“Sorry I’m late, folks.” The new DA barges into the room then saunters to his seat next to Rachel Dawes- one of Brucey’s old flames. I’m sitting toward the back of the courtroom in the area reserved for diplomats and the like [ah, the perks].
It’s the trial for Salvator Maroni: one of the mob leaders in Gotham. Of course, I know him, having run into him a few times at the Gore, maybe played a few games of poker…but the innocent emissary from England, Lenore Nevermore has only heard of him.
The courtroom is mainly silent, save a few murmurs from the front of the room- Rachel and Harvey deliberating over something.
“All rise.” I hear. I stand, of course, a respectful smile on my face. I always smile when I’m a diplomat.
“The honorable judge Freel preciding.”
I yawn under my black gloved hand and glance at the clock: it’s going to be a long morning. We sit back down and I manage to zone out for most of the trial until Dent says some witty remark or other and then Rossi, some petty thug, behind the witness stand claims that Maroni’s a fall guy and he’s the real brains of the organization.
Please, Maroni. Resorting to this guy to clear your name? Things are quite worse for the crime scene than I thought…
“Permission to treat the witness as hostile?” Asks Dent, looking briefly at the judge. He nods, turning to write something down. “Permission granted.”
“Hostile? I’ll show you hostile!” Then this smug punk with this cruddy flanel jacket on pulls a gun on Dent. A Carbon fiber, .28 Caliber, China made, might I add. I gasp with the rest of the courtroom. Harvey hesitates only for a moment, then grabs the gun out of Rossi’s hand and punches him. The courtroom police grab Rossi and wrestle him out toward the door.
Dent turns on his heel to face Maroni, spouting out the type of gun, showing off…I suppose I’d do the same, then he says, “You want to kill a public servant, Mr. Maroni, I recommend you buy American.”
Clever. The whole courtroom chuckles nervously, glad for the release of tension. Dent sets the gun down on Maroni’s table (after unloading it), then turns back as if to question the witness some more.
“Get ‘im outta here.”
Dent protests, “But your honor, I’m not done!” The crowd in the courtroom claps appreciatively, politely. I just scoff to myself, clapping politely anyway. Who does this Dent think he is? The judge calls for a recess and the court slowly trickles out. I wait. I’m going to meet this Dent. Stepping down from the slightly elevated area where my fellow consuls and I are permitted to sit, I place my left hand on the back of the glossy cherrywood bench in front of me and face toward the aisleway. Maroni is escorted out by his lawyer, then the rest of the courtroom empties, save Dent and his team.
As Rachel and Dent are leaving, I catch Rachel’s eye. We’ve never really cared for each other. Perhaps it’s because she hurt Bruce, and I, being Bruce’s honorary older sister, am obliged to dislike anyone who breaks his heart. She smiles pleasantly. It’s a fake smile, but a smile nonetheless.
“Lenore, so good to see you…may I introduce you to Gotham’s new DA, Harvey Dent?”
A ladylike smile slips across my lips as I extend my hand in greeting. Handshake. His grip is firm, strong, just as a man of justice’s should be. He meets my eyes, this smile behind his tired ones, as if he’s delighted to meet me.
“So you’re the famous Lenore Nevermore. Forgive me for not seeking you out sooner. As you can imagine, it’s been pretty busy around here, what with Sally and all.” [he means Maroni].
“You’re quite the DA, Mr. Dent. That was a wonderful performance you gave today. And no, the fault is mine. I’ve been meaning to drop by to see you, but a few complications arose.”
Rachel leans over to Dent and whispers, “The Joker burned down her apartment and killed her chauffeur. I can only imagine she’s next.
I pretend not to hear her. Dent nods once, and without missing a beat ask, “Perhaps some time the three of us should meet for lunch? I’d love to hear about the crime scene in England,” he says with a slight laugh.
“That sounds delightful. We must do this soon. Forgive me, I must be keeping the two of you. Be expecting an invite in the post, will you?”
“Of course,” Smiles Harvey.
“It would be an honor.” Adds Rachel, then she pats him on the back and we exchange our goodbyes and they walk away, leaving me in an empty courtroom.
The doors close behind me and I swallow, gripping the back of the bench tightly, my knuckles going white. I’ve been here before.
The room’s closing in on me. I’ve locked my knees. Retreat, retreat, I tell myself, but my feet won’t move. Images swirl around my head, infecting my mind, a gentle poison.
A hand on my shoulder— too tight for comfort. I’m seven years old. The grip is suffocating, but he won’t let me leave.
“Let go,” I rasp, and I turn my head— a man, face covered in blood, a bullethole through the left of his forehead.
He deserved it. He deserved it. I keep telling myself this, repeating it over and over. My breathing is labored and I’m gasping, gulping for air. His blood drips on my hand. Drip, drip, drip. It’s painted red.
“I won’t! I won’t go with him, your Honor.” The words won’t form. I’m petrified. A knife to my throat. I scream. Everything goes black.
Some days, I manage to pull myself together enough to pull of the elegant look. Sort of necessary when you’re an ambassador…
Source: forever-miinee
BANG. I hit my target head on. BANG BANG BANG. One bullet after the other, straight into the chest of the moving dummy. Then pops up a policeman dummy, and I shoot him without a second thought. Soon, the room is filling with smoke, brought on by Red’s computer programs. Then, a robot built to be exactly like Batman swoops down. It’s a little slower than the bat and a lot louder, but it works, and as long as Red’s controlling the remote, our little robot is almost as difficult to fight as the Bat.
His mechanical arm pulls back swiftly- he’s about to punch me, so I raise my right are in a block, then counter with my left— punching up and under to his gut. Red’s cameras must have seen my attack coming because he grabs my left fist and twists it to my left. I move my body so that my arm isn’t wrenched out of it’s socket, then snake my right leg behind his left, slamming my heel against the space directly behind his kneecap. One knee falls, then the other, and he rolls out of the way and disappears into the thick smoke.
Everything is silent. I hear nothing but my own breaths. I stand there, weight on the balls of my feet, fists up near my chin in fighting stance, ready to spring out of the way. I’m not wearing my wings or any of my gear, so I’m at a slight disadvantage. It’s just me, my gun, and my bare hands.
I hear the whoosh of a cape to my right, but I don’t move. Sometimes, Red likes to play with my ears— something about not relying “on any one of your senses too much in case they get blasted away.” A flash of black catches my eye, but still I don’t move. It was a light trick because, behind me, I feel someone’s presence.
Shifting my weight onto one foot, I engage in a roundhouse kick, swinging my combat booted foot and planting it on his face. He’s knocked back, startled. Spurred on by my victory, I pounce on this mechanical beast-bat, wrapping my legs around his waist. I’m hanging there, using my legs and core strength to keep my head just barely out of his reach. My stomach is burning, my back slightly arched as I bend backwards, then place my hands on the ground and release my legs from around his waist, springing into a backflip.
Gunshots sound behind me and I’m suddenly distracted. I pull the Ghost from my belt and fire in the direction of the shots. It’s a police dummy. I can’t see much through the smoke, just his outline every so often whenever the smoke clears.
One of my fatal flaws is that I get distracted easily and it’s more difficult for me to focus on multiple enemies, rather than just one. I start heading after the man with the gun, seeing him as more of a threat than the bat. Big mistake. While I’m being shot at, I shoot back, soon hearing the familiar sound of a bullet hitting its mark. But I have no time to register my triumph because something hits my head. It’s mechanical bat’s giant fist.
Stars blur my vision and I see black. I fall to my knees. I’m fading fast, so I take the Ghost and just unload every bullet into the Bat’s mechanical chest. Then, Red’s groans sound over the speakers throughout the training room. “I told you not to shoot him!” But nothing registers because I’ve been hit on the head a little too hard. Swaying from side to side, I finally collapse and allow myself to fall to the floor, easing the impact of my fall by calculating the angle of my fall so that my head lands on my arms. I’m down.
Sitting here on my bed in the guest room, I’m staring straight ahead out the colossal window at Gotham’s skyline. The view is not as good as my own at the Crow’s Nest, but it’s not bad.
I swallow, my elbows resting on my knees, head cradled in my hands. I just want to get drunk. I need to forget. But I’ll only be able to forget for a little while, then everything will come crashing down again the next day. I almost want to cry. I’m dissatisfied with life and Alisdair’s death is really grating on me. I’ve never been this hormonal before. It’s almost as if I’m pregnant, but I haven’t slept with anybody in a long time.
“Alfred!” I yell out the door of my room, forcing myself to get up and walk into the kitchen.
“Lenore, it’s two o’clock in the morning. What is it?”
Of course, the man’s up and is sweeping the kitchen. Does he ever sleep? Dragging my feet, I collapse on the floor, dramatic as ever. Alfred rolls his eyes, attempting not to smile.
“Do you have any alcohol? I need something really strong that will knock me out for weeks.” Say I, sitting there pitifully on the beautiful marble flown in from Italian rockyards.
“Lenore, you don’t need any alcohol. You need to get some rest.”
“Bah. I don’t understand the word.”
Alfred is about to respond when we both hear the door opening and someone humming a song by Frank Sinatra. Witchcraft, maybe? The tune is a bit indistinguishable. I jump up and run to the door.
“Brucey!” I exclaim, attacking him with a giant hug.
“Are you drunk?” He asks, despite the fact that he’s hugging me back.
“No, Alfred wouldn’t tell me where you kept the bloody liquor. Talk some sense into that man, please.” I unwrap my legs from around him and drop to my feet, having jumped into his arms because I could. Then, I notice that he’s in an exceptionally good mood. “Who is she?!” I ask, knowing that with Bruce, only one thing makes him happy, and that’s women.
“Her name’s Renee.”
My Renee? As in Red…? As in psychopathic villain Renee?
“Oh? What’s she like?”
“She’s…different than other girls. She’s just…different. But a good different.”
Yep. That sounds like my Renee. “Where does she live? I might know her.” If I know Red, she didn’t give out a last name.
“Um…1600 Landing Apartments.” Says Bruce, barely having to think about it. Man. He really likes her. And yes. That is my Renee.
“Hmm. I don’t think I know her.” I tap my finger against my chin repeatedly. “You’ll have to introduce me sometime, will you?”
“Of course. If she stays around, I mean.”
“Oh, she’ll stay around.” I murmur, a slight grin on my face.
“What?”
“Oh, nothing. Well, I’m going out to get drunk. You have fun with Mr. Teetotaler over there.” Saluting them, I run into the guestroom and grab my black duffel bag, getting ready to head to the Warehouse and perhaps later, the Gore.
“Don’t expect me back tomorrow until late. I’m heading to a friend of mine’s house. Didn’t want you to worry.” I’m almost out the door when I hear Alfred calling my name.
“Lenore, remember that the Joker’s put out a threat against your life. Please be careful.”
Not too much to worry about there… “I will be. Thanks for your concern. I’ll call to check in later if I have a chance.”
“My guess is she’ll be otherwise occupied.” Murmurs Bruce, eying my duffel bag. I glance down to see just why he’s looking at it, and I notice a few pieces of rather sexy lingerie hanging out the side. I laugh, then subtly tuck the things into the bag.
“If you must know, Brucey, I’m headed to a female friend’s of mine.”
A smirk rests on Bruce’s lips. “I didn’t know you played for that team…”
My mouth opens to say something witty, but nothing comes to mind, so I glare at him for a moment then say, “You know what I mean!”
“We still love you, Lenore, no matter your sexual preference!” Exclaims Bruce.
Turning to Alfred I say, “Alfred, please close your eyes for just one moment.”
Without missing a beat, he says, “I’m blind. I never see a thing.”
Then, I turn back to Bruce and flip him off. Alfred lets out a slight chuckle.
“Have a lovely evening, Brucey!” My subtext being, “Fuck you, Brucey!”
He sticks his tongue out at me then shoos me out. Rolling my eyes, I close the door behind me and make a mental checklist in my mind to be sure I have all of my possibly incriminating items with me. Good. To the Warehouse it is.
Glancing behind me, I make sure I’m not being followed then drive down the alleyway to Gotham Gore. By now, tears have been streaming down my cheeks for quite a while and I’m sure have given my skeleton makeup a melting sort of look. I pass a few of my acquaintances on the way, arms tucked around cheap whores or clutching liquor bottles hidden away in paper bags.
I’m furious now. How DARE that man kill Alisdair without any reason! Is he just trying to make me angry? I swerve to a halt, fuming, lock up my motorcycle, then take off my helmet, shaking out my hair. I grab my makeup bag and bolt into the bathroom. Not too bad, just a few tear streaks. Quickly, I touch up the skull, then run out the door, throw my crap onto the Vixen, then throw open the doors, shooting the Ghost in the general direction of the smoke, calling all attention to me.
“Lovely evening, isn’t it?” I rasp.
“Evening, Raven,” say a few of them, speaking amidst catcalls and whistles.
“I have a proposition for all of you: Drinks on the house if you promise to go out there and plunge Gotham into chaos. Bring the Bat to me!” Cheers erupt all over the Gore.
“Bones!” I say, “All drinks on the house. I’ll cover it.”
So let this night be a reign of terror. I make my way to the bar and slip Bones a stack of hundred dollar bills. I order my usual— A Black Russian with more vodka than coffee liqueur.
Taking a swig, I grin as the burning liquid slides down my throat then look down and begin reloading the Ghost. As my attention is on my pistol, I don’t notice anything unusual. But when I turn back to my drink, I find a single playing card. The Joker’s mark. That bastard. What the hell does he want?
“Come out, come out wherever you are…” I growl, gun in one hand, taking a swig of vodka from the other. His laugh sounds in my right ear, then my left. He’s in front of me, behind: he’s attempting to disorient me. It won’t work.
“How dare you.” My voice is low and threatening. Cackles answer.
“Why’d you do it? What did Alisdair do to you?”
“The same thing Harley does to you, darling.” He’s behind me now, his body pressed against my own, his right hand across my front, resting on my pale collarbone. His mouth is merely centimeters away from my ear, his breath tickling the side of my face. I force myself not to react, even though my heart is pounding and I want to stay in his arms forever.
“And what is that?” I ask with a grunt, elbowing him hard in the stomach. He flies backwards, laughing maniacally. He doesn’t answer.
“So Alisdair’s death was for revenge?” I exclaim, then shoot in his direction. He’s become a professional at dodging my bullets. Either that or have I become a professional at not hitting him?
My statement causes him to laugh harder. “Harley Quinn means nothing more to me than an occasional good…time.” He says.
“Then why did you kill Alisdair?” I shriek, accenting all of my words with a bullet toward his head. Instead, I end up shooting one of the Penguin’s unfortunate cronies.
“Jealousy!” He cackles, then tosses one of his laughing gas bombs in my direction, filling the air with toxic chemicals. Coughing, I cover my mouth, drink still in hand, and run out the door, clambering onto the Vixen, start her up, then head to the Warehouse, cursing the Joker all the way there.
Zooming down the street in the Vixen, Alfred’s call begins to register with me. “Alisdair’s dead.” He had said. “The Joker left his card.”
Why would the Joker kill my chauffeur? Alisdair was familiar with my secret identity. Aside from Red, he was one of my closest friends. Well…maybe “friend” isn’t the best way to describe our relationship…for a time, we’d been lovers.
Joker was out of line. Was Alfred sure? Was my Alisdair really dead? Tears began to well up in my eyes. That bastard. That fucking bastard!
“Raven! Where you headed?” Yelled Red, following me. Thankfully, as I was hidden under my helmet, she wouldn’t be able to see my tears. I gestured forward, then used a hand signal we had created that meant “home.” Meaning, I would meet her back at the warehouse. She gave me a thumbs up, then swerved off in a different direction.
Finally, after what seemed like years, I ended up at Bruce’s penthouse. There was no way I could do this subtly. It seemed I would have to make a little chaos. Using the gadgets Red had created, I clambered up the side of the building, finally making my way to the top of the penthouse. I ran in, grabbed the phone and a tank of gasoline from the kitchen [why Brucey had gasoline in that kitchen I’ll never know…] then zipped out to the balcony. Thankfully, no one had seen me. Then, I jumped off the roof, wings out, and floated to the bottom of the apartment complex. I poured the gasoline around the whole building, then flicked a match on the fuel before getting out of there as fast as I could.
I passed my car on the way out and let out a scream to the world.
“JOKER I’M GONNA KILL YOU!”
“Thank you— Gotham City is mine tonight!” I cry, all trace of a British accent gone. [helps to keep my identity a secret].
“Kindly note that if any of you move, the whole place goes up.” I motion to one of the detonators in my hand which Red was so kind to set up earlier.
“And please don’t think the Bat will be able to save you, either. My friends are taking care of that one.” Carefully, I back to the door of the vault and break my way through in about two minutes. Slower than usual. I stuff my black duffel bag full of 100 dollar bills. I don’t really need the money, but what’s a criminal in Gotham if they don’t at least steal a little cash?
Heading out of the vault, I see movement out of the corner of my eye: one of the tellers has decided to be brave and is coming after me with a…is that a paperweight? Without blinking an eye, I shoot three rounds into their chest.
“Thank you for your cooperation,” say I, then throw open the doors to the bank, next I handcuff the two doorhandles together. That should hold them for a little while.
“Bats, where are you?” I sing, calling out to the sky. I walk over to Harley and stand above her, making sure she’s still asleep. Then my phone starts buzzing. Why the hell is my phone buzzing at this time of night? I glance at it, realizing it’s my work phone— the one I use for my diplomatic, Lenore Nevermore self. Why is THAT phone buzzing at this time of night…er…morning…?
Who the— it’s Alfred. Why is Alfred Pennyworth calling me now? Then it clicks. I’ve left my villanous phone at Bruce’s. DAMN. DAMN DAMN DAMN DAMN. How could I have been so stupid?!
I answer the phone. “Hello?” My voice is crackly, as if I’ve just woken up— British accent back on.
“Lenore, sorry to bother you, I realize that this is an ungodly hour to be calling you,” [in London it’s 6:01 am]. “But your chauffeur, Alisdair, has been killed. A Joker card was attached to his lapel. I wanted to let you know because I’m afraid the Joker may be coming after you next.”
“Thank you for your concern, Alfred. I’ll be home as soon as I can wrap things up here. Alisdair’s will is in the secret compartment in the car.”
“Of course. Be safe.”
“Thank you.” I hang up the phone. As soon as I’m done here, I’ll break into Bruce’s and get my other phone. Thankfully, all the contact names are coded, but the questions that gadget could bring…! Then, I shoot in the direction of a pedestrian. Behind me, I hear an explosion: Gotham Inn. Then, Red comes shooting out of an alleyway, followed by Batman. Soon, they’ve made their way onto a fire escape, having a knockout dragdown session of death.
Harley moans beneath me and flutters her eyes. She groans and attempts to stand up. I stomp my foot on her stomach, holding her down.
“Raven! Let me take a crack at her!” I hear, then I turn to see the new girl, Miss, running toward me.
“I can handle this pitiful bitch. Anyway, I want her ALIVE for this.” Then I land a kick to her side. Her eyes flutter open and she jumps up into a fighting stance.
“You’ve been learning from the Cat, haven’t you, Harley?” She throws a scratch at my face, I duck, then retaliate with a punch. No sissy catfights for me.
“Yeah, cats eat birds, Raven!” She laughs, then groans when the punch lands on the right side of her face.
“The Joker doesn’t love you, Harley. He just uses you. He’s a manipulative bastard. You don’t want to get involved with him.” Low blow, but it’s true. Angry, she punches me directly in the stomach. I was distracted by Miss’s cackling like a maniac and clicking the detonator over and over again. Nothing happens. Damn. Batman must have found the source and disabled it.
“Not true! We were made for each other!” She squeals. BAM. I roundhouse kick her chin, cutting her off.
“I guess you’ll be going back to prison after this little fiasco.” I say, smug grin on my face.
“Raven, if the Joker just uses me, who’s to say that he won’t do the same to you?” She pouts, screaming her words in between punches and kicks.
“This isn’t about him. This is about you and me.” Then, I remember I have the Ghost with me. In a moment, I’ve pulled her out and shot Harley’s leg. She falls. The pain must be too great to handle.
“Watch her, Miss.” I order, hoping she’ll do as I ask. I glance up to where Red and the Bat are fighting. The Bat has somehow managed to corner Red. If she doesn’t do something soon, she’s going to fall backwards off that fire escape. I curse, then run below the fire escape. At least if she falls, I’ll catch her. I glance up to see Red clambering up the side of the building, then monkey barring across the fire escape attached to the other building as she shoots in the direction of the Bat.
“We’re out, bitches!” She laughs as the police begin to arrive. I grab the duffel bag of money, throw it to Miss, then jump on my motorcycle. I’ve got to get to Bruce’s.
Red. You and I need to organize a little chaos.
Preferably involving Harley Quinn. So we’ll be sure she gets caught.
