passing waiter without breaking his stride. Kurt straightened his bow tie and smoothed his hair flat as he wormed his way into the knot of dancers, fighting the urge to pick pockets (not the most dignified or profitable occupation, but these idiots just made it so easy and tempting!), until he saw them: Karofsky and Mr. Gigolo, swaying in each others arms.
Straightening his back, Kurt strode directly over to them, tapping Mr. Gigolo's shoulder. "Excuse me, may I cut in?" Without waiting for a response, he broke their hold, taking Karofsky into his arms and sweeping him away. Mr. Gigolo was so startled by the sudden intrusion that he only watched, gaping like a fish, as the two vanished into the crowd.
For his part, Karofsky didn't seem at all confused or startled, much to Kurt's grudging admiration. His lips quirked into a small smile. "Forward, aren't you?"
"Life is too short to not take what you want." The two danced in silence for a moment. "So you're David Karofsky."
"That's me. I'm afraid you have me at a bit of a disadvantage, Mister...?"
"Hummel. Kurt Hummel. I just moved here from Chicago."
"Ah. So how are you enjoying Gotham so far?"
"It's..." Prime pluckings, thank you very much. "Fascinating. Such a vibrant place."
Karofsky nodded. "It is. It's a shame with everything that goes on that more people don't realize it."
"But that's what events like this are for, aren't they?"
Karofsky's face seemed to light up. "Yes! I'm glad you understand. A lot of people don't remember how Gotham used to be, how it was when I was a boy. I want those days to come back. I want people to feel safe on the streets, to have everything they need to lead peaceful lives. I'm doing everything I can to make that happen." Kurt was startled to see how serious Karofsky's face had become during this speech. It was as though the playboy was slowly slipping away, revealing... something else? Karofsky seemed equally startled; the easy, lazy grin came back so quickly that Kurt almost thought that it was a deliberate front. "And getting all the champagne I can drink isn't bad either." He paused. "So what about you? What do you do?"
"Interior design. I'm hoping to form my own agency one of these days." After all, having a client list full of wealthy and powerful names would be quite advantageous. He'd never rob those people directly - that would be stupid - but having such innocent access to their friends and associates would be priceless.
"I'm sure you're good."
"I am. Maybe I can decorate your interiors one of these days." Kurt flushed as soon as he finished the sentence. Oh my God. Am I flirting? I cannot be fucking flirting. This is humiliating! To be fair, he had flirted many times before, but it was always business. So was this, but there was actual sincerity creeping into it... Kurt shuddered inwardly. Sincerity... If there was anything that was fatal in his line of work, it was that.
Karofsky chuckled. "Maybe I should take you up on that sometime. I'm sure you lay good carpet." Kurt snorted; it was lucky Karofsky was rich, because with that kind of "wit," he'd never get anywhere.
The song ended; he and Karofsky reluctantly (well, on his part, definitely not on Kurt's) parted, politely applauding the band with the rest of the crowd. And oh, there's Mr. Gigolo, finally trying to get his meal ticket back. This was obviously Kurt's cue to depart; after all, one of his most long standing mottoes was "always leave them wanting more."
Kurt stepped forward and laid a gentle kiss on Karofsky's cheek. He pulled forward, rubbing his face against the billionaire's, until his lips were millimeters from Karofsky's right ear. "I live in Gotham Towers. Penthouse suite. Look me up sometime."
With that, Kurt strode away confidently. He didn't have to turn around to know that Karofsky was staring after him; he could feel the gaze on the back of his head.
Sorry, Mr. Gigolo, he thought. Too bad you had to compete with a professional.
Kurt had a good feeling about this. Tonight, he felt in his bones, was an investment that would turn very profitable indeed.