chapter one /
toss a coin to the dead man

Roy Harper stumbles blindly into the dark apartment; the plaster on the walls is crumbling with a yellow haze in the stark moonlight, beer cans littering the coffee table and floor. It's a mess, in complete disarray. Trembling fingers clutch his bow. He looks to the window, the full moon taking up most of the skyline, the blanket of stars shrouded by Gotham's streetlights.

Flexing his knuckles anxiously, Roy can feel his body buzz as he takes in white powder dusting the coffee table—the faint traces of three white lines on a rectangle ashtray and a rolled five dollar note resting beside it, show the apartment owner's leftovers from last nights binge. An ugly feeling crawls into his gut, compelling him to take a step closer and release the itch that's been phantom scratching at his limbs since he'd given up.

But he holds his ground.

Releasing a tense breath, Roy pushes down the bile rising in his throat and rakes his metal hand through the red strands of his hair before edging the wall, and pushing open the door to the bedroom. He grips his bow tighter, arrow already notched and ready to fire.

If it weren't for years of experience, lingering behind Oliver Queen with his arrows drawn as they discovered sights of horrors that one could ever forget, Roy Harper would have thrown up right then and there, but once again he forces down the bile and carefully steps towards the scene. He lowers his weapon.

The covers flung from the bed, red stains the fabric. It's clear that Markus Romano attempted to flee before being trapped—nail-sized scratches in the paint of the windowsill inked with red blood. A quick glance to Markus' hands tells Roy all he needs to know. I wouldn't call you if I didn't need you, the voicemail had sounded; resonating in his skull, but man I think somebody is trying to break into my apartment and I didn't know who else to call. Those were probably Markus' last real words. The thought is offhand, a passing mention in Roy's mind before he continues to assess the scene. He fumbles with the arrow notched in his bow.

Chewing on his lower lip, Roy slings his bow around him before pulling his phone from his pocket and tapping in the passcode. He taps on Jason's contact, thumb hovering over the call button before he thinks better of it. 'WAYNE' begins to flash like a warning sign. It takes five rings for him to pick up the phone and utter his greeting.

"Harper," he says, "it's not often you call in. What can I do for you?"

"I need your help. I think I found something for Jason."

The line crackles as a silence falls between them, humming for a few beats and then Roy begins to hear rustling. He can only assume that Bruce is moving somewhere more secure before continuing the conversation. Roy takes the chance to rise to his feet, stepping back from the blood-written word and tapping his foot anxiously. The itch to run, far and away, only grows with the passing of each tense moment.

"Where?" Bruce finally asks.

Roy bites his lip. "East End. I'll text you the address."

"I'll send him. He's in your area."

To signal the call's end, the line clicks and Roy lowers the phone from his ear with another light curse, pocketing it and looking back over to Markus with a gruesome expression. It had been months since he'd last seen his ex-dealer after promising himself that he'd stay clean for good, and there's no thought in his mind that can logically make sense of Markus pressing his contact in a time of peril rather than one of the De Luca associates.

He's still mulling it over as he hears the telltale screech of the Jason's tires outside. Roy doesn't know how long he's been standing there, eyes locked on Markus' body and hands gripped tightly around the grip of his bow. The heavy, thumping footsteps of Jason Todd walking through the threshold of the bedroom, black hair tousled by the wind of Gotham's latest storm and eyes shrouded by the black hood of his jumper, snaps Roy from his thoughts and his head whips to fix Jason with his unsettled gaze.

"Harper," Jason greets. "Why didn't you call me first, dearest?"

Roy shrugs. "Didn't know where you were."

"What happened?"

"I don't know." Roy replies truthfully.

"Found it like this." His eyes flick to Jason's civilian clothes. "Not on patrol tonight?"

"Supposed to be my night off." Jason jerks his chin at the bed. "Who is he?"

"Markus Romano, low level dealer for the De Luca crime family. No known family. No known associates other than the De Luca crime family." Roy recites the information by memory, his gaze shifting to his feet with a grim expression. "My old dealer."

"Ah," Jason hums the noise of acknowledgement. He crouches down, gloved hand brushing against Markus'. Moving back the dead man's sleeve, it reveals a stamp. The circle outline is black, but airbrushed in gold lettering on the circle's inside is two words "INVICTUS ARENA". Jason looks up at Roy, eyebrows raised.

Roy shrugs his shoulders. "I don't know what that is, but if I had to guess, it might be the Invictus you've been looking for. I thought this might be connected to my guy but I can't find anything here to indicate it. What I did find is this."

He flicks a black card in Jason's direction who catches it swiftly, looking down at it. He studies it with thought—the same logo graces it's middle but in the bottom left hand corner there's a name, L. Carrasco: THE RESTRICTIONIST.

Jason stands, grin revealing white teeth in the dark light. "We found them."

An uneasy feeling settles over Roy. "We did."

Jason shoves the card into his pocket, rustling around and pulling out two quarters. He looks between them and Markus for a moment. Shoving his thumb underneath them, he tosses them in Markus' direction. With a clatter they land in his palm.

Roy looks at him, concerned. "Why?"

Shrugging, Jason says, "Better off with him than me." He pauses for a moment. "And I had no more room in my pockets."

"You're fucking morbid, dude."

Half way across Gotham City, Amarantha Ai stands tall, stepping into the ring.

Her audience roars. It sounds like home. It feels like home.

Shiro's introductions pass through one ear and out the other as she locks eyes with her target in front of her: a woman, most likely around the same age as her, black hair tightly secured into two braids, out of her eyes. Amarantha brushes a stray brown hair behind the safety of her ear.

Her opponent stands there confidently adjusting the wraps around her already bruised knuckles. Most would mistake her nonchalance towards her opponent as arrogance, but Amarantha eyes the professionalism in the way she methodically fiddles with the bandages like they're a trigger and she's the gun. The way her hooded gaze flickers up slightly, noting where Amarantha entered and how long until they're set to begin.

Ten seconds.

Their gaze meets, and she stretches her lips into a smile. The girl doesn't return her grin, instead slips into stance. This is going to be fun, Amarantha thinks with a flame of amusement pooling in her chest.

The bell rings.

They begin to circle each other like predators. Amarantha's lip twitches after a few seconds of anticipation, the audience falling almost silent around the two women. She rolls her shoulders again, letting the grin fall from her lips. Amarantha thrusts a hand forward, beckoning to her opponent. Her opponent doesn't respond. Her expression doesn't even shift, but the steel in her eyes is sharp as a blade.

Amarantha thrums with excitement, wild-eyed and vicious.

The small pieces of metal seemingly come from nowhere, shaped into small bullets, built to pierce through more than skin, more than armour. Amarantha barely has time to bend backwards, and throw up a burning shield of fire around her forearms, watching the flecks pass by, a hair from her freckled-nose. She hisses, cursing at herself for letting herself forced into a defensive position so quickly into the fight.

One stray piece of metal nicks her forearm, scraping away the skin as it blows past. The brown-haired woman seethes, feeling the blood trickle down the side of her arm. And then, she burns, a flaming rage that feels like it's liquifying her bones.

Amarantha's lip curls into a savage snarl. Without another thought, she lurches up and fire erupts from the fist pointed in her opponent's direction. There's a moment where Amarantha's body moves from the weight of the burning rage exploding from her fingertips. She breathes in deeply through her nose, chest heaving with the effort. Breathing out, she centres herself and shifts her foot in, strong in her stance.

Her opponent leaps out of range, just out of reach of Amarantha's fire.

Amarantha allows herself a second to study the expression covering her opponent's face; searching for the slightest hint of emotion or tell-tale sign of her next action. She finds nothing—jaw locked, hands curled into tight fists that itch to strike. Amarantha impulsively throws herself forward, pushing them to meet her half way.

The woman's eye widen as Amarantha forces them to dodge nimbly. They continue, strike for dodge until in a moment of pure survival instinct, War, as the bar's manager, Shiro had introduced her, slams her foot to the ground, ripping the metal sheets from underneath the feet of the bartender, and bends them in front of her. She ignores Shiro's indignant "Hey! That's destruction of property!".

Fire fans the edges of the metal sheet, rippling hotly as it begins to glow brightly and singe the hairs on her forearms. Amarantha steps forward. Sweat drops from her temples and Amarantha fights away the urge to rub it away as she blinks away the drops. Her energy is starting to burn away as the flames become more powerful.

The black-haired woman looks between her wall of flaming metal and the cage wall of the ring behind her. The decision is immediate, throwing out a hand to send the metal sheets in Amarantha's direction, causing her to lose concentration and her flames to die.

Amarantha can only watch in awe as the woman propels herself forward, launching herself off the wall and over the sheets of metal, landing right within Amarantha's space. She barely has the time to throw up a block as they strike fiercely and without hesitation. The cool look in their eyes as they continue, meeting strike for relentless strike, nerves Amarantha but she grits her teeth and fights to keep up with their pace. The satisfaction liquifies her molten veins when she slams a fist into her opponent's rips and hears a distinct pop.

The concrete beneath their feet rumbles, causing Amarantha loses her footing as the earthquake cracks the floor beneath her feet and the roof above her head. Her opponent slams her foot against the ground once again, pulling the metal sheets above her head to protect herself from dropping shards of concrete. Her gaze is calculating and without fear as she surveys her surrounding area, outstretching a hand to direct the metal of the cage walls to reinforce the sheets above her. 

Amarantha, out of pure instinct, throws a wall of flame above her head, but it does little to stop the rocks that slip from the broken crevices and crack against her head. Though small, they still scrape at her skin. Fight or flight kicks in, following the realisation that the shaking of the earth beneath her is not momentary, and in fact continues. A cry rips from her sore throat and she barely dodges a large hunk of rock burying itself into the ground where she just stood.

"Mara!"

Shiro's voice echoes in her thudding skull as her adrenaline continues to pump. Another piece of concrete comes hurtling towards her. Amarantha swears under her breath and pushes herself forward, but she knows it might not be fast enough.

War almost sighs, grinding her teeth together in an effort to hold her own. Her eyes catch Amarantha's cowering figure—the decision takes a moment, and within the last few seconds she throws out another hand, two pipes wrenching form their place on the wall and wrapping around Amarantha, sliding her in her direction and under the safety of the metal shield.

The air is knocked out of Amarantha, and she lands heavily against her opponent, hand clasping their shoulder in an effort to keep herself steady with a heaving chest. Amarantha doesn't have time to utter a thank you as the rumbling finally comes to a stop, and stone stops dropping from the ceiling above and she's pushed away by the very person that just saved her.

On wobbly legs, Amarantha slips through the arenas ropes and back onto solid ground. Faintly, she acknowledges that her opponent follows her towards the bar. Amarantha considers the black-haired girl with a look of curiosity through her eyelashes, wiping the blood from her forehead with a stray towel from the bar.

With a jerk of her head, Amarantha motions to the bartender, but they wave her off. She slaps the towel down on the table and steps behind the bar, pulling two shot glasses free from the shelf and pours them each a shot of tequila. Sliding one glass against the wood to her opponent, Amarantha tips her own drink to her and downs it quickly. The girl downs hers after a slight moment of thought.

They sit in silence, watching each other in careful consideration. Amarantha reaches for the tequila bottle again to pour another two shots. When she looks up, done pouring the shots, her opponent is gone. Amarantha sighs and downs them both herself, tuning out the noise of the next fight beginning.

The party never ends in Gotham City.