"Why is a raven like a writing desk?" ~ Mad Hatter

The elderly butler sighs in exhaustion through the Bluetooth line in the Dark Knight's cowl, yet Bruce Wayne doesn't need to hear to spiel that follows to know what his most trusted and dearest friend is about to say. "Master Bruce, perhaps it is time you returned for the night. Mr Tetch will only be that much harder to apprehend if you do not have enough sleep."

"I'm fine, Alfred. Evangeline needs that information about Tetch to continue the investigation. I actually think her seemingly far-fetched theory may not be as far-fetched as she thinks," Bruce lowly replies, his long strides devouring the rooftop of the warehouse he just investigated.

"Sir?" The British man prompts, needing to speak nothing else for the billionaire, vigilante to know of his confusion.

A low rumble grows in Batman's throat, the man deliberating his words prudently. "Remember when Tetch assaulted and murdered Emilia Bianchi a couple years back?"

"Carmine Falcone's niece? Yes, I do believe I recall that. Mr Tetch had mistook her for Alice did he not?"

"He did, and when the police found the body, Falcone was furious," Bruce jogs not only his guardian's blurred memory, but his own as well. It has been two or three years since the incident, so it's entirely natural for one's memory to be as bleary as theirs are. However, talking aloud seems to help Bruce in recollecting it. "There was a five hundred thousand hit out for Tetch after that, when suddenly, a week or so later, Falcone called the hit off."

"Mm I do seem to remember that now that you mention it. It was all under rather peculiar circumstances. Did you ever figure out why he would do such a thing? After all, family is the most important thing to Mr. Falcone."

"No, I didn't," the vigilante laconically responds, leaping down ever so elegantly and landing in the front seat of his 'batmobile' with a deafening silence. Bruce Wayne alternates between pressing several disconcerting buttons before the military like vehicle roars down the road with the power of tank and the speed of a sports car, expertly avoiding damaging any public property or cars whilst he does so.

"And what, pray tell, may this have to do with Salvatore Maroni and the murder of Miss Markovic and Mr O'Reilly?"

Bruce smoothly veers around another car. "Falcone wouldn't just call it off for no apparent reason. He would have either had to been very strongly convinced by Tetch or a third party, or Tetch would have had to indebted himself to Falcone. He would have to be of use."

"But I thought Carmine Falcone and Salvatore Maroni were quite cordial with one another? Or in the very least had a healthy business relationship."

"Relationships and circumstances change often in Gotham," the Dark Knight gravelly points out to the Brit. "We may not know of the current motive that may be behind it, but that doesn't mean there isn't one. It's worth looking into in the very least, especially with the trail turning cold as it is."

Alfred Pennyworth sounds perturbed by the notion, his evident yet tolerable displeasure expressed through his thoughtful hum. "I still think it would be wise to return for the evening Master Bruce. You can continue with this investigation tomorrow evening. Allow Miss Winter the honour to take over for now, she sounds a lot smarter than most give her credit for."

"For someone who hasn't even spent half a year in Gotham and already knows the criminals better than most Gotham civilians, she is," Batman exhaustedly concurs, striking blue eyes sagging momentarily in fatigue. "Very well. I'm turning in for the night Alfred."

"I'll heat up the dinner then sir. No good going to bed on an empty stomach," Alfred delightedly yet reservedly announces. It's not often that his charge actually listens to him when he implores him to return for the evening.

The billionaire doesn't respond to his guardian's declaration, merely switching off the line and cutting their placid conversation to a close.

***

"Do you get any sleep?"

"Do power naps on the bus or taxi count?"

Rebecca Daniels expresses her profound disapproval with a near over dramatic sigh, one that is quite audible even over the phone line. "No, they don't."

"Then no, I don't," Evangeline Winter exhaustingly answers in a monotone voice, sifting and scrolling through more news articles on her decidedly still recent computer.

With the Dark Knight out and about doing whatever intimidating vigilantes do, Eve has decided to turn her slowly draining attention to the crime history of this deplorable, lawless city. She obviously is aware that she can't inform herself of every little crime since the moment this city was erected, but she can skim read through as many mafia related news articles from the past few years or so as she can.

"This case will be the death of you Ange."

"Most likely," Eve flippantly agrees, blank, ghastly face and bloodshot eyes resembling a zombie at the present moment.

Rebecca strongly wishes her best friend could witness the dissatisfied grimace touching her face right now. "You should be asleep."

"So should you," blandly fires back, skimming over another Joker article that had somehow popped up.

"I was asleep; I only got up for a bathroom break when it occurred to me that 'hey, knowing Angie she's probably working herself into an early grave right now. I should probably call her up and knock some fucking sense into her'. Funny enough, I was right."

"Did you know the Joker posed as Black Mask and hired eight assassins to murder Batman one night? And Batman took down all eight of them and the Joker in the same night?" Eve jadedly chimes in off-subject, interest piquing through her washed-out state. The man truly is above the laws of nature, she internally applauds him. Dear God... is that an eleven foot crocodile man? This city really has some colourful characters.

"Why are you reading up on assassins, rogues and that loony vigilante that dresses like a flying rodent? Shouldn't you be focused on oh, I don't know, the actual perpetrators and subjects of your case? Or even better; sleeping?"

"It just... came up," the ebony haired woman responds nearly incoherently, eyes not even sparing her talking phone on the table beside her a single thought, too glued to the computer screen, as if she is in a trance.

Bec huffs irritably, her temper beginning to get the best of her. "You're about to fall asleep at the fucking computer, I can feel it. Get some damn rest Ange, or else I will drive to that shit-hole of a city and force you to bed myself."

"Alright, alright. Perhaps you're right," the private investigator hesitantly acquiesces, shaking her head and firmly blinking herself from her dazed stupor. "It is almost sunrise over here. I could use some sleep before the criminal underworld comes alive again tonight."

"Now you're speaking my language," Bec breathes tiredly, relieved.

Eve can hardly huff her amusement, for to do so would require spending energy, something that both her and Rebecca Daniels knows she has very well already overspent. Eve doesn't really perceive herself to be at fault though. No, for if you were to be in lamentable city that is progressively tearing itself apart through mafia family wars – this is not even counting the colourful individuals known as the Rogue's Gallery – wouldn't you feel some sense of moral obligation to sacrifice luxuries such as sleep, food and socialising? Probably not, for it is a treacherous and most likely fatal path to tread on – not to mention it doesn't really relate to you – but Evangeline Winter was there when it kicked off. Eve was there when the harrowing squelch of the bullets ate into the flesh of their chests. She was there when the nauseating scent of meat from the flesh swarmed her, eventually followed by the detestable stench of bowel, stomach and bladder content that continued to assault and wash over her nose like a tsunami of fetor.

It may not have been the first time she had seen a dead body, but it was the first time she had seen and smelt one up close, as well as been there when the murder took place.

This case isn't just an ethical obligation anymore. Yet when she contemplates it, it never has entirely been a sense of ethical obligation. Sure, she very much so doesn't want any more people dead and for the crimes to die down to their original level – which is still frighteningly high, but better than the current level – but there's more to it. The pinch of selfishness in her wants to figure this out and stop it to sate her curiosity. However, after all the time that has been devoted to this, she's also emotionally invested in it. Like how a scientist becomes emotionally invested in their life work, whilst trying to sate their curiosity and complete their sense of duty to world. And to do all this, she is willing to sacrifice sleep and other human necessities. Her best friend does have a rather dismal point though. Eve isn't invincible. She does need sleep eventually, and apparently, 'eventually' means now.

"I'll finish up with this article and go straight to bed. My tank is feeling pretty low," Eve additionally comments, hoping to please her friend's misgivings further.

"Good. Talk to you later then, because not all of us can be nocturnal and diurnal."

"Night Bec."

"Night Ange."

Click.

When Eve exhales, it feels as if her shoulders have been relieved of the weight of the world. She tightly rolls them back, distinctly feline like, and manoeuvres the mouse to hover over the 'x' at the top right of screen when she halts. Freezes, in fact.

'Emilia Bianchi late for tea, off with her head!'

Emilia Bianchi? Why is that name familiar? Eve warily inquires from herself, re-reading the headline a few times. Sounds Italian. Was it a name in one of the Maroni or Falcone files?

Fatigue stepping down to curiosity for the current moment, Eve clicks on the news article and devours every word on the screen. Each word she absorbs is like a pump of adrenalin into her system, warding off any trace debility for the time being.

Jervis Tetch had apparently mistaken Emilia Bianchi, niece to the all-powerful Carmine Falcone, for the fictional character Alice from Alice's Adventures in Wonderland. Not only was the poor twenty one year old left vulgarly raped and messily murdered for the police to stumble upon, but this particular journalist even went to lengths to divulge that 'mob boss Falcone is out for blood'.

That one comment and four cups of coffee is all that Eve needed to get the gears of this investigation turning again.

***

To say that Evangeline Mendax Winter is tired, would be as much of an understatement as saying the Joker has killed a few people.

A four hour power nap managed to rejuvenate some of her stamina and spirit, enough so that she could trudge through the possible new lead without fretting over falling asleep at the computer, her work desk or the pin board. Now she scrutinises the miniscule time at the bottom of the laptop, having to blink and sleepily clear her eyes a few time before coming to a realisation that it does in fact say 9:42am. But it was 3:21 an hour ago...?

Time seems to be slipping through Eve's fingers, much like her sanity. With each nanosecond she's awake; she can feel the fatigue sinking its long, skeletal claws into her body. Each muscle, tendon and bone grow heavier and heavier, as if she's putting on layer after layer of clothing whilst underwater.

She absentmindedly claws out for her phone again, deciding that now would be a good time to give Jim a quick ring and ask what she's been dying to ask since she stumbled upon the news article. The number only dials twice before the gruff, concise tone of James Gordon exhaustedly bites out "Commissioner Jim Gordon."

"Hey Jim."

".... Eve? You sound like death."

"You don't even want to know what I look like." She attempts at humour, but doesn't have nearly enough energy to execute it properly.

His sigh is audible and, in Eve's opinion, a tad exaggerated. "Do I wanna know how long you've been awake for?"

"Probably not. I just have a quick question because I know you've got your hands full at the moment. Two years ago Jervis Tetch raped and murdered Emilia Bianchi, Falcone's niece. Several reports and some of the files here say he put a five hundred thousand dollar hit out on Jervis, but after a week there seems to be no more mentions of it. Did he call it off?"

Jim needs a few moments to scramble his rampant thoughts together and dig through some old memories. The pause is tense, even through the phone, and the private investigator knows that Jim is attempting to recollect as many details about the crime as he can. She also knows though that being a police Commissioner, you come across quite possibly a million or so crimes each year, especially in a city like Gotham. It's only natural for him to require some time to reminisce that one particular crime. "Yeah... yeah he did. Boys and I couldn't figure out why, Carmine Falcone isn't one to let family matters down that easily."

Eve hums her thoughts. "Could Tetch have controlled him to let it go? Or would someone have been able to talk him out of it?" Last one is highly unlikely, but I've got entertain all the possibilities.

He snorts. "And what, control him all these years so he still doesn't call for his blood? Tetch is smart and persistent, but not that smart and persistent. And the only people Falcone would've listened to in matters like that are his family, but they would've been just as upset about it as he was. What's this got to do with Maroni shooting up the kids anyway?"

"Chasing up some possibly leads, that's all," the raven haired woman dusts off, her left index finger habitually tap tap tapping on the desk like it always does when she's in fierce thought. "I think that's all I need. Sorry I keep bothering you Jim."

"Don't worry about it kid, at least you're working. That's more than what half of this precinct actually does."

Her huff of a laugh is brief and weary. "Thanks Jim. I'll allow you to return to your duties."

"Get some sleep Eve, everyone needs it. Even the Bat."

"Will do."

Click.

***

"I have time Tetch, and you're wasting it. Tell me what I want to know."

A nightmare, a nightmare. A horrible, terrible dark shadow looms over the snivelling weasel of a man known as Jervis Tetch. The creature has ears as pointed as teeth, a colossal wingspan to rival the fearful jabberwocky, and eyes bluer than the March Hare – though, Jonathan Crane does not entirely appreciate Jervis' nickname for him. He hardly considers himself anything like a talking, walking vermin that speaks little to no sense and has an unhealthy obsession with tea. That doesn't matter to Jervis though. Jonathan Crane is the March Hare, and one day, the Hatter muses, he'll come to his senses. Or quite the opposite, after all, all the best people are completely mad.

Jervis quivers like a timid animal in the presence of a predator, little feet suspended in the air – courtesy of the Dark Knight himself of course. "If you knew Time as well as I do, you wouldn't talk about wasting it. It's him."

Crack.

Oh dear, that would the eleventh time the Dark Knight has broken Jervis Tetch's nose.

Batman's patience is wearing thinner than a strand of hair. It's only his second strenuous night of tracking down the delusional Hatter. Even though he has pinpointed the whereabouts of the mentally ill individual and is currently interrogating him for relevant information, Tetch has refrained from blubbering about anything of value, only talking in Lewis Carroll quotes and indiscernible mad man drivel. The Caped Crusader only has a limited amount of patience, and Jervis Tetch is – ironically – drinking it up like a cup of tea.

"Start. Talking."

The Hatter swallows down his fear, allowing the Hare's advice to guide him in doing so. Charily, his nimble, slimy, gloved fingers grip Batman's own, carefully uttering out "You seem to have a problem Dark Knight, and you know what the issue is with this world? Everyone wants a magical solution to their problem, and everyone refuses to believe in magic. Magic fills this world Batman, and there's no room for people in this land who don't believe in it. Oh poor poor Batman, it's hard enough to live in a land where you don't belong, but knowing it... holding conflicting realities in your head... will drive you mad."

The dark, leather clad hands of Gotham's vigilante tightly curl around the thread-bare coat of the neurotic criminal, lifting him up in one, swooping arch and slamming him into the wooden table of the abandoned warehouse. The splinters spurt out like little, timber specks of rain, the table instantly collapsing from the devastating impact. Tetch snivels more, struggling and clawing for anything his feeble, scant fingers can grasp to lift himself up. The Caped Crusader moves faster though, gliding soundlessly across the ageing concrete floor and swiftly picking him up once more, as if the Hatter were a mere toddler.

Batman draws the grotty, grimy face of the madman right up to his own, and Jervis almost screams at the sight. His lip is curled into a brusque snarl, his patience having flown out the window with the last answer. Unfortunately for Batman, Jervis Tetch is one of his only adversaries who he could pound and pummel until all 207 of his bones are broken or fractured, and he still wouldn't be able to get an answer out of him. One of the many cons of dealing with a criminally insane opponent.

"Who did you help!?" The Dark Knight refuses to relent, all the years of dealing with the Joker having taught him to never cave in.

The sound the Mad Hatter makes is somewhere between a giggle and a sob. "The King of Hearts does not control all of his subjects. No. No no no no. One of his own controls them, a friend of mine who is never late to tea. He controls the Knave of Hearts, whose father lost his head long ago. Oh dear, the Knave! The Knave did steal those tarts, but they weren't the tarts to the Queen of Hearts. No no no. Those tarts belonged to the Bandersnatch and the Gryphon. Those tarts did spill, and what a mess it was. But I suppose it wasn't the Knave's fault, for the Knave was not in his right mind. Not unlike the rest of us, we're all mad here."

Now that is what the Dark Knight was looking for.

"Thanks," his gruff voice is succinct and monotone, not possessing any true traces of gratitude. Poor Jervis Tetch is deprived the chance to respond, for milliseconds after the vigilante's reply, his dark, armoured elbow swipes up and slams hard enough onto the Hatter's forehead to knock him out cold. He tersely ties up the criminal in under a minute, discarding the unconscious body up against the wall and purposefully striding away and into the night once again.

Bruce's hand flies up to meet the ear of his suit, talking into his cowl "Alfred, send a notice to the GCPD to pick up Jervis Tetch from 177B Stevenson parade. I've got what I need."

"Of course sir. May I ask what you have discovered?"

Bruce's lips thin into a straight line, his hard eyes staring straight ahead as he exits the building and arrives on the sparse rooftop, the cold air battling to penetrate his armour yet to no avail. "Tetch talked of the King of Hearts not being able to control all of his subjects. In Lewis Carroll's books, the King of Hearts is the second most feared and powerful figure, right after the Queen of Hearts. I have no doubt in my mind he was referring to Carmine Falcone, for he is the most powerful mob man in this city. Then he went on to talk about how the King does not control all of his subjects, but one of his own does. One of his own controls the Knave of Hearts, and whoever it is, Tetch admitted that he was a friend. Never 'late for tea'."

"Do you suppose he was referring to one of Mr Falcone's family members perhaps? And who could possibly be the Knave of Hearts?"

"The Knave of Hearts has to be Maroni, given how he then proceeded to talk about the Knave stealing the tarts of the Bandersnatch and the Gryphon," the billionaire continues to dutifully decipher, momentarily standing ramrod straight and allowing the nippy breeze to swarm around him. "The Bandersnatch is also from Lewis Carroll's works. It's a ferocious, fast creature that is quite canine like, fitting in with Dmitri Markovic's temper and street moniker 'Mad Dog'. As for the Gryphon – another creature found in Carroll's works – in Irish Celtic lore it is a creature of duality, so I originally thought he was referring to Two Face. But the Celtic Gryphon is one of nobility and vigilance, yet when invoked for selfish reasons, the Gryphon brings about vengeance, ferocity, and violence – perfectly fitting the personality and circumstances of Colin O'Reilly, who's a distant relative to an Irish noble. Not to mention in Roman texts, the Gryphon is strongly aligned with the fire god, Apollo – Two Face's old nickname when he was DA. So that was also a hint towards the strong partnership that Dent and O'Reilly have always had with one another."

The elderly butler hums in thought. "Then I presume the 'tarts' would be the lives of Mr O'Reilly's and Mr Markovic's children, and how Mr Maroni, this so called 'Knave of Hearts' stole them?"

"Must be, because he also talked of how the tarts spilled and were a mess – most likely referencing the blood. What I'm more concerned about is at the end, he confirmed that the Knave 'wasn't in his right mind'. Someone close to Falcone – close enough to convince him to let the Hatter off the hook after he murdered Emilia – is an associate to Tetch, and is controlling Maroni through Tetch's technology. Whoever it is has to have a vendetta or a motivation against either Maroni, Markovic or O'Reilly."

When Bruce picks up on the amused yet brief chuckle from his guardian through the communication line, he begins to think he's mishearing things. But when Alfred Pennyworth opens his mouth to voice the source of his entertainment, Bruce relaxes a pinch and even softens his features. "So Miss Winter's speculation is indeed correct. A bright young woman she is."

Bruce Wayne has no reservations against agreeing with the Brit. "It was a shot in the dark, but she didn't miss. That amount of intellect and curiosity may wind up with more colourful individuals catching her scent however, and I would rather her not garner the attention of any notorious criminals. She should return to investigating petty thefts and affairs."

"As much as I do not wish for her to be harmed by the less satisfactory individuals of Arkham and the crime families, she's proving to be a valuable and astute ally. Perhaps you shouldn't be so quick to dismiss her back to more mundane misdeeds and felonies."

"Just alert the GCPD of Tetch's whereabouts," Bruce intervenes, as mild-mannered as he can be. "I'll check in on Miss Winter and update her with what I have found, see if she picked up on anything else while I've been away."

A static sigh is audible from the other side. "Of course sir."

As the Dark Knight reaches for the grapnel hook securely strapped to his armoured belt, Alfred signs off, abandoning Gotham's vigilante to his new discoveries, thoughts and revelations. It doesn't take Mr Wayne very long to reach Eve's apartment though, not with efficient travel combination of a grapnel hook, gliding and a Batmobile.

Using the private investigator's horrible habit of leaving the main room windows ajar to his advantage, the Dark Knight mutely slides into the darkened, settled living room, movements and body as fluid as water. Not a single device or light is on, bar a sliver of light peeking out from under the office door, like a lit cave encompassed by the dark forest. His cape loyally trails behind him as his burly legs devour the floorboards between him and the door, a heavily gloved hand grasping the door knob and freeing the light of the office to partially bask in the shadows of the main room. Peering in, he immediately spies Evangeline Winter, innocently and vulnerably passed out asleep at her main working desk.

The strands of ebony hair are sprawled around her like a black halo, the warm colours from the artificial lights making her milky, pale skin the slightest bit more tanned. Her rosy, pink lips are parted as even breaths are taken and escape between them, her body limp and exhibiting loud signs of fatigue. Batman unwinds a pinch when he realizes she merely fell asleep whilst working, and isn't dead or unconscious by other brutal means.

Hesitantly, he ventures closer to the sleeping woman but refrains from touching her. He's reluctant upon waking her, and for good reason. Bruce Wayne knows how exhausting it can be, striving and working for justice in a city known for being immoral and corrupt. If it wasn't for Alfred, he would've worked himself into an early grave many a year ago. Still, in the short time the vigilante has come to know the polite woman, he can tell that she would be most displeased should he not personally relay the discovered information to her first hand, so that she may inquire some questions of him to sate her curiosity.

Softly, yet still with that edge of authority, he stiffly clears his throat and alerts "Miss Winter."

For a private investigator, her reflexes are sluggish and slow. And she's a heavy sleeper. If I was one of Maroni's men, she would be long dead by now, he internally notes, keenly observing how her first reaction to an intruding voice within her household is to bury her head further into her arms folded on the desk, and unintelligibly mutter "Five more minutes."

Bruce's lip twitches, similar to how it has the past couple times he has encountered the North Carolinian. Tentatively, he reaches out as if calming a toddler throwing a tantrum. Calloused, gloved fingers softly grasp her shoulder, barely moving it an inch yet enough so to garner her attention. "Miss Winter, it's time to wake up."

"What part of 'five more minutes' don't you understand?" She weakly murmurs, blinking and rubbing away the fatigue from her swirling hazel eyes. Leaning back, she stretches out smoothly like a domestic cat awakening from its nap. Eventually, squinted eyes find their way to the Caped Crusader three feet away from her, a loud sigh escaping her lips. "Sorry, that was rude. I get a tad fickle when I'm tired."

"I've found what you were looking for." The Dark Knight isn't really one for formalities, jumping from one subject to the next. Yet he can spy how weary she truly is, so he's even pressing to get straight to the point more than usual. That way she won't slip in and out of consciousness whilst he's attempting to inform her of his long-winded findings – not that he ever talks for the sake of talking. As a character, he's always been rather laconic.

Eve is only half-conscious of the world around her at the moment, but enough so that she can faintly recollect her own findings from earlier on. "So did I. Well, some information anyway. I found this news article about Carmine Falcone's deceased niece, Emilia Bianchi –"

"The one where Tetch raped and murdered her. Yes, I know. I found him, got the answers we need," he almost curtly interrupts; Eve doesn't take it to heart though. She knows he's a rather closed off character. Heck, the guy probably doesn't have many friends at all. Anyway, she's put up with far ruder men, and she has enough patience to rival an angel. So snapping at the Dark Knight won't be something she'll be partaking in anytime soon.

"Please feel free to share with the rest of the class then."

"He was mainly talking in Wonderland drivel, but he admitted two important things. One, that someone close to Falcone is in the very least acquainted with him, and two, that that person is the one controlling Sal Maroni with Tetch's mind control devices," Batman tersely informs, still stiffly standing close enough to easily reach out for her.

"Alberto Falcone."

Batman blinks. "What?"

"Alberto Falcone," Eve a tad spritelier announces, elegantly crossing one leg over the other. "That's the man you're looking for."

His head nearly unnoticeably cocks to the side, eyes narrowed in intrigue. "What makes you say that?"

"I've been through Gordon's files a hundred and one times," Eve exaggerates, arms gesturing to the organised mess of papers and photos haphazardly spread out in front and around her. "I've almost memorised each head mob member's tax records, real estate transactions, records of births and deaths within their families, court records, voter registrations, business licenses, vital statistics records, DMV records and every record and file in between, as well as read several articles on them. Recently though, I've been focusing on Don Maroni, which is a given, and Don Falcone. Mr Falcone is an old-fashioned mobster, reasonable but knows how to run a crime family – which is understandable I suppose, for he is sixty nine years of age. That's a rarity in itself. Most men in his industry are dead by forty five. Anyway, he's old fashioned and he's Italian. Family is the most important thing in his life, so the only ones who could've talked him out of his vengeance against Mr Tetch had to have been his own family members. They were all distraught as well, none of them would have a motive for saving Tetch, in fact, most of them most likely would've wanted to pull the trigger themselves. The only exception is Alberto Falcone."

It's difficult to discern, but Eve could swear she can see a frown pulling his brows together beneath the iconic cowl. "What's his motive?"

"Negligence," she provides as an agenda. "He's the metaphorical runt of the litter. I feel sorry for him in a way. There's so much information on Carmine and his various children running the Falcone businesses together, but in none of them does he include Alberto. In fact, Carmine – according to a statement from a previously bought out cop – spent more time with Salvatore Maroni than he did Alberto, as if he cared for Maroni more than he did his own son. It's the only explanation I can figure out. Alberto is jealous of Maroni because of the attention he gets from his father, and judging by the notes under his attributes and personality, it does seem a fitting reaction from someone like him. It's reasonably far-fetched again, but it seemed to have done wonders for me last time. You coming in with your confirmed information only cements my theory more, but do feel free to poke around and devise another theory if you want. You are the world's greatest detective after all. You can probably do a lot better than I."

For a few moments, a thoughtful silence hovers between the two detectives. One patiently awaiting a response from the other, and the other intently turning over the new theory in his head. Evangeline's gut instinct and initiative has proven to be profitable before – despite there still not being any ocular proof of it, only a twisted, evasive confirmation from Jervis Tetch himself, a mentally ill criminal. This same 'gut instinct' seems to be sharper than most, maybe not enough to rival his own – with all his training and experience – but certainly enough to rival a few of the notorious, big time criminals. And she did propose for him to poke around if he wasn't satisfied, Bruce muses.

The vigilante must admit that her input has increased the efficiency in solving this investigation. With Joker, Scarecrow, Two Face, Riddler, Penguin, Killer Croc and Harley Quinn still at large, he has been quite preoccupied and pressed at trying to return them to the asylum as soon as he can, before any civilians are jeopardised by their elaborate schemes and crossfire. Fortunately, a few of the other colourful members of Arkham Asylum – such as Poison Ivy, Jane Doe, Firefly, Bane, the Ventriloquist, Clock King, Victor Zsasz, Mr Freeze and a several others – are already in there, Jervis Tetch just about to be added to the collection. With Eve managing to focus more time on the case, the weight of Batman's mafia related responsibilities has lessened immeasurably.

Still, by allowing her to continue will wind up with her garnering fatal attention from a handful of the higher ups. Gordon can only shelter her from the mob's eyes and ears at the station for so long. Bruce is already aware of the suspicions floating around the precinct. She needs to get out while she still can get out. Any later and it'll be too late.

His eyes pin on her in a way that leaves no room for discussion. "I'll look around for some more hard evidence if I can, but as for you, you finish up here. Give everything you've pieced and found to Gordon and let him take over. You're done here."

That seems to startle Eve from her sleep deprived state. "Wh-What? You're... No. I mean, there's still so much to fi—"

"I know about the surveillance cameras you planted," he sharply intervenes, taking one forceful step forward and looming over Eve from where she's vulnerably curled up on her chair. "It's only a matter of time until someone discovers them. Someone you don't want attention from. You have no means to defend yourself with."

"I have a weapons permit," Eve meekly defends, yet is mindful of what the Caped Crusader is insinuating. "And a .45 Winchester Magnum in my bedside drawer. I can take care of myself."

"Do you have appropriate firearms training?" He rebukes. Another step is taken. "Are you even capable of harming another human with it should it come down to it?"

Unfortunately for Eve, should she open her mouth to respond to either of those plausible questions, the answer wouldn't be in her favour. She shifts uncomfortably, nearly cringing at how pathetic her actual reply is. "They don't know that. Sometimes all it takes is a little acting, the right words and a convincing display—"

"Take down the cameras, give Gordon everything you've found and lay low for a few weeks. If there's an emergency, contact me on this number," Batman resolutely orders, his tone abruptly moulding into one he generally uses for intimidation. Not enough so to instil her with fear, but enough to really get the message across this time.

Eve's lips sew shut quicker than the speed of light, her eyes flickering between the alarmingly blue ones behind the dark cowl and the poorly scrawled number on the worn paper in his outstretched hand. Despite herself, Eve quirks a perfectly plucked eyebrow. "The Dark Knight... has a phone number?" Her smile broadens into a full blown grin as she accepts the small, crumpled paper, her petite fingertips brushing against his leathery, burly own. "What would you do if I decided to prank call you every so often?"

"I would get a new phone number," he plainly replies, stepping away from the thirty four year old Southerner and retreating back towards the ajar door.

Like she always does when she's anxious, Eve's fingers habitually move to fiddle with her sterling silver ring with the heart, cross and diamond it adorns. "Try not to harm too many of the criminals until you're certain of everything, and be careful yourself. It wouldn't do for some common, hired muscle to be known as the one who finally brought down the Batman. Not that there's anything wrong with common, hired muscle..."

He pauses mid-stride, and nods stiffly. "Good night Miss Winter."

Evangeline Winter smiles faintly as he disappears around the doorway, index finger softly tap tap tapping on the desk to her left. "Night Knight." So many things intrigue her about that man. She often ponders why he risks his life each night – she has her reason for being a private investigator/detective, but what's his? What is his motive to get out of bed each day and decide to dress up in a high tech Batsuit, gliding into the night to achieve justice and help the innocents of this city?

The sigh that bypasses her lips is weak, and she has to massage her temple soothingly to ward off the oncoming headache. It would be best if she did stop now, before she garners too much attention. But dammit, she wants to help too. She can do more. She wants to do more.

She effortlessly uses her feat to push against her desk and project herself on the office swivel chair towards her computer desk, fingers gliding across the keys before the chair even comes to a complete stop. Various feeds of the security footage pops up on her three lined up computer screens, but as she absentmindedly flicks through them, a small knot twists between her brows.

One of the cameras isn't on. It isn't even showing static. It's completely black.

It's only a matter of time until someone discovers them. Someone you don't want attention from.

The Dark Knight's warning rings unforgotten in between her ears, her chest constricting a pinch from apprehension. That was one of the cameras I planted outside a Two Face bar, if memory serves correct. Her index finger continues to tap tap tap. Did one of his men find it? Or, God forbid... did he find it? Eve shakes her head. No, you mustn't be so overdramatic and pessimistic Eve; I probably just didn't secure it properly.

There was only one way to be certain though. So, with a goal to set out and clear her restless conscious, Eve leapt from her overused chair, retrieved her keys and iconic white trench coat, and in hurry, she left her apartment to make sure that her camera was still undiscovered. And after an endless, nail biting taxi ride and brief walk, she got the exact answer she was praying she wouldn't.

The camera is gone.

Standing upon the slippery dumpster – the light sleet of rain not improving it whatsoever – Eve huffs and almost allows a profanity to slip. Her delicate fingers brush over the holes in the brick wall, eyes devouring every detail she can find.

No signs of struggle. It was unscrewed, not yanked out. Wouldn't have been a common thug then, they don't tend to just carry around a screwdriver with them. She turns to scour her surroundings like a hawk, piecing together what position the thief would've have had to have stood if they saw her camera. They would've purposefully had to take the effort to come at least within a meter of the dumpster and crane their head up forty five degrees to see it – or they could have spotted it during the day if they tried. Not many people come into Gotham alleys however, even during the day. The light of the sun doesn't guarantee safety; in fact, it tends to be more crime wrought than the night these days, with all the crooks trying to avoid the Dark Knight.

She gracefully hops down; gaze honing in on anything the perp may have dropped. She spies one of the screws that held the camera in place, swiftly bending down and examining it between her manicured fingers. Once again, no signs of struggle. They used a screwdriver for sure, and not just any screwdriver, an exact match for this particular head. There's no chips, no scratches. It was screwed out perfectly. Who coincidentally has an exact match for this screw when they most likely only packed for a night on the town? How would they have known to look in that exact spot?

Eve doesn't know. And she really doesn't like not knowing.

She sticks around and dutifully searches for anything else that may be of use, yet nothing substantial appears to her. With a slowly maturing and slightly impairing nausea progressively consuming her, she absentmindedly phones up another cab and returns to her humble abode before catching the eye of any wary mobsters still lurking about.

If she wasn't so enraptured by the camera mystery, she might have noticed the slight scuffs around the key hole in her door. If she wasn't so focused on who may have discovered that camera, she might have noticed how her door was actually already unlocked. If she wasn't belittling herself for being so reckless and careless, she might have even noticed how an alarming shade of green is dominating the entirety of lounge.

But she didn't notice any of these things you see, so when Eve finally closes and locks the door behind her, automatically hanging up her pristine but worn down coat, she is entirely unaware of the notorious, certifiably insane criminal mastermind known as the Riddler sprawled out on her couch as if he owns the place.

She only becomes aware of him, when he speaks.

"Riddle me this; why would a private investigator sign off her death wish to solve a case regarding the largest urban crime war this city has seen in over a decade? Answer; because she was the one who saw where it began. She was the one, who ran and tattled to the Bat."

A/N: Double whammy! Two updates in one day! I'll try for a third, but going through and editing/italicizing everything takes foreverrrr. And I'm very tired from a long weekend and lazy :P

Thanks for reading and that's all for now, bye! :) xxx

~ T.L