Rated E for Explicit Content

"Fish in the sea
You know how I feel
River running free
You know how I feel
Blossom on the tree
You know how I feel."

Ginny Sinclair's sultry voice echoes through the jazz club, the patrons swaying their bodies in the same style. Everyone is drunk, intoxicated in the vintage gold and red atmosphere. It's the kind of feeling the jazz singer lives for. Nostalgia; a scene that should be shot in slow motion as a boy smiles and his date's hair flutters around her shoulders.

Ginny is sentimental like that.

A ginger pixie cut and great big brown doe eyes, Ginny smiles at the brass players to her left, before she casts a seductive smile out to her crowd, enjoying the image of their bodies thriving together, completely lost.

The middle class of Gotham losing their minds like those beneath them, acting like those above them; nothing entertains her more.

Well, except from the light dying in a target's eyes.

When she finishes her set the singer rushes out, leaving the flourishing swish of her red dress as the last sight of her before disappearing backstage.

"Ginny! That was beautiful!" The club manager exclaims as she passes him. Ginny turns with a coy smile, freckles dotted across her nose alongside a blush.

One thin shoulder rises bashfully, "Why thank you, Mr George," she says in a soft whispery voice, sporting a gentle non-rhotic southern accent, "I do try my best."

That is who Ginny is; soft, flirtatious, bashful. Modelled after Marilyn Monroe.

She grew up in the south in a small town which bowed to Jazz. She would sit to the side and wait for the line dancing to waver before she would take the stage as a child and fill it with her voice as her father and his friends played their brass.

A love of Jazz brought her to the big cities.

"Will you be back next week?" Mr George pushes, completely enraptured with her.

"Well of course!" Ginny laughs, tapping his arm lightly. Mr George remains stunned in place as Ginny Sinclair flounces out the back door with her coat. Once out on the street she whisks it on with a graceful flick.

There, she fits in with the people bustling through the street. Just another pretty face trying to navigate through the crowds.

Normal people pass her; families hoping to be inside before the outside belongs to the unsavoury, young couples heading out of the movie theatre, people in suits rushing to get home.

She looks no different from them. Ginny Sinclair is just your classic, every day sweetheart.

...Until she turns right down a thin alleyway known to most Gothamites as Hell's Gate. The pass which heads under the train tracks, over to the grimy side of Gotham known as Crime Alley.

Gotham is not her favourite city to be in. It just so happens that, right now, it's where she has to be. Ginny Sinclair travels to lots of different cities with lots of different jazz clubs.

However, when her pretty coat is dashed off in the empty darkness, folded in a series of methodical steps and fixed with secret clips and pockets to become a bag, she is no longer Ginny Sinclair.

Her red dress is detached at the waist, the skirt removed and rolled up like a belt revealing a pair of black leather short-shorts underneath. Ginny Sinclair's pretty shoulder-strap bag unfurls, pulling apart and transforming into a mini jacket to match the shorts.

A ginger pixie cut darkens. The follicles grow and grow and grow until they reach their owner's backside in a pin-straight waterfall of black. A brown hue in doe eyes shifts to a cold, calculating blue.

Cece Jermaine, a drug dealer, emerges from the alley and onto the streets which permanently belong to the unsavories.

A scowl forms on her face and she no longer flounces. Her walk is a mad raging storm, the same red heels click-clacking against the ground.

Men and women pass her, either whistling, shying away in fear or greeting her by name. Cece remains unyielding, as should someone as inhospitable and aloof as her. There is nothing graceful; just a harsh, rough and tough glare.

Cece Jermaine is low class. She grew up stealing food to survive and learnt the pleasures of people very early to make her money. Whilst very young she lost mommy and daddy to drugs, a few different each, before winding up the orphanage in Crime Alley's east; a front for an illegal whorehouse.

It reflects in her methods.

In one of the next alleyways she cuts a woman on the wrist and knocks her to her knees.

"Where's my money, Sammy?" She demands, Ginny Sinclair's sweet accent gone, exchanged for a harsh New Jersey twang.

Sammy's girlfriend cries in the effort to pull her arm away, but Cece does not let up. Sammy is terrified with his eyes darting from left to right at the violent scene before him. Immediately he shoves his hands in his dirty pockets and rips a series of decrepit bills out.

"Here, here!" He screams, tossing it towards Cece and his bleeding girlfriend. "It's all I have Miss Jermaine, I swear! I-It's half! I can get the rest for tomorrow night!"

Cerulean eyes regard him with disgust. Cece is barely satisfied, but she drops the girl and kicks her with her foot, putting her knife away, "Pick up the money."

The brunette scrambles for it, collecting the bills with her un-bloodied hand for Cece, who sets sharp eyes on Sammy's face. It's enough for him to drop and help pick up the cash.

With quaking fingers the cut brunette hands the notes over. Cece takes them and places them in her bag.

"Tomorrow, Sammy, or you'll both be lying in the gutters with your throats cut, got it?"

Sammy nods furiously as Cece backs out of the alley. Normally, she'd stay just to lay on another threat extra thick, but she has other places to be.

She moves north again, but East. Not towards the city or the one-story homes, but the mansions and the rich suburbia. Gargantuan malls filled with boutiques and first class service.

Gotham's riches.

This time she is heading to the more abandoned and quiet area. The area people like Red Hood and Catwoman come to heal their wounds. A graveyard for long-dead trains wasting away in the shadows.

Her package is waiting there for her still. She placed it on the furtherest train to avoid any pesky birds or bats coming across it. 

In the seclusion of nothing but rusting steel, Cece Jermaine peels off her leather jacket and shorts, the belt going with it. She folds them neatly and places them beside her waiting package.

She grabs the shining silver straps and lifts them up. A long, sparkling gown unravels before her. A pearl among swine in the grimy blackened train cart.

With quick skill to avoid any of her package being soiled, Cece slips on the dress over her underwear. She opens the matching clutch and removes diamond earrings, elegant bracelets and a thick necklace. Last is a pair of matching pumps, which she takes in hand alongside her clutch. After donning her jewellery, she replaces her package with her previous clothes and hoists them under her arm.

And finally, pitch black folicles lighten and bunch into soft curls. A wavy blonde bob on the head of Gotham Orphanage Ambassador, Alice Kirkman, whose sharp grey eyes radiate warmth and authority.

Her high-class persona.

With a set of car keys, her shoes, her package and her clutch in hand, Alice creeps along the abandoned train yard towards a cluster of broken-down vehicles. This area is the true dumping ground of Gotham.

The night is anything but eerie to her. People like her thrive at night.

Not people like Alice Kirkman, perhaps, but the girl underneath is a creature of the shadows.

Off to the side of the broken cars is a shape hidden beneath a grey tarp. With an extravagant tug, Alice rips the cover away revealing her shiny sports car underneath, fit for someone of her class.

The highest class of all; Alice Kirkman inherited a gargantuan sum of money and an estate from her great uncle Elroy, who suddenly passed away with no heirs but his sister's daughter. Alice has put his money to good use.

The strong, confident woman without a shred of indecency spends every waking hour working towards the goal of renewal for Gotham. Because Alice Kirkman is sympathetic and looks forward to the future.

As she races down the darkened streets of the city, emerging from the decrepit crime alley, passing by the mediocre downtown and cruising into rich suburbia, the woman of many faces smiles.

Because behind those brown, blue and grey eyes is someone else entirely.

Silva Glea.

Aphrodite.

A killer beauty. 

We could stop there, with her driving off towards a Wayne party (because in Gotham, no party is worth going, less it be a Wayne's) but it is Ginger/Cece/Alice/Silva who stops.

 'Stops' is an elegant word for it; a shiny pump slams into the breaks, bringing the car to the halt in the middle of the street. 

With wide excited eyes, she climbs out of her car and takes a peak up at the rooftops; he was the, she swears she saw his form sprinting by like a bat or bird is in pursuit.

Quickly, she pulls her sports car to the nearest park and begins stripping herself. She cares not for the dress as it tears in her effort, tossing it to the back before ripping the glovebox open and extracting her Aphrodite uniform.

Its design allows her to be wearing it in seconds. Her hair turns several different shades of blue in layers, with pink eyes. Beautiful colours for a beautiful girl.

Mask on, Aphrodite vaults herself from the car, feet landing on the ground before she pushes up and flies to the roof. When she is far enough away the car locks, keeping her secrets hidden.

In the rooftop shadows, the higher she climbs the better chance she has of seeing him. Her hands shake with the excitement, the anticipation, her twisted fantasies of having him swirling in her mind.

Eventually she stops two black blobs fighting in the distance.

Mustering up all the stealth she can, because not only is she approaching the Bat of Gotham, but the Terminator as well, Aphrodite heads towards them.

Once close enough to make out the details of Deathstroke's face, she glues herself to a corner wall and watches closely.

Batman advances and Slade (having stalked him for a while now, his identity was hardly something curious) merely steps aside. His lips are moving and she knows he is taunting the Dark Knight.

She likes it when he doesn't wear his mask.

A prolonged battle. Both take unwavering hits and fall, constantly getting back up. It almost seems like they're equal, but she (and Slade, she's sure) knows Batman is the Batman.

Not that it matters.

Every flick of his sword she is reminded of that night he beat her to the target. He cut down Ukraine's Hundred Hellmen like they were nothing and she marvelled from the distance as she is now.

Watching Slade do anything- fight, walk, sit in his safehouse, -does things to her. Aphrodite bites her lip as one leg crosses over the other, squeezing her thighs together.

She wants. 

A smoke bomb raises and it is either Deathstroke or Batman, she does not know, but her senses alert her to one strong presence remaining on their battle field and the other retreating.

The direction indicates Slade, and sure enough she catches the sight of her white-haired fantasy calmly evading with his protegée at his side.

Aphrodite's eyes burn a hole in the back of Rose's head.

She will be the perfect way in.