Names and Faces
Fish Mooney eased back onto the bed, allowing her muscles to relax, if not her mind. The waves broke against the cabin wall with a gurgling steady lull, the floor beneath her swayed, teetered. …The floor beneath her had fallen away with an almighty crash in the last few days.
She stretched out, attempting to make herself comfortable through the aches that riddled her every inch of bone and sinew. Every pitch of the water begged for her to slip into sleep… into rest… And every second that took her further and further from Gotham screamed for her to rise in outrage.
And Gotham was louder than nature. It always had been.
Fish cracked her neck, arms now resting behind her head, thinking. Gotham. Gotham, with everything she had ever made of herself, falling further and further away from her. Gotham, with all the faces of those whom she had hated, loved, and used.
Penguin… Her splintered nails dug into the bedding. That little monstrosity. Oswald Cobblepot. The ruin of me. The sole reason for her current wretched state. In her mind's eye she killed him every night. And every day she dreamed of that night, drawing ever nearer, when dream would become reality.
Carmine Falcone. The man whom she had almost made a legend. Almost. She had almost reduced him to rubble. Fish could almost chortle if it didn't hurt her ribs so much. After toppling the man she would have made him a monument. She would have worshiped his memory and would have honored the name. On some level he had been a fool to discover her. He would never now be able to take care of his own name, the name of a man almost duped by Fish Mooney, as she would have taken care of it.
His loss, though she the loser.
Butch Gilzean. Suddenly that pain she had been avoiding shot up her ribs, and wracked along her heart. She shut her eyes. She did not blame herself. There was no point to it. Butch had known how this game was played. He had been a key player himself. Her right-hand man. Her friend. Her best friend. Fish did not blame herself, but she was aware that if they had not gone back to the club for Penguin Butch might be with her now, as opposed to… wherever he was. Perhaps Harvey would find out.
Harvey Bullock… Her eyes cracked open and she peered at the ceiling of her cabin. Fish knew her own weaknesses better than anyone. One had to, to kill them first. One of her weaknesses was her heart… because she knew that she had one. She had been a mobster with a heart. He had been a dirty cop with a conscience. If one could not reconcile the discrepancies within oneself it was certainly not advisable to bring anyone else into the fold just as fucked as you.
Her lips pressed together as she recalled a final tenderness.
Those names…those faces… The Penguin, Falcone, Butch… Harvey. She would be seeing them again. Yes. She would be seeing them again. Screams and gunfire resounded though the ship. The lullaby that had begun to wash over her broken body broke. Fish rose from her bed, muscles once again taught and on fire. And Gotham would be seeing her again too. Though hell and high water knew what she would have to live through first.