"Mama, I hope you're proud of me.
I took all the awful things they did,
and turned them into empathy.

Mama, I hope you're proud of me,
I may have let their poison under my skin,
but I let it drip out of my fingers as poetry."
~ Nikita Gill

Interesting article. 11:45am, Saturday, Rise & Grind Café – W

Glimpsing down at the glaring bright screen of her phone, Evangeline Winter surveys the private number text with mild surprise, her pace minutely faltering behind the Gotham City Sirens. Hm, took her longer than I thought, the PI soundlessly comments to herself, quick to pocket the device in her cream coloured blazer. She had expected the individual to reach out to her within the hour that the Gotham Globe published the article detailing Sionis' artillery, especially after undoubtedly seeing that Eve was quoted as a firsthand source for the piece. She's slower than she used to be.

With Black Mask business effectively being stored away for the night, the Southerner is reminded of her current business as she spies the glaring blue, battered neon bar sign The Styx perched above an equally seedy-looking entryway. Ivy's apartment wasn't far from the bar, most notorious criminals already living in the East End, so the somewhat brief walk did wonders for sobering Eve and Harley up that little bit more, precisely what the two women needed before the inevitable altercation that awaits them within.

Perhaps I can attempt to politely ask Mr Wilkes before he acquaints himself with the unfriendly end of Harley's mallet. Somehow, Eve very much doubts it.

The sobering up also allowed Miss Winter to realise that either she heals much faster than the average person, or Bruce over-exaggerated her head injury from last night. Whilst the occasional bout of vertigo or dizziness has hit her tonight, it has mainly been after her consumption of alcohol, meaning her injury evidently isn't the concussion Bruce has claimed it to be. There is no doubt that it still hurts, but it doesn't quite impair her to the degree an actual concussion should. Perhaps it was a tactic to convince me to remain at home? Either way, it didn't work, but Eve recognises she shouldn't have had those drinks nonetheless. At least the headache is mild.

The bar's bouncer, half asleep, has to do a double-take upon realising precisely who is approaching the bar. Promptly – and comically – he hastens to flatten himself against the wall by the door, an attempt to avoid being barrelled over by a murderously inclined, 140-pound Harlequin on wheels. With impeccable precision and control, Harley skids to a stop in front of the larger yet clearly alarmed man, nonchalantly swinging her mallet to sit atop her shoulders as Eve, Selina and Pamela sidle over to join her, the latter three not even pausing as they move to head inside.

Exhibiting zero resistance, the wall of a man openly gestures for them to go on in nonetheless, as if he truly has any say in the matter. His voice is startlingly even and level, despite his eyes telling them differently as he complies with a brief, acknowledging "Enjoy, ladies."

"Thanks! You're a peach," the red and black jester exhibits her gratitude, lightly patting him on the cheek as she passes on by, Eve also sparing the bouncer an apologetic yet grateful smile, one which is returned with a look of confusion.

Eve was quite aware of the kind of attention their little group would irrefutably attract walking into a room prior to actually doing so, and yet that still did not prepare her for the startling scene of an entire jam-packed, shady dive bar turning their immediate attention to her and her companions within the first ten seconds of setting foot in the establishment. Despite the attention she has grown accustomed to these past months, the sight still makes her feel rather like a deer in the headlights.

A sea of tattoos, glares, testosterone and poor, misguided haircuts. I don't believe I've experienced a Monday night such as this since college, the detective uneasily reminisces, only tensing further when she feels an arm loop with hers.

Glimpsing to the person attached, Eve realises she must've really zoned out for a second if she failed to notice Selina return to her side, the thief sparing her an unanticipated, oddly reassuring smile for the briefest beat in time. Guiding the both of them forward once again, Isley and Quinn some ways ahead of them now, the cat burglar offers the Southerner a hushed warning. "You may be friends with their bosses, but you're not friends with them. Don't let the common men see you as a scared little bird, or they'll sink their teeth straight into you."

Scanning her face, a sultry yet sharp set of emerald eyes obscured by the crimson tinted goggles pulled down in front of them, Eve can vividly see the sincerity present in Selina Kyle's demeanour. The words sound so familiar to her, so practised, as if the thief has told herself that ten times over. The sincerity—

"You shouldn't do that, detective."

Edward's words come back to haunt her, somehow feeling even fresher in her memory than those spoken to her by Selina seconds ago. Eve knows Selina has a hidden agenda for being here, and whilst her tenuous relationship with Bruce inclines the investigator to trust Miss Kyle more than Harley or Pamela, trust is quite hard to establish when there is still an element of uncertainty and unknown between them.

Eve honestly is deprived the time to ponder the thought further when the first, brave soul voices the bar's collective unease and complaints; a rough bikie who, judging by appearances, seems to spend more time in his local tattoo and piercings parlour than with his alcoholic wife and one – no, two, Eve amends – estranged children. Leaning back in his chair, which has seen better days (rather like the rest of the bar), the hardened biker doesn't even put his cards down on the table to address them, evidently finding more interest in his poker game.

"Scram, ladies! This place is invite onl—"

Ivy doesn't dignify the man with a response, simply kicking his chair out from under him as she storms on by to the bar set up towards the back. The heavily tattooed, pierced man slams against the hardwood floor with a not so gentle thud, hardly leaning up and forward before Harley rollerblades by and swiftly swings her mallet clean across his face. This time, the result is a clear-cut knockout.

Eve noticeably winces, just as the biker's friends startle back at seeing him taken out in five seconds flat, but make no move to avenge their fallen friend, possessing the sense to keep their traps shut as the terrifying, green-skinned lady seizes the bartender by the scruff of his shirt. Terrified out of his wits, Pamela Isley unpleasantly yanks him halfway across the counter towards her, turning back to face Eve and Selina as they approach, the eco-terrorist bluntly asking "Is this him?"

Still recovering from the hard-hit she just saw the biker subjected to, Eve absent-mindedly retrieves her phone from her pocket, surveying the photo Edward sent her of Carson Wilkes. Pursing her lips, Gotham's Guardian Angel answers "Unless Mr Wilkes has found a highly-skilled plastic surgeon capable of changing his race, then no, that is not him."

Releasing the bartender, who all but launches himself back as far away from the red-haired metahuman as humanly possible, Poison Ivy's mood only sours even more, her cutting gaze turning to the wider, still crowd around her. "Well I suppose that whilst I have everyone's undivided attention, I should ask; does anyone know where Carson Wilkes is?"

The silence that befalls the room is rather like the silence that follows an explosion, one where a person is too close to the blast's radius, and has found themselves victim to a thrumming, muffled stillness only pierced by haunting tinnitus. Poison Ivy was the explosion, and now they're all basking in the in-between; not the explosion itself, not the aftermath where you're sucked back into the events and sounds and reality of the situation, but the bridge in between, where your mind and body have fallen behind and are trying to catch up to the world you.

Harley plays the part of the experienced soldier, accustomed to the blast. She doesn't falter from the explosion, instead gliding across the timber flooring and wildly swinging her mallet around, unceremoniously slamming it down upon a rickety table and effectively reducing it to splinters. The stunt is quick to snap everyone out of their stupors, launching them straight into the aftermath.

"Red asked you bozos a question! Carson Wilkes; where is he? We jus' wanna talk is all."

Selina has since released Eve from her hold, slinking over to the bar counter and elegantly perching herself upon it. Sitting casually, one leg crossed over the other, the thief swipes the closest filled glass and takes a sip, the previous owner of the beverage and every other bar patron that had once sat along the counter having long since scuttled off to the side upon seeing a fuming Gotham Rogue storming in their direction. Joining Miss Kyle, Eve instead turns and leans back against the counter, far too on edge to take a seat right now.

Her hazel eyes scour the crowd for the face in the photo, or for any patron exhibiting signs of withholding information. The PI tries not to let the hostile environment and discourse discourage her.

"We don't know no Carson Wilkes," one man brave enough shouts from the masses, passive and uneasy.

A perfectly plucked brow on Pamela Lillian Isley's face arches in disbelief. "Really? How quaint, considering how the degenerate meat-sack supposedly runs this bar."

She hasn't used her pheromones yet, Eve curiously notices, gaze swapping to Harley. And they're so far behaving quite reasonably with very little violence. Are they—are they buying me time? Or in the very least, attempting to behave for my sake, because I offered my services for free?

It seems far-fetched, but she doesn't have a lot of time to muse further, instead continuing her surveillance of the room as Selina drinks, Harley swings, and Pamela glares.

More silence ensues, interrupted by uncomfortable shifting and displeased grumbles. Not everyone seems to be scared of the Sirens, after all, alcohol is one of the best stupidity enablers in Eve's humble opinion. The tenseness in the atmosphere is the stillness before the storm. A fight will break out soon.

With more motivation to defuse the tension, Eve's gaze quickly zeroes in on a leaner looking individual some feet away by the dartboard with abysmally bleached blonde tips. Malnourished. Blood-shot eyes. Dried, reddened and blistered skin; signs of chemical exposure. Eyes are avoiding Pamela at all costs, but flicker to Harley and the rest of us every so often, as if to alleviate any suspicions of no eye contact whatsoever. Hands are crossed and placed under his arms, as if to ward off a nervous twitch whilst closing himself off from the world. He just stiffened upon making eye contact with me — even Detective Bullock could surmise that this man knows something.

Perhaps the blow to Detective Bullock was a little low. For the past three months, the senior GCPD officer has been on her back, nit-picking and poking at her for the smallest of things. Eve has cultivated a reputation for a sharp wit but a gentle tongue, and very much wants to get on with the GCPD officers under Jim's command. However, ever since she made the move to arrest several officers through the FBI during her Maroni family takedown, the Gotham officers' general opinion has been quite divided. Resultantly, some policemen have tried her patience more than others; notably so, Harvey Bullock.

If the precinct discovers I have temporarily aligned myself with the Gotham City Sirens, Jim is going to grow even more grey hairs trying to tilt the officers' favour back towards me whilst managing the damage control. The detective mentally apologises to Jim in advance, deciding that she's far too far along with the case now to turn back. A fact she's reminded of when the bleached blonde tip man starts to shuffle closer and closer to the back door.

"Could the gentleman with the home bleached blonde hair and severely unbuttoned navy blue dress shirt by the dartboard please step forward?" The Southerner clearly and politely calls out, apparently over Harley's voice – whom she wasn't even paying attention to, and did not register the fact she was even talking.

All eyes snap to the man in question, who's poker face has surely never won him any favours in a game before, appearing as the very embodiment of guilt when he freezes for but a moment in surprise. Then, like a wild rabbit, he takes off.

FFWWOO – CRACK.

Faster than the sound even reaches her ears – which is a feat in itself, for Miss Kyle is directly next to her – Catwoman's whip cracks in the air, the weapon long and precise, reaching across the bar patrons and curling around the ankle of the suspect who had last second decided to make a break for the front door instead. Snapping and yanking the weapon back to her, the alarmed and struggling man is dragged halfway towards the thief when his struggles are halted entirely, Harley Quinn vaulting over a table (in rollerblades), somersaulting, and utilizing the momentum of her acrobatics to pummel her mallet harshly into his gut. The attack is enough to pin and immobilize the suspect, his subsequent wheezes making the PI grimace at the brutality.

"Is that him, detective?" Pamela sidles up to her, glimpsing between her potential thief and Miss Winter sharply.

"No, not at all, but he's withholding information, I know that much," Eve answers, keeping her head low as she converses in a hushed tone with the eco-terrorist. "Do you mind if I try things my way before we resort to violence? Better to explore all possible empirical avenues of questioning and interrogation than just physical coercion."

Green eyes flicker up and down the PI's face, Ivy barely an inch taller than her and yet Eve feels so small under her acute stare. Ultimately though, Isley nods once in affirmation, a much-appreciated wave of relief washing over the detective's shoulders upon receiving the go-ahead. Eve has always much preferred smooth cooperation over anything else, even if it is sometimes hard to achieve with clashing morals and goals.

With Pamela now in accord with her different approach to the situation, Evangeline Winter strolls over to the man lying and hurting a few feet away from them. Ignoring the burning gazes of those in the room around her, she crouches and gently places her hand underneath the head of Harley's mallet, lightly lifting it off the wounded man's gut. The jester takes the hint and swings her weapon swiftly off of him, resting it back on her shoulder without much of a complaint.

Trepidation and confusion stares back at her when she rests a hand on his offended abdomen, the man stilling all over at the touch. The tenderness and lilt of her voice truly lives up to her moniker's namesake. "Apologies about the brutality. We are a bit on edge you see, and making a break for the door like that truly doesn't do you any favours either. I only want to talk, okay? I understand your misgivings, I'm certain my companions' reputations are anything but comforting, however, I hope that my reputation is enough to offer you comfort, so that you may know I want no violence here today, only answers."

Skin and bones, that's what he feels like under the thin material of his shirt. The ragged, shaky rise and fall of his breath under her hand progressively steadies as the North Carolinian talks, yet is still frazzled by the end of it. Some of the tension coiling in his gut does seem to dissipate, but the man is most certainly still on guard despite her best efforts to alleviate him. "W-Who the fuck are you?"

Eve does open her mouth to say, yet finds herself beaten to the punchline by another in the audience, in a far less eloquent manner than she would've put it.

"Fuckin' hell, it's the broad that took out Maroni!"

Raising her eyes and searching for the source, Eve doesn't find him, but she does find a new wave of restlessness surging across the bar. Trying to gauge the new mood of the atmosphere, she can't quite determine whether the revelation has endeared her to the patrons present, their feelings coming across as mixed.

"The fuck's she doing with Ivy, Quinn and the Cat?"

"Heard she's been sneaking around with Nygma too; question mark freak."

"I don't give a shit man; Maroni was racketeering my uncle's shop for years until she came along. Anyone who took him out is right in my books."

"Tony saw her and the Bat getting' cosy after the Joker crashed the mayor's thing a few months back. Any friend of the Bat ain't welcome here."

"She's in league with the pigs, may as well be a fucking pig herself."

"I got a cousin who worked as a waiter at the mayor's gala. She shit talked the Joker, Alfie; the fucking Joker , and lived . I ain't fucking with her man, no way."

"Tommy, you didn't see how messed up LJ was. Face cut out his fucking tongue earlier tonight for the shit he said about what he'd do if he got Winter alone. His fault for runnin' his mouth in Face's club, but fuck me, I feel like Face is gonna take my eyes for lookin' at the broad."

The onslaught of commentary and opinions is almost too much for Eve, feeding into and exacerbating her headache. Since arriving in Gotham, in some ways, Eve has skipped a fair few rungs on the social ladder. She has talked with the likes of Two Face, the Riddler, Scarecrow, Carmine Falcone, Batman, the Joker and many more, now including the Gotham City Sirens. The few times she has mingled with the masses that support these notorious names and empires, she's had her anonymity to protect her, for, in spite of being in the papers, very few strangers recognise her face on the spot. This is the first time she has fraternized with the henchmen and smaller criminal masses without her anonymity to disguise her. This is the first time she's heard firsthand the kind of discourse they hold about her.

And she hasn't the slightest idea of how to react.

Out of all the murmurings and spats – many of which probably should concern her more because they're potentially indications of her life being in danger at any given moment – and amidst the stark pounding in her head, she still finds herself zeroing in on the last one.

"Face cut out his fucking tongue."

Harv sending his men to save her life is one thing. Harv yelling at the Joker for endangering her is another. But Harv cutting out the tongue of a man for making crude, obviously sexual and unnerving comments about her? Where do I even begin with that? Eve internally panics. The largest part of her is sick at the thought of such violence being inflicted when she'd likely never even meet this man, and yet, a small part of her is terrified of the fact she could've. She could've, but now even if she does, he won't touch her.

A small part of her is terrified, because somewhere amidst the admission of this ruthless, vicious act of brutality, Evangeline Winter felt a peace and comfort knowing that Harvey and Two Face don't just see her as a business asset; they're emotionally invested in her.

You don't cut out the tongue of a man for talking crudely about a business ally. Even for a man as temperamental as Two Face, that isn't something you do lightly. The entire revelation has her reeling, and the only reason she's drawn back to present is because she feels a dried, bony hand rest atop her own.

Glancing down, caught off guard, Eve meets the eyes of the man who is erratically breathing from Miss Quinn's attack moments ago. Bloodshot, wary irises search her face for affirmation about the assumptions being thrown at her from the still chattering masses around her. "You're Evangeline Winter?"

The Southerner's tongue moves around in her mouth, suddenly quite dry. "That would be me, yes."

"One of Maroni's men killed my son eight years ago."

Eve's heart sinks and strains in her chest. Losing family... The despair was all too familiar.

"A smaller group of guys my Billy ran with fucked with the Italians, so Maroni just... wiped 'em all out." His voice tries with all its might to be durable and hard like steel but splinters like thin wood. It's shaky, it wavers, and his frustration builds when he can't filter his hurt emotions out of it. "Killed every fucking one of 'em. Over a busted fucking car."

A glass shatters. Raucous shouting ensues. Selina's whip cracks. Harley's rollerblades thunk and roll against the timber floors at an alarming rate. Chairs creak as they're hastily shoved back. Aggression and heat enter the very atmosphere as the bar is consumed by a storm of violence. Eve is vaguely aware of the goings-on around her, of how the Sirens allow themselves to be pulled into the disorder as every patron within either flees, picks a fight with the person beside them, or even takes their chances with the Gotham rogues themselves. The entire atmosphere tightens every muscle in the investigator's body, the negativity so loud and oppressive, but amongst it all, her attention remains first and foremost on this man, this poor father who has outlived his own son. Over a car.

The emaciated, dry hand that was warily resting atop hers now curls and clenches the sleeve of her pristine cream blazer, avoiding her actual wrist but shakily strangling the fabric as his tortured grief drowns out the anarchy around them. "You took everythin' from him, hollowed him out and left him, like he left me."

Eve wants nothing more than to soothe this ailing man; to calm him and talk until the ire and pain is healed to faint scar. It isn't her place though, and it's apparent to see that emotional openness isn't something he particularly enjoys partaking in, let alone with strangers. His admission right now is nothing more than an informally phrased declaration of gratitude. A thank you, without saying thank you.

Remaining polite, Eve only smiles and nods as he talks, not wishing to interrupt him, regardless of the words of comfort that clog her throat as they claw their way up, words of comfort that will mean nothing to this man when she has apparently already brought him all the comfort he needs. He looks as if he has more to say, and he does, but whatever it is, is snatched from his mouth when a gunshot cracks in the air and startles the two of them from their moment. Both Eve and the grieving father recoil in alarm at the sound, the detective's hazel gaze jumping around to find who fired the shot.

Scrambling, both the aggrieved father and the private investigator take cover several feet away behind an overturned table. On her knees peering around their shelter, Eve catches herself gawking at the pandemonium enveloping the room, but one person in particular immediately arrests her enraptured interest.

In no way is Evangeline Winter belittling or thinking less of Harley and Selina's acrobatics and astoundingly skilled martial arts abilities; the way they manoeuvre around the room and take down man after man is absolutely awing to watch. That being said, Eve has yet to see a metahuman from Gotham in action, so upon noticing the eerie green spores lurk dangerously in the air around Pamela Isley, all Eve can do is gape.

The eerie spores envelop several of the men around her, drowning them in her pheromones. Cracks in the decrepit floors and walls from the weakening, time-worn timber allow vines to creep through from deep below. Small, enticing and beautiful but decidedly very dangerous flowers bloom and invigorate the already existent spores in the air. The select men around her consumed by the spores turn on any hostiles that approach.

"Did you really think you stood a chance against Mother Nature?"

Thus far, Eve has only really been in the presence of and heard Pamela Isley, but upon hearing her voice reverberate and pervade the room, she realises that she is now officially in the presence of Poison Ivy. Ivy's voice is almost entirely different, becoming haunting and uncanny, feeling as if it is trying hard to be human, but something that dwells beneath her tone is borderline supernatural. Eve has never seen or heard anything like it.

The now slightly more familiar, emaciated hand of the bleached blonde stranger she has been sharing her cover with grips her arm once again, not startling the detective as much this time around. Glancing to the right of her, Eve meets his gaze, the man now holding the reins over his brief emotional state as he stares at her solemnly.

"You want Carson Wilkes?"

Blinking in surprise for a beat, the North Carolinian earnestly nods when she hears more furniture and glass break around her, the violence snapping her back into the urgency of the situation.

His hollowed, patchy face twitches despite its best efforts to remain steady, the man clearly suffering either from withdrawals or effects of long term chemical/drug abuse. "He and I work together, handlin' chemical dispatches and shipments for our boss. Boss did his research before hirin' us years ago, knew Wilkes was good at the thieving stuff before we joined up with 'im. If Wilkes stole Ivy's formula and toxin, it's 'cause the boss wants it. He wouldn't fuck with the broad otherwise."

"Who's your employer?" Eve inquires, hand massaging her temple, her headache now as loud as the room itself.

He hesitates, and the fear that festers in the pits of his eyes cause Eve to realise that no, this man is not suffering from drug abuse or withdrawals, but something far more nefarious steeped in psychological trauma, a trauma he has likely lived through several times over thanks to his 'employer'. An employer that operates with chemicals, unafraid of the repercussions of inciting the anger of one of the strongest metahumans in this city.

The raven-haired detective knows precisely who he's going to say, the very second that he says it.

"Scarecrow."

Running her hands tiredly down her face, by this point, Eve just wants to melt into the floor and be done with the night. Aiding Pamela and Harley with tracking down the thief responsible for the robbery is one thing, but confronting Dr Jonathan Crane? When he clearly already barely tolerates her for Edward's sake? That is not how she wants to end her night. That is not how she wants to end any night. And yet...

Jonathan Crane bought firearms from Roman Sionis.

The PI has to track down the militia grade weaponry. She knows that Falcone, Markovic, O'Reilly and Dr Crane have bought from the Black Mask recently, and are more likely to at least have an inkling of an idea of where the weaponry may be; even just a lead towards somewhere or someone who may know where the weaponry is. She doesn't know how the mob bosses would respond to her inquiring any details about their transactions, after all, they don't exactly perceive her as a friend, and have already broken their truce with her by engaging in these activities behind her back. Dr Crane, however, told her where to find Sionis' weapons the first time around. She has a greater chance of obtaining information from him than she does the other men.

Eve is quick to relay her gratitude to the man who has given her a lead in both of her cases, uttering her thanks hastily but with sincerity. She even learns of his name; Jonas Reeves. If the circumstances were different she would linger longer, have a nicer, more in-depth conversation, but the most recent gunshot was way too close to them for her liking, and before she knows it, the detective has abandoned her cover to bolt across the room, making a beeline for the eco-terrorist standing atop the bar.

"A billion micro-organisms will enter your bloodstreams. Spores will grow, replacing the blood in your veins, and when I'm done, your flesh will be replaced with bark."

"That won't be necessary, Pamela," Eve uneasily assures, weaving through the entranced bodyguards that turn their empty eyes to her but make no move to stop her.

Poison Ivy hears the PI as she approaches, quirking a brow in intrigue upon the proclamation. "We tried it your way detective, but I have decided these fleshy meat-sacks aren't so deserving of such a kindness—"

"Jonathan Crane," the investigator intercedes, aware of how rude the interruption is but not entirely desiring to hear another monologue from a green Gotham rogue tonight. "The gentleman I singled out and conversed with whilst the establishment descended into chaos works alongside Carson Wilkes and both work for Dr Crane. Dr Crane knew of Wilkes' history in theft, and decided to use it to his advantage. He is the one that has affronted and wronged you so, not these people."

"Perhaps," the red-haired criminal admits, tentatively and alluringly stepping down onto the barstool, before dropping to Eve's level on the ground, uncomfortably close to the detective. "But these men continue to affront and wrong my babies every single day. Humanity as a whole does not deserve this planet, not after what they have done and continue to do to the plants that sustain them, that give them life they take for granted."

"Perhaps," Eve echoes back to the supercriminal, unwilling to step back despite the intimidating proximity she finds herself in with Miss Isley. "Or perhaps they need someone to educate them, to make them realise how deeply they are hurting this planet and the plants they take for granted. If I've learnt anything from this city in the eight months I've resided here, it's that people aren't so easy to label and place in a box. People are changeable and always learning and growing, even if it's little changes in how they view a certain problem or another person. I think you could do so much good for the trees and plants of our world without the eradication of mankind. In fact, I don't just think, I know."

Appraising Miss Winter for a few elongated, tense moments, something in Pamela Isley's stance shifts. There have already been several moments that night where Eve has felt as if the Gotham rogue has been testing her, and yet none have felt as apparent as the last couple minutes of testing were.

"Hm, you really do seem care." The words are spoken as if the two of them are in private, where a sliver of openness is only seen by the other person present. With her head tilted a fraction to the side, and an expression that's a mixture of intrigue and something Eve can't quite place, Pamela's stare drops down to the plain silver cross hanging around the PI's neck, the smallest of smiles ghosting her lips. "For plants, vigilantes, criminals and all manners of life. In a way, you remind me of how I was before I began my new and improved life. All of Gotham's greatest flesh sacks, vigilantes and criminals alike, had to die before they were born again with their eyes opened to a world of new possibilities. It begs the questions, Eve darling, two you could not answer even if you wanted to, but two that I'm intrigued by nonetheless; how will Evangeline Winter die, and who is destined to be born in her place?"

A small knot creases between the brows of the private investigator. She really has no intention of dying – as most people would – metaphorically or otherwise, but in a city as unpredictable as Gotham, that is easier said than done. Eve also firmly believes she's currently in her new life, and that if anything, the old Evangeline Winter 'died' in her childhood like Bruce Wayne 'died' in his.

Shrugging, Pamela dismisses the open, honest moment shared between them with a wave of her hand, the act simultaneously releasing the remaining bar patrons from their pheromone induced entrapments. Staggering, the men collapse and falter until they each meet the floor at differing rates, disorientated and groaning.

Harley, who had taken it upon herself to stand up on the pool table and use the billiard balls as projectiles, fancying a game of very aggressive golf with a mallet that has left many a man unconscious and bleeding in her wake, pauses in her game upon noticing the quiet that falls over the bar. Spying one more biker trying to stumble to a stand amongst the sea of unconscious and wounded bodies, she lines up her last swing, the jester taking her shot and fist-pumping the air when the eight-ball smacks him clean in the head, joining the rest of his friends on the floor around him.

"Hole in one! Boom! An' here Mr Hammer an' Sickle said I wasn't any good at golf."

"You sure showed them, Harley," Selina amusedly drawls, leisurely wrapping and coiling her whip. Strapping it back to her hip, the thief languidly sashays over the groaning and knocked out collection of petty criminals, meeting the other women in the centre of the room. "I assume this wasn't all for nothing, Pammy, right?"

"After a lovely chat with Mr Reeves – the man you halfway dragged across the room with your whip and astounding accuracy – I have learned that Jonathan Crane is the mastermind behind the theft," Eve discloses as the women gather around, the raven-haired detective simultaneously deliberating whether she should call a few ambulances for the fallen around her, or whether, because of how many of them clearly engage in illicit activities, the bikers and petty criminals alike would be even more aggravated at the gesture.

Harley frowns at the announcement, resting her mallet on the floor and lightly leaning against it. "Docta Crane? Why would Johnnie want Red's formula?"

"Crane has always despised my immunity to his fear toxin," Pamela bitterly divulges, lips pressed in immense displeasure. "If he breaks down the components of my pheromones formula, he's one step closer to breaking down my particularly unique biochemistry. After all, I am the one that emits the toxin, it isn't something I create entirely in a lab. Any improvements to my toxin are conducted by experimenting on myself."

"So, we're paying a visit to our charming neighbourhood Master of Fear?" Selina clarifies, arms crossed. "Hm. I believe this is where we part ways, ladies. Johnnie and I didn't exactly end on good terms last time we crossed paths, and I have no intention of taking a stroll through any nightmares tonight. Give him a kiss for me though, won't you?"

The three other women collectively frown at the burglar as she begins to saunter towards the exit with a lazy salute, Eve suspiciously inquiring "You tag along for a bar fight then depart soon after? If you truly didn't end on good terms with Dr Crane, then don't your interests align with Pamela's to a certain degree?"

"My interests prize self-preservation above almost anything else, Little Bird," Catwoman answers, pausing momentarily in the doorway. "If you had any sense Evie, this would be where you part ways as well. Johnnie tolerates you for Eddie's sake, from what I hear. Why antagonize him?"

"Dr Crane has procured firearms from Roman Sionis," the detective honestly answers. "Meaning, paying Dr Crane a visit is simultaneously solving Pamela's case and potentially offering a lead on mine. Two birds, one stone."

Shrugging, Selina sees no merit in trying to dissuade the PI any further, it isn't her problem. But it is intriguing information. "Your funeral, Little Bird."

Left alone with the remaining two Gotham Sirens, a twinge of doubt begins to bloom in Eve's chest once the notorious cat burglar is gone. Have I truly no sense of self-preservation? Eve knows the answer to that, yet it's one of her few flaws she seldom likes to address, because in doing so, it requires turning her attention to the root of the flaw. Not a path I particularly wish to traipse down.

"Don't sweat it, Evie," the Harlequin abruptly derails her train of thought, throwing an arm around the investigator's shoulders. "We'll keep ya safe! After all, you helped Red out an' made me toast. Really good toast." Whilst the assurance is somewhat comforting, it does little to alleviate all of the Southerner's concerns.

"At the end of the day, every one of us are only vested in our own interests, which are valued above all else – even friends."

Rather like the headache she can't dispel, Edward Nygma's warning refuses to leave her be. She knows she shouldn't place her safety in the hands of people like Poison Ivy and Harley Quinn, and she knows that after almost dying twice last night, the very last thing she should be doing is perilously risking her life (or sanity) yet again. But perhaps it is because of last night that Eve is willing to push herself even further, to risk even more. When she went to bed and closed her eyes that night, she stared into the abyss, and staring back at her was a gun. The face behind it was blurred, blurred like the photos of Roman Sionis she had seen in the papers and online. Eve knows though, the moment she lays her eyes on the Black Mask in person for the first time, the face in that abyss will become clearer, and if she blinks, the gun will go off.

Evangeline Winter will not know peace until Roman Sionis is irrevocably behind bars. She will not know peace until she stares into the abyss, and Roman Sionis is the one who blinks back at her.

***

"You haven't been answering any of my calls. Makes a girl feel lonely."

She's getting better, the Dark Knight admits, having only noticed her presence once she was already far too close for his liking. Or I'm getting slower.

The dimmed lights of Gotham lie below, the offensive smog and pollution obscuring the stars high above. Occasionally in the distance, an impatient car horn can be heard across the night air, the warm wind restless enough to carry the sounds around without the aid of the vigilante's cowl. Gotham City is an acquired taste, but all too often, when everything and everyone that is swarming him begins to draw too close, stifling his thoughts, Bruce finds solace in perching himself high above the complications that reside below, looking out upon the city he loves that tests him every day. Although, usually, he does so uninterrupted.

Straightening to a stand upon the gargoyle he's perched on, the Batman cranes his head to the left to acknowledge the thief languidly sidling along the ledge of the rooftop towards him, an added sway in her step. It has been some time since he last talked with Selina Kyle, a fact that hasn't gone unnoticed by either of them.

"I've been busy. Like you."

"Like me?" Catwoman's tone is playful, the flirtatious lilt entirely automatic when she finds herself in the presence of the Caped Crusader these days. Dissimilarly, the Dark Knight's is not.

"Where were you last Friday? Between midnight and one a.m.?"

Selina Kyle sways contemplatively on the spot, feigning as if she is sincerely giving the answer palpable thought. "Giving blood – no, wait, volunteering. Why?"

"There was a break-in at the Museum of Gotham. A valuable jade hairpin from the Tang Dynasty exhibition was stolen."

"What? No. Who could do such a thing?"

The vigilante has to refrain from sighing, but his marginally more exasperated intonation betrays the withheld sigh. "Just put it back."

Smacking her lips in faux annoyance, the raven-haired criminal defensively crosses her arms, hip jutted out impudently. "Here I come, the bearer of valuable news, and this is the reception I get? You're lucky I'm even here at all, ignoring my calls the way you have. Women don't like being ghosted."

"If you're planning on stealing the Bertinelli diamond whilst it's in Gotham this weekend, think again. Carefully," the Caped Crusader firmly cautions, his steely gaze leaving little room for discussion. Little thefts he allows to fly under his radar, just barely. Whenever Selina comes to him with news on the Gotham Rogues, however, it is customarily because a higher notoriety heist is in the works. If she has her sights on the Bertinelli diamond, Helena won't be too pleased, Bruce broods, his thoughts more preoccupied with the Huntress getting involved than the actual theft itself.

Selina tsks nonetheless, remaining the epitome of innocence even though the Dark Knight hit the proverbial hammer right on the head with the assumption. "Two minutes I have spent in your presence, and twice you have accused me of something. It's like you don't want to hear about all the kinds of mischief your new girlfriend has been getting into tonight."

The vigilante's head tilts a little more sharply in her direction, his body following to fully face the thief this time around. Ah, thought that would do the trick, she mentally comments, unsurprised but quite satisfied at procuring his undivided attention.

Meanwhile, Bruce's concern instantly peaks. The last time Evangeline Winter was left unattended conducting 'all kinds of mischief' was just last night, and twice he nearly lost her to the depraved and inexorable offenders of Gotham. First, she leaves the mansion in the day, against my directive. Now she has done so again tonight, with a very influential, very unstable mob boss on a warpath that would see her dead. And Bruce thought Jason was stubborn.

"What have you heard?" He predictably cuts straight to the point, minimising the distance between them by a few feet.

Selina has to hide her surprise at his reaction. He didn't even correct me for the 'girlfriend' comment.

"More like 'what have I seen?'," Selina corrects, uncrossing her arms as she recounts the night. "Ivy had her pheromones formula stolen, it's why she and Harley paid Ace Chemicals a visit tonight. Turns out that whilst your darling Angel was poking and prodding at the Iceberg Lounge for information on everyone's favourite mob boss, Roman Sionis, she acquainted herself with Red and Harley, even took up their case."

This time, the Dark Knight fails to detain the sigh that strong-arms its way past his teeth, feeling precisely like the tired parent he is. "Of course she did."

"I met up with them at Pam's apartment, not expecting to see your Little Bird there, but that just made it all the more intriguing for me. She's good, you know. Very good. I was honestly impressed by how much she could see from so little. No wonder she's got your cape in a twist. Upset about being debunked as the World's Greatest Detective?"

"I've been assured at least one ceramic company would be willing to make me a 'World's 3rd Greatest Detective' mug if I were to inquire," the vigilante echoes his butler's words, fleetingly indulging in their banter.

Selina's lips curl into an entertained, wry grin, enjoying the repartee. "Third? Ah yes, how could I forget the Littlest Bird? How is Robin? Do say hi to him for me, haven't seen him in quite some time."

"I will, once you tell me what happened to Eve."

Eve. Not Evangeline, not Miss Winter. The Catwoman notes the nickname, and ruminates upon how many pleas it took from the private investigator for Tall, Dark and Brooding to concede to the more acquainted term.

The Cat shifts her weight to her other leg, delicately raising a hand to inspect her claws in a display of aloofness. "Long story short, she discovered the identity of the amateur thief, we visited a bar, started a bar fight, and had quite the adventurous evening despite its brevity. I don't think there were even any causalities on our part. Darling little Evie is quite the influence. I left, however, when she discovered the real mastermind behind the whole scheme."

Dropping her hand, a fleeting severity sharpens Selina's tone, knowing the topic is no longer a playful matter for the Dark Knight. "Pam, Harley and Evie are off to confront Jonathan Crane as we speak. They'll know where to find him too, because Harley has a tendency to drop in on other unsuspecting members of the Rogues Gallery when she and the Joker are taking a break. She thinks he may have more information on Sionis because of how he recently bought some merchandise from the charming megalomaniac."

The Batman stiffens all over the moment the Master of Fear's name breathes past the Catwoman's lips, and before the last syllable of her divulgence follows along with it, the crime fighter has already shot a hand up to his ear, turning his comms on. The reaction didn't even require a first thought, Bruce acting entirely on instincts. "Oracle. Eve has gone after Crane with Isley and Quinn, do you have a lead on any of their whereabouts?"

"Municipal CCTV in the East End picked them up exiting a bar called The Styx not too long ago. I've been monitoring them since I got word of the Gotham Sirens starting a scuffle at the bar. They're currently on foot, but Eve has her comms off, I can't reach her. I've already sent Nightwing her location."

"Send it to me first next time," the Caped Crusader strictly chastises, scowling beneath the cowl at being left out of the loop.

"Bruce—" Barbara seems to start, but the vigilante is quick to cut the line, unable to hear excuses right now. Eve has dealt with criminals that share a similar rationale and motives up until now, all of which run their own criminal empires to attain money, influence and power. Antagonising Crane is engaging with a different beast entirely. She's not ready.

The Dark Knight shuffles to the edge of the ledge, preparing to take off. Before he does so, however, he returns his attention back to the thief, who is feeling quite perturbed for being shunned so quickly. "If you steal that diamond, the Huntress will be on your tail."

"No 'thank you for the warning, Selina'? Not even a kiss?" She teases, a sliver of her mild irritation lathering her inflection. "I mean I'm not surprised, but I am a teensy bit disappointed."

"Thank you, Selina."

The earnest gratitude catches Miss Kyle entirely off guard. She wasn't actually expecting a 'thank you', the words were said in jest. He never thanks her for intel on the criminals' schemes and movements. Evangeline Winter must mean more to him than even he realises.

Deprived the chance to respond, Selina watches him leap straight off the rooftop, the tell-tale thunder of the Batmobile tearing down the street far below invading her eardrums. Defeated, she glances after him, a ghost of a wistful smile haunting her lips.

"No problem, Bruce."

***

"Why does Johnnie always find the creepiest places to set up?" Harley shudders, nose crinkling in displeasure as the three women approach the haggard, decrepit building. The former Janus Cosmetics company warehouse is sat on the edge of disaster, an age-old testament to the plague of entropy and decay that ravages so many business empires and companies that fail to stand the test of time in Gotham City. Shrouded by the dark of the night, the warehouse eerily looms in a way that could only be befitting for Jonathan Crane.

Entering the premises isn't too challenging, at least not when accompanied by a volatile Harlequin with a substantially large mallet. It is, however, quite loud. Not that Pamela or Harley seem too moved by their element of surprise and secrecy being very likely ruined. Eve would've preferred to have maintained their stealth a little longer, but otherwise isn't too upset by the act. Any semblance of her own common sense is progressively draining out of her, a result of detective's insurmountable headache worsening by the minute. By now she feels more like she's watching the events unfold like a movie, so spaced out and unfocused that the thought that perhaps she should turn around and go home is lost amidst the throbbing storm brewing at the back of her head where she was hit last night. The sobering after-effects of her alcohol consumption are only aggravating the ache. Even the dried split in her lip feels sharper.

Inelegantly clambering in through the busted, previously boarded set of windows, Harley holds out her hands to aid the detective through, the three of them eventually coming to a stand amidst the splintered wood and jagged remnants of glass. Eerily, the temperature of the warehouse is several degrees cooler than outside, the cold on the verge of being disturbingly unnatural and invasive, settling on Eve's shoulders like two weighted, smothering hands that she's unable to shake off.

Cautiously, the two super-criminals and private investigator begin traipsing around the desolate ghost town, suspiciously finding no resistance to their intrusion. Old boxes gathering dust are stacked and scattered. Concrete walls and floors are coated in grime. Rusted, weathered pipes creep in and around every room, and are so debilitated and battered that Eve can palpably see the steam escaping in places it likely shouldn't. The fact that they're running, and that recent footprints have disturbed the dust residing on the floor, are the only indicators that this place is alive and inhabited. At least, the only indicators the Southerner can discern with her impaired perception skills right now.

"Something tells me this place isn't exactly up to code," Pamela wryly criticizes, side-eyeing a rather large, deteriorating pipe that disappears into the ceiling above. The corrosion in that particular pipe is worrisome, the gas weeping out most certainly not up to code, in Eve's humble opinion. I somehow suspect that is the least of Dr Crane's concerns.

With no lights noticeably on, the women are left to amble aimlessly in the dark. Pamela's bare feet are the quietest of the three, the faintest of patters against the icy concrete. Eve's heeled ankle boots reverberate with light clicks and clacks against the ground in turn, paced, even, but within the setting, they're borderline haunting, even to her. Harley's roller-skates are the loudest, the grinding sound taking no break between each stride, rolling over old nails, glass, and other wayward pieces of debris born from the entropy of the warehouse.

The stillness of the building unnerves Eve more than anything. The pipes are alive and breathing, but the air itself feels like it's holding its breath, the walls and floors frozen and watching, waiting for something. The building knows something Eve does not, and the creeping fear that she acquainted herself with last night whilst staring down the barrel of a gun begins to weave its way through her clothing, seeping into her skin and bleeding into her veins. Her blood begins to thrum, angering her headache, but the adrenaline that arises from the fear tells her not to concern herself over something as trivial as pain, muffling the pounding ache like a blanket over a fire.

Something isn't right. The detective is nowhere near as sharp as she should be for such a delicate, precarious situation, but even in her compromised state, she can still discern something is off, awry; an irregularity in her own body. The air tastes wrong; her nerves are heightening more than they should. Erratic. She's on the verge of her fight or flight response for reasons entirely unknown to her. What—

"My little doll."

Eve freezes. Absolutely everything in her body shuts down. The very words rip the breath from her lungs. The air around her is abruptly warmer than the ice now inhabiting her veins. Her very bones turn to stone. Even her headache hides from the primal fear struck by the distant female voice, a voice she had left behind many a year ago.

"That is not how a lady behaves, Evangeline."

"Eve darling, are you quite alright?"

Pamela's voice does little to shake Eve from the quicksand of dread and horror consuming her, enveloping her whole. It does, fortunately, draw her out of her own head enough to realise she has stopped walking, the other ladies some feet ahead of her. Ivy appears entirely unmoved by whatever phenomenon is currently transpiring, the green-skinned villainess surveying her with some element of – what? Concern? Curiosity? Amusement? Eve can't tell. She should be able to tell; she can always tell, but something has found its home inside her head, twisting and turning her mind, pulling out old files of memories stored and locked away in her mental archives. What is happening to me?

"I—I can hear him Red." Eve is unable to properly register Harley's state, but even with her compromised abilities right now, she can decipher that the clown still seems to be fairing a little better than her, judging by the inflection in Harley's voice just now. "My Puddin'... he's – ..."

Harley flounders. Eve clamps her eyes shut, removing one of her senses entirely so that her remaining deductive and brainpower has one less loud distraction muddling her train of thought.

"... he ain't here. This ain't real."

"No," Eve finally attains enough control of her body, eyes still glued tight, trying with all her might to focus. To think. "It wasn't – it wasn't steam coming out of those pipes."

"Contain yourself, little doll."

"Johnnie's fear gas," Poison Ivy bitterly realises. Eve can hear the distaste in her tone, as well as the patter of her feet heading in the direction the PI heard Harley's voice come from. "It's not real Harley, you're with me, not him."

"H-He said he doesn't love me anymore."

"Do you love me, mom?"

"What a silly question Evangeline, I'm your mother. Now, be a dear and help me prepare some dinner for your father, he'll be hungry after a long day's work."

"He doesn't deserve your love Harley, forget about that vile, flesh-sack."

"What's taking you so long, Eva?"

Eve's eyes shoot open, snapping to face the corridor she heard the younger, male voice coming from. A child's voice. His voice.

On their own accord, her feet pull her towards the corridor, the muffled sounds of Harley and Pamela becoming further and further. Instead, she can hear the train. She can taste the exhaust in the air. She can feel the cool steel of the tracks beneath her feet. And at the end of the hall, she can see the fourteen-year-old boy, his back turned to her with dishevelled hazelnut hair and a grey dress shirt on, crinkled in places he knows would disappoint mother.

No...it's not—it's not real. But to Eve, it feels so real. He's adorned in his Sunday church wear, his voice as free as ever. The image she sees of him before her is not blurred or haphazardly put together; it's him. It's him—

The day I lost him.

Step by step, the Southerner nears the boy, knowing all too well he's nothing but a hallucination, but wondering if this hallucination is real enough for her to feel. To hold him, to hug him, one more time.

Hovering behind him, she stops. Eve's sensory overload has short circuited her brain, and by now, she no longer considers herself the captain of her own body. She is being commandeered by something more visceral, more primal. Here she is, inches away from him. In reaching distance.

"Zeke—"

Her hand meets the fabric of his shirt, and falters. It's not the smooth cotton she remembers, not what she knows it to be. It's thicker. Coarser. Worn. Harsh and alien against her smooth fingertips. Like...

Like a burlap sack.

"Poor, defenceless little Angel..."

The burlap sack grabs back. Icy, calloused hands snapping out like a viper, clamping around Eve's unsuspecting, dainty wrists. The image of Zeke, a mere breath away from her, contorts and convulses, moulding into something thinner, taller, sickly. Skin is malnourished and blanched, desperately clinging to the bone and muscle underneath. The itchy, rough hessian fabric is draped over and around his shoulders, irregularly stitched, reminiscent of Dr Frankenstein's monster. The rest of it is loosely hung at the nightmare's hips, transitioning into ill-fitting pants, barely held up by a fraying belt of rope.

"Helpless... alone... vulnerable..."

The voice is distorted, but not naturally, not even technologically. It's possessed, otherworldly. And it's face. An infernal concoction, a magnum opus of every fear and nightmare manifested in a single being. Burning, yellow eyes sear Eve's very soul, hell's flickering flame peering through the two apertures.

"Tell me, child; what do you do, when you are far from any sanctuary of solace and familiarity... with a mind that has forsaken you... screaming into the abyss of a purgatory void of every belief and moral you hold dear... hollow... Godless..."

Something harsh pricks Eve's neck. Reeling, she stutters, blanching at the spindly, needle claws she failed to notice furled around one of her wrists. They glow a luminescent yellowy-orange, mirroring the hellfire in the nightmare's eyes. One, however, is empty, drained.

"What does an Angel, exiled from her God, and condemned to walk amongst the depraved sinners and devils of this accursed, doomed perdition... what does she fear?"

A/N: OOOF Eve is NOT in for a fun ride next chapter. Trust me on that. Really loved writing this chapter tho! Loved playing with the Sirens dynamic with Eve, as well as Bruce's and Selina's dynamic. Especially keen to get into the next chapter, playing with Eve's fearscape. Part One of the story was very much building Eve up, introducing her, putting her on a pedestal to get everyone's attention. Part Two, as you will see, in a way, is the fall. Nothing goes perfectly as planned forever, even if you're clever and calculated like Eve. So much original storyline plot is still ahead of this before we reach the Arkham trilogy storyline. Hope you enjoy!

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

~ T.L