Chapter Text
Gotham City is one of those cities that look good on postcards, however the reality is something else entirely.
The vast and green parklands overlooking the old and magnificent city eventually turn into the perfect place of exchange for sketchy individuals as soon as the night comes. The police sirens replace the laughs of the children when the darker times arrive.
It is not for lack of trying to make this city welcoming and safe. There is simply something about that city that is like mold. No matter how many times you attempt to get rid of it, it seems to only come back, spreading like a disease.
You understood the fatality of this city at an early age. At first, you actively participated and contributed to its development. You spent entire weekends and evenings volunteering at local groups, planting trees and flowers, raising funds for some cause or another… Over the past few years, it became apparent to you that people did not really care about Gotham City, not as much as you did anyway. The important littering and damaged properties, the lack of interest or funds from the Mayor, and the criminality rates constantly rising made you feel like you were losing your time, energy, and more importantly money.
Your finances were absolutely in the red, and your growling stomach was a sort of waking call. The bitter taste left in your mouth convinced you to follow a much different path. At the beginning, it started almost innocently.
A couple of years ago, while you were taking a break from leaving your job application at different shops of the mall, you met a man, obviously running away from something. After a brief eye contact, he hid in the bathroom, right behind you. Soon after, a police officer followed, out of breath. He looked around, scanned the place, and approached you. Promptly, he asked you if you had perhaps seen the thief, and gave you a brief description of the individual. You marked a pause, not exactly sure what to answer at the time.
The brave part of you got replaced by the resentment you had for the Gotham City police department that seemed to constantly give up on you. You denied ever seeing the man he was talking about. The police officer nodded, and left the floor. You waited until you could not see him anymore to head to the men’s restroom, where the thief was still hiding, panting, and holding a bag close to his body. You exchanged looks, before he angrily asked you what the hell you were looking at.
– There was a police officer looking for you » you replied.
– Did you tell him anything ? » he asked angrily.
– No, you nodded. Told him I didn’t see anyone. »
– For real ? » the man chuckled softly, then sighed in relief once you affirmatively shook your head.
– Thanks. I truly owe you one here, he pursued. Here, take this. »
The man handed you a 100 dollars bill. You paused a moment, wondering if it was right to take this money. Would that make me an accomplice ? You wondered. After a few seconds deliberating whether or not it was a good idea, you decided it was, and took the bill that you quickly put in your pocket. Without a word, the man left the bathroom, and you never met him again.
This brief encounter awoke something in you. It was not really the thrill of the crime that drove you, but how easy it was to make a living out of a system that seemingly never did you any justice. Since that day, you accepted all kinds of jobs, more or less sketchy, as long as they paid you well. You were as dedicated at your new « job » as you were volunteering for the city, and so you were making a decent amount of money. To be perfectly honest, you were good at what you did.
Some of your new tasks consisted of accompanying people and ensuring their safety during their meeting, delivering packages (of what, you were not absolutely certain aside from the fact that it was most probably illegal), robbing small shops, and other felonies of the sort. You were clean, meticulous, and trustworthy. The beginning of your new career was not easy; many people had issues dealing with a woman. But soon enough, the word spread around, and you became a coveted gem in the business.
There were no hard feelings when you worked. Only a contract, with terms and conditions, that both parties accepted. At times, you struggled recognizing the person you once were; in the mirror, there was only that cold, emotionless, perfectionist woman. This is what Gotham does to people, you supposed. After caring for a dying cause, it challenged your expectations in life. It was not out of malice either, it began from a place of need, and once it appeared clear how good you were at it, you stayed on that road.
Which brings us to today. In the feverish afternoon of August, you were heading to the Iceberg Lounge, a stylish and fancy bar where commoners like you usually went unnoticed. Many different kinds of souls populated the Iceberg Lounge, but none of them were truly of the good kind. Outrageously rich investors who most certainly knew where and how to use their money, mercenaries off duty waiting for their next order, some members of local mobs seemingly taking a break, felons of all sorts spying on each other, and even the occasional con artists looking for someone gullible enough to give them money in exchange of some sort of miraculous promises and arrangements composed the main part of the Iceberg Lounge, amongst other rich and spoiled teens, and more common people who had no clue about the danger present at every corner of the bar.
You recognized familiar faces, both people you worked with and against. There was some sort of unspoken truce when entering the Iceberg Lounge. After all, the place itself was owned by one of the most prolific and powerful criminals of Gotham City. One man who disliked nothing more than fights and arguments at his own home. And so, people treated that place with the respect it was due; both for the place, and the owner, who it would be unwise to mess with.
Sitting at your usual booth, you ordered your usual drink. You took a few sips of it, observing the crowd. It did not take long for a regular partner to join you with his beer. He sat in front of you and greeted you with a head shake. He was wearing a black bomber jacket decorated with a single patch on his left side; a vintage rose with a petal missing. You always wanted to ask the meaning it had.
– How are things ? » he asked.
– Same old. Got something for me ? » you answered calmly, almost uninterested. The man smiled. He put his two arms on the table, leaned towards you. He whispered:
– Heard something about a robbery. Something big. I would go, but my hands are tied with something else. Asked me if I knew someone to do the job, would get a commission if it works out. It’s a new boss, never heard of him –didn’t give his name either. » You raised an eyebrow. It sounded sketchy, but unusual.
– What would I have to do ? »
– Don’t know the details. You should see directly with them. »
– How much does it pay ? »
– Heard 10 thousands, could be more. Are you interested ? » You sat back in your seat, contemplating the offer. Participating in a bank robbery was not the easiest task, but you have been there before. Either way, the offer was appealing.
– Where ? » you finally asked. The man grinned, and wrote an address on a crumpled piece of paper.
– They’re meeting at the docks tonight. If you go, tell them I sent you » he concluded, finishing his beer. He took his leather wallet out of his pocket, left a tip on the table, and stood up, shaking his head goodbye. You waved at him slightly as he left the Iceberg Lounge.