CHAPTER 3.

The light began to buzz over her head. Hot crimson cascaded down her flesh. She laid there motionless. Was she shivering? She couldn't tell. Her fingertips brushed against the concrete foundation, reaching for a piece of blue chalk that she was allowed to entertain herself. She began to wail in pain by extending her arm out. 

The floor was decorated in blood previously made. The room was small and soundless. Long in the darkness, the walls were decorated with precious, messy, drawings, of stories her mind could escape to forget the pain. 

Her chest tightened, and jolts of numbness came from her joints. She closed her eyes for a mere moment and low hums of her stomach shook her insides. She couldn't recall the last time she ate. Her hand collapsed onto the ground. 

Her throat burned as she fought to speak her nagging thoughts of hate. The concrete walls were like an isolated cage. The only way out was the vent in the ceiling. She wasn't tall enough to reach it. Shackles restrained her from reaching the vent, the cuffs rubbed against her raw flesh.
Her eyes snapped from the chalk and focused on the belts on the wall, caked in blood.

Fear of slipping in and out of consciousness forced the black-haired child, to continue to reach for the piece of chalk. Just a little bit more, she thought in her mind. Her body ached, she licked her chapped lips and grabbed the piece of blue chalk. Her breath shuttered as tears continued to spill until there was none to shed. Her eyes narrowed to the wall, recalling what she should draw. Her blue eyes moved from the wall to the creepy yarn, doll. With stitches for a mouth and button eyes. As strange as it was, she smiled.

"They don't know what's coming, Arkess," Y/n mumbled. She gripped the chalk and scribbled out two stick-man figures, one that was a male and one female.

****

Y/n collapsed off the couch, her head missing the corner of the coffee table by inches. Her chest swelled in pain, her fingers curled into tight fists. Her nails dug into the flesh of her palms. Her throat tightened, and her eyes squeezed shut after realizing she was awake. Her mind began to race into an erratic process as if sleep became a dangerous thing. Her mind was like a flat battery, drained like she was intoxicated. After a couple of minutes, her fists loosened, and she exhaled deeply.

She reminded herself that it was only a dream. It seemed like a contradiction. It wasn't just a dream, it was a memory. Each night the dreams were different.

Y/n propped herself up from the floor and flipped through messages on her phone. She frowned when her boss didn't respond, though it was marked as seen. It remained a conundrum to her. Whenever she would reach out to her boss, he was open-minded and treated Y/n with respect. Maybe he was caught up in work? Though, Gotham's Gazette was always busy.

The cushion beneath her sank when she took a seat up on the couch. Soft rays of sunshine kissed her neck, while it began to fade into the horizon. Her shadow contrasted into a silhouette across the room. Her fingers raked through her ebony locks. Y/n inhaled deeply, and cringed halfway through a single breath, causing her to grit her teeth. Her shoulder ached, and her headache began to worsen.

With shallow movements, she wandered to the medicine cabinet located behind a mirror in her bathroom.

Continuously, she conceived the idea that she desired to find out who she was. Occasionally, she would brush off the feeling. But over time that idea grew into a feeling of lonesomeness. She refused to believe that she was a Vale, she wanted to know if she had any siblings by blood.

The one person who had many connections that could lead her to her goal was Oswald Cobblepot. Furthermore, he owed her a favour for completing a blood oath that she created, to insure his loyalty. Y/n kept her occupations discrete. She protected Oz during an assassination in Bludhaven, after greeting Salvatore Maronne, Gotham's crime lord. If it wasn't for her he would be dead.

Y/n kept her occupations discrete. Before she chose a partially quiet life, she learned Brazilian jin-jit-sue from a former private tutor in Gotham. He spoke very little about his background, all she knew was that he was trained in a rebellion called the League of Shadows. 

It didn't seem like a rebellion, but more like a cult. Both a background in the military and as a bodyguard proved to be physically and psychologically demanding. Something she developed along stalking the roads up to becoming a journalist was; learning to mask her thoughts and her expression. Especially during interviews with the notorious and malevolent.

After popping a couple of painkillers into her mouth, she took a swig of water. Praying that pain wouldn't prowl on her day. Y/n took a seat at the small dining table, that stood in front of two massive windows, that led her imagination to wander.

Her fingers brushed over the intersecting design around the blood oath, it reminded her of a locket, but not for personal memories. She kept it open like a book, her eyes traced over Oswald's bloody fingerprint. It remained a copper-stained colour. The dry blood showcased the amount of pressure on the thin, metal-plate, that moulded itself like roots to a tree.

"Maybe I'll pay 'em a little visit, later," she muttered, enclosing the case between her pointer finger and her thumb.

*****

Droplets continued to spill from the dark clouds, drenching the streets in her path. The rain conjures a sweet pattern among her skin, and the thousands of liquid globes reflecting the small amount of nature in the city welcomed her senses. She used to love taking walks during the night, the quiet streets, and the beauty of the sky. But that night, nothing startled her besides the constant feeling of being stalked. Her mind inhabited the ability to never underestimate her opponent.

Y/n was determined to find Oswald. Her heels clicked against the partially, rigid sidewalk. She stalked the back alleyway to the back door of a club referred to as Lucifer's. The outer shell of the club, masking notorious activity. Brilliantly, they held the activity underground, beneath the club.

As a result, it was enough to fool Gothamites that the Iceberg Lounge didn't exist.

The lounge was located under Shoreline Lofts, where the notorious crime lord was holed up. A train over top of the business rattled by while the rain refused to stop.

Her eyes traced over a couple of bums, huddled together over a barrel fire. They exchanged a glance with her before their eyes retreated to the flames hovering beneath their frozen fingers.

She continued down the alleyway at an evidently fast pace. She buried her gloved fingers into her pockets before coming across a metal door.

One hand firmly gripped the outer shell of her staff. It remained tucked inside her pocket, ensuring her safety. Y/n perceived that only special guests lounged inside, no one on the list gets inside without Oz's invitation or without a warrant.

A small light burned over the doorway, enough to light up the end of the alleyway.

Her gloved fingers formed into a fist, and she gave three firm knocks. She was greeted by two darker-skinned males, both identical in appearance. She kept a humble expression. Their eyes were cold and deprived of emotion. Strident beats bounced off the walls of the club.

"What do you want, lady? We're not donating to charity." the one on the left sarcastically remarked. 

His twin held the door firmly, in case she wanted to break through. She wasn't a very small female, she was decently built, but the twins held a height advantage against her. Y/n stood only 5'7 ft tall, against identical twins that were 5'11.

She licked her chapped lips before speaking, "Do you know who I am?" she questioned coldly.

"I'd like to think so," the one on the right lied.

"I want to see Penguin." she informally announced.

The two boisterously burst into laughter, keeping the handle of their boss discrete. Their laughter aggravated her, she felt her eye twitch, and her gloved hand reached into her pocket.

The corner of her lip twitched, and a polite smile curled from her lips. Her opposite hand motioned one over. 

 One stepped forward and down the steps after his laughter died down.

"Little closer," she commented, the man followed her proposal and leaned down to her level. Her opposite hand curled into a claw-like form and gripped onto his tie. The force of the tug startled the bodyguard. His twin caught onto her tactics and drew his gun. Her opposite hand reached slowly into the inner pocket of her jacket.

"Let him go! Or I'll put a pretty hollowpoint between your eyes!" his twin threatened. His threats made flames ignite within her.

"Hey, hey, hey! That is no way to treat the Queen of Gotham." a familiar voice rang through the fight. Like a bell to the end of a boxing match. The man lowered his gun, his eyes narrowed over to a black and gold card, that had a foiled penguin engraved in the middle.

It was a card that classified her as a V.I.P. Only three of its kind were handed by Oz himself to privileged Gothamites.

She loosened her grip on the twin's tie, astonished at why he didn't fight back. She cast a firm gaze with the familiar voice. The man pushed past the twin and approached her.

The heavier man adjusted his tie, and his eyes locked on hers like magnets.

"I see you are acquainted with twins." Oswald awkwardly smiled.

"Gotham's finest." she complimented the two, keeping her business demeanour more professional. She straightened her back with confidence.

"I'm sure we'll become the best of friends," she added while exchanging a quick glance with the twins. 

"I'll have a word with them momentarily. What brings you here?" Oswald questioned curiously. The ring in his voice told her that he was pleased to see her again.

Thunder crackled through the sky, her silence hinted that she preferred their loquacious conversation to be held somewhere more private. The twin that received the brutal treatment was folded over and continued a coughing fit.

Oswald opened his mouth to speak but soon was interrupted by the twin's coughing.

"Good lord, I cannot get a word out, without him coughing up a lung. We'll talk more inside." Oswald concluded with a snarl. The twins followed behind her and into the club. With the small sound of the door closing behind her, she knew there was no rethinking the plan she was devoted to. 

Her ears began to ring as the broad, percussive music rained down on the dance floor. Bright, crimson lights flashed across the crowded mob of people, that occupied the dance floor. Oswald and Y/n parted through the small crowd on the sides, the twins accompanied them by making an easier pathway for the two.

The smell of sweat and alcohol filled the air, making Y/n's nose crinkle in disgust. She held high respect for the janitorial team that swabbed this place clean.

The music began to become muffled as they descended a flight of stairs to a lower level. Small lights led down a hallway to the Iceberg Lounge. Two more bodyguards parted away from the second metal doorway. 

The room was much higher standards, it held a classical theme, with expensive bottles of liquor behind the counter. Beautiful wooden counters, with detailed engravements on the edges. Blue and purple lights dimly lit the room, creating a much calmer atmosphere for her. She kept her focus ahead of her, refusing to give the guests her attention. Y/n easily identified the guests were minacious and perilous, except the group of crooked group of Officers.

Contract killers and mobsters kept their attention on their business, but some couldn't help but give a glance at the 'new member' of the Iceberg Lounge. No one, in particular, she knew, besides Oswald. Which meant if she was with the boss, no one would batt a threatening glance her way.

"Your back in business I see?" Oswald began. Y/n and Oswald stepped into his decently neat office. He led her to a desk, closer to the back of his office.

She didn't reply, she took a seat across from him.

"Quite so. And you know why I'm here, Oz." her voice dropped as she fished through her pocket for the blood oath.

A disappointed sigh escaped his nostrils. He licked his chapped lips, and nodded before speaking, "I have an idea why."

She passed the oath to Oswald. He leaned forward, his fist covering his lip.

"Sorry, Oz. I'm not here for drinks." she sincerely spoke.

"Alright, what do you need, Arkham?" Oz impatiently questioned. She raked her fingers through her damp hair in thought.

"I covet very confidential information, for who I am." she requested.

"Done. Though, may I ask what it's for?" Oswald interrogated her.

"Long have I been buried in the dark, it's time to mould my true identity." a cold voice rumbled from her vocals. He cast a strange glance upon her, she was much more sinister than he could recall.

"Boy, you're becoming quite a celebrity." Oswald drew a drawer open and handed her a couple of large polaroids.

Her eyes traced over the photo of someone holding an opened card. The same card that Jim discovered during Mayor Mitchell Jr's murder. Y/n studied the photo with unwavering attention. Her stomach sank to the deepest part of her gut when it was gifted to her.

"What does a liar do when he's dead? Haven't got a clue? Let's play a game just me and you..."

"Seems like you and this killer have something in common." Oswald chuckled. His laughter aggravated her.

"And what would that be?"

"For unmasking the truth."