Title: Veni, vidi, vici
Warnings: Canon-typical violence, language. Content may not be suitable for younger audiences.
"Look! She's a raven!" someone on the playground whispers on Jaimie's first day of school. She's felt an itch at the base of her shoulder blades, starting out almost unnoticeable, but which spreads up her arms, feeling like fire ant bites. This isn't a cause for alarm—more than twenty-five percent of the human population falls into the subspecies homo avis, as opposed to the remainder of the population, homo sapiens by a genetic mutation; though what causes the mutation is unknown. Children wait anxiously for their seventh birthday, the usual time that homo avis manifest themselves. While many children pass by that birthday mournfully, some, the lucky—or so culture teaches—ones grow plumage, from brilliant peacock blues to understated browns and greys. But there's one label all children dread.
To be a raven is to be a social outcast, a pariah, always surrounded by suspicions; "At least you aren't a raven" is a popular phrase—even criminals are viewed as better than ravens. Though the law bans outright aggression and discrimination based on one's plumage, well. Humanity is cruel, isn't it?
So when the child utters the cursed word, Jamie's shoulders hunch, her feathers retracting back into her skin as she tries to hide her 'impurity' from the other children. The kids she has been playing with shy away from her as if they are afraid that they will be tainted. Someone with white egret's wings spits at her, glaring and muttering freak under his breath. Jaimie Worthington Gordon knows then that she will be alone forever.
When her father dies, Jaimie feels free. The man, a D.A., screams at her the day after she gets home from school, threatens to send her to an orphanage if she ever disgraces him by revealing her plumage in public again. Her mother dies when she is four, leaving the young girl with her rapidly more drunken father, Peter Gordon. Though the man has never physically abused Jamie, he's left an emotional and psychological mark on the girl's mind, a festering, rotting mass of verbal abuse and degrading comments which's slowly, but surely, lowered her self-esteem.
So when the car crashes—probably because her father is drunk, even Jaimie knows you aren't supposed to drive drunk—and a bystander pulls her out of the wreckage, and the EMT pronounces her father dead, she feels numb. Reality is a blur, someone asking her something, shining a penlight into her eyes, pronouncing that she's in shock.
"Hey, kid," a cop nudges her, her partner getting statements from witnesses about the car crash, "You okay?" Her feathers are a vibrant indigo, glistening in the sunlight. Her voice's soft, gentle, and Jaimie finally breaks down, crying into her shoulder as the officer pulls closer, rubbing circles on her back. "Shhh," she whispers. "It's okay if you aren't okay."
That's eight years ago.
After that, she goes to live with her aunt, Janine, in Gotham Proper until she's of legal age. She doesn't know that Jaimie's a raven, and she never tells her; it's been drilled into her that anyone that gets close enough to her to learn of them dies, her own personal curse.
She enrols in the Gotham Military Academy at sixteen, learning everything from criminology to how to fire a gun and hit bullseye every time (and lock picking, but that isn't official). Then there's Afghanistan. In the field, no one cares if she has black plumage, or if she dislikes being touched on her arms or shoulders. In the field, you don't leave your unit behind. It's a nice reprieve from the rest of the world's prejudices.
She retires from service six years later, a hero, though, with the blood on her hands, she certainly doesn't feel like one. She returns to Gotham, eyes filled with the knowledge that comes with having held the powers of life and death, though her posture's as straight as it had been, her mind sharper than it was. Gotham, like a shadowed caretaker, welcomes her back into her arms, and sighs, content, that though she has returned changed, she's returned nonetheless.
As she gets older, her avis features increase—nose becoming sharper, as do her eyes; hair turning into slim, thankfully golden, plumes. The largest changes come, blessedly, at night—hands and feet turning into scaled birds' claws, each finger sporting a jet-black, wickedly sharp, talon, and darker, thicker black feathers sprouting between her hair, which are easily passed off as the natural darkening of hair as she gets older.
Jaimie's almost started dating Barbara Kean—a nice, witty homo sapiens—when she found out about Jaimie's wings. Needless to say, the relationship ends there. Thankfully, she'd been kind enough not to say anything to anyone else.
She joins the GCPD.
Jaimie sighs, staring at her reflection in the mirror. A soft song from a nightingale, hidden it the tree outside of her apartment, drifts in through the window. She flexes her fingers, watching in a morbid fascination as they ripple and transform, the change curling under her skin like a wave. Black scales and talons, black feathers up her arms and legs, growing thicker at her shoulders, and two messy black wings greet her when she glances back to the mirror. The primaries, secondaries, and coverts are lacklustre and bent from lack of care. While most avis hold their wings in great regard, preening them every day, a meticulous process of rubbing oils onto them, combing them through, then brushing each feather with a feather-brush, hers are kept hidden, maintained minimally for flight.
Well, it wasn't like they need to be. She's never met anyone who isn't openly prejudiced against ravens. Maybe it would all go away if...she cuts herself off, scolding herself for even thinking of that, because she isn't suicidal no matter what the voices in her head want her to think. The sun begins to rise, the nightingale going silent, and Jaimie pulls herself together, getting ready for another day at a precinct full of corrupt, aggressive policemen. Yay. I really need a life outside of work.
When she arrives, the precinct's in total chaos, officers running pell-mell, some dragging arrestees to temporary holding cells, some trying to stay on their feet and not run into each other. Her lovely partner, Harvey Bullock, is passed out on his desk, drooling, and more than likely drunk. She wrinkles her nose at the stench of spirits wafting off of the man. Yep, she mentally sighs, definitely drunk. Just then, someone fires a shot and the precinct plunges into silence.
Jaimie instinctively turns towards the origin of the shot, eyes landing on a buff man who has another officer in a headlock, a gun pressed to her temple. "Where are my pills?" he roars. "Give me my pills!" Her mind racing, she evaluates her situation.
The man is large, larger than her, and obviously unhinged. Probably an addict of some sort, normally not too much trouble, but he has a hostage.
Wait! Her mind whirrs. Sitting on Bullock's desk is a bottle of pills—probably aspirin, but pills nonetheless, and in the state the man is, most likely good enough to pass for whatever "pills" he normally takes for enough time to free his hostage and incapacitate him. And, the dark voice in her mind whispers, Bullock'll wake with a headache the size of Russia with no aspirin.
Sparing only the smallest moment of pity for the future-hangover of the other Detective, she snatches the bottle off of his desk, careful to hide the large ASPIRIN lable on the front. Jaimie briskly descends the stairs until she is at the back of the crowd. She pushes her way to the front, ignoring the glares of those she jostles. "Hold your fire," she says to the surrounding officers, voice steely. "Hey!" she calls to the man, "you want your pills? I have your pills," the man's gaze snaps to her, sightly craze, and she continues calmly, "I'll give you your pills, but you have to let Officer...Laville go."
The man cocks his head, and Jaimie can see the addiction-slowed cogs turning in his head, "Pills?" he questions in a gruff, sluggish tone. Jaimie nodds, and the man lets go of the officer he's been clutching and takes the bottle of pills. As soon as he's stepped away from Officer Laville, Jaimie leaps forward like a striking cobra and disarms the man. For a second, everything seems calm, and then someone shouts, "Take 'im down, boys!"
The other officers rush at the perpetrator, punching and hitting the man, and Jamie can feel the ghost of other children's fists from when she was a child and tries to yell, "Stop!", only for someone to shove past her causing her hip to hit the corner of a desk.
A few minutes later, Bullock's by her side pulling her up and barking, "What the hell did you think you were doing?!" His grip's a tad bit tight, but she supposes she can forgive it—she did steal his aspirin. "We had the drop on 'im! And anyway, if someone takes an officer's gun, he oughta' be shot."
"Yeah, well if one person had started shooting, we'd have a bloodbath!" She counters and he opens his mouth to reply, only to be interrupted.
"Gordon, Bullock, I need to speak to you," the Desk Sergeant's voice cuts Bullock off, and the two turn, and, with a glare at each other, walk to the Desk Sergeant's office. "Close the door behind you, rookie," the Sergeant directs, and Jaimie complies. "You two, I need you to check out a double homicide in the Theatre District-"
"What? No!" Bullock protests, "Our shift is almost over!" For once, Jaimie agrees with him. She shudders. Maybe I should see a psychiatrist.
"'Almost' being the operative word, here," the Sergeant says, voice brooking no argument. Bullock's shoulders slump, and he nods.
"Well? Get to it, officers!"
"Right, ma'am," both Jaimie and Bullock reply in unison. Yeah, I should definitely see a psychiatrist.
Out in the alley in the Theatre District, a slight drizzle of rain patters on Gotham's cracked pavement. Jaimie decides to walk around the crime scene as the officer who called the homicides in gives Bullock the rundown of the situation. As she comes to the back of the tarp laid over the bodies, she spots a figure huddled under a blanket on the steps. Curiosity getting the best of her, she says softly, "Hey."
The boy shifts to face her, and she almost gasps—his wings, like hers, are black. But unlike hers, they're preened and shine with a dark iridescence, save for a few spatters of blood that mar the otherwise immaculate plumage.
"Um," she says awkwardly, "I'm Jaimie Gordon."
"Bruce—I'm Bruce," the boy says, eyes tearbright. "It's just—I should've done something when the mugger threatened Mother and Father," Bruce sobs suddenly, hunching in on himself, and Jaimie hesitantly wraps her arms around him.
"No, it's not your fault," Jaimie whispers. "It's the mugger's fault—just like it was my father's fault for driving drunk. There's nothing you could've done. And I promise—no matter how dark things seem now, there will eventually be light."
"Th-thanks," Bruce whispers. "It just—I feel like it's my fault."
"It's not, I promise—there's nothing you could've done," Jaimie repeats, "and I swear, I will find the person responsible for your parents' death."
Suddenly, Bruce's head snaps around and he leaps up, a small smile breaking across his face. "Alfred!" he calls, running to an older man and hugging him.
Jaimie stands and goes over to him. "Officer Jaimie Gordon," she introduces herself.
"Alfred Pennyworth, Master Bruce's family—Master Bruce's butler," he quickly corrects himself, and the two shake hands.
"I promise I'll find the person who's responsible for this," Jaimie promises, and the butler cocks an eyebrow.
"You must be new here," he replies, "but I wish you the best of luck, regardless." Turning to Bruce, Alfred says, "Remember, Master Bruce—eyes dry in public, keep away from the paparazzi, and for Lord's sake, keep your wings hidden in public."
From above, a girl with frizzy hair scampers off, making a mental note that there is one good cop in the GCPD.
"I can't believe you got us involved in that case without consulting me!" Bullock snaps at her over a plate of fries and a burger, the other unwrapped and in his hand. "Do you know what happens to us now? It's a high-profile case—we'll be under enormous pressure to solve it quickly," he says, tone furious. "You could've saved us the stress, but no-oo, not little-miss-goody-two-shoes."
"So?" Jaimie asks, frankly slightly puzzled.
"You just don't get it, do you?" Bullock shake his head. "The Waynes were two of the most important people in Gotham—if we don't solve it quickly, we'll be in hot water, from City Hall as well as the public!"
The café's door opens, and the bell at the top tinkles. A moment later, two people walk towards them.
"Bullock," the woman, whom Jaimie recognises as Detective Renee Montoya—she's engaged to Barbara if Jaimie remembers correctly—says, her wings, patterned like a red-tailed hawk's, folded slightly so as not to hit anything. Beside her, her partner, Allen, of the Major Crimes Unit, tips his head slightly in greeting, his small frame supporting bright Blue Macaw plumage puffed out slightly in a show of dominance over those he perceives as inferior. The hairs on the back of Jaimie's neck bristle slightly and her claws itch beneath her skin with the urge to change into her avis form and challenge Allen. She ignores it, instead focusing on Montoya and Bullock's conversation. "We can take the case of your hands, get it done right for once," Montoya's offering, and Bullock's fists clench tightly.
"No, thanks. I ain't afraid of this case, or any others," he growls through gritted teeth. "And I suggest that if you want someone's case, 'specially mine, you try not disrespecting them." He smiles, more of a barring of teeth, and Montoya shrugs and she and Allen leave.
"I thought you didn't want the case?" Jaimie questions.
"Yeah, well, I wasn't about to give it over to Montoya after she disrespected me," Bullock shoots back, and takes a bite from his burger, stubbornly refusing to say anything beyond that point.
Later, back at the precinct, Jaimie and Bullock stand in Captain Essen's office along with the Captain herself, watch the press conference on the TV in her office.
"We will bring the Waynes' killers to justice," the mayor, Aubrey James, proclaims, and Bullock mutters under his breath about how the only people that man can bring to justice are whoever Carmine Falcone decides is in his way at the moment. The Captain shuts off the TV, rubbing her temples.
Abruptly, Bullock asks, "May I have a moment of your time, Captain? Alone." He shoots a glare at Jaimie.
"Of course," Essen sighs wearily. "Gordon, give us a minute, please." Jaimie nods, exiting and closing the door behind her.
"...I demand a new partner!" Bullock's voice is loud enough that Jaimie can hear from her desk. She presumes that the Captain refuses, as a minute later, Bullock storms out and snarls, "We're leaving. There're some people to talk to."
After two hours of chasing, apprehending, and, ahh, questioning muggers later, they've hit a dead end. No one knows, or, if they do know, is willing to talk, and they decide to return to HQ. When they enter, they're greeted by an enthusiastic Edward Nygma, the GCPD's resident forensic scientist, who's practically bouncing on her toes, her normally hidden green swallow's wings fanned out and flapping slightly.
"Ah, Detective Gordon, Detective Bullock! Just the people I wanted to see!" She grins. "I analysed the bullet in Mr. Wayne's chest, and," she pauses dramatically, "It's no ordinary bullet—very high end, custom-made, most likely." She grins childishly.
"Thanks, Ms. Nygma," Jaimie says, genuinely thankful, and jabs Bullock in the ribs to stop him from saying something rude.
"No problem, Detective. And please, call me Ed."
"In that case, Ed, call me Jaimie," she smiles. "Thanks again, Ed. Have a good night," she says, herding Bullock away before he insults Ed.
After the two turn the corner, Ed whispers, "You too, Jaimie, you too," partially to herself, staring smitten, off into space.
"C'mon, Gordon, you said it yourself—this was no ordinary mugging," Bullock argues.
"And you're suggesting we go ask your lady-friend for a lead?" Jaimie asks, disbelief and doubt creeping into her tone.
"Fish isn't my 'lady-friend'," Bullock says crossly, "and I think we should ask her. She works under Carmine Falcone, and she owes me a favour."
"So you're suggesting we ask a known criminal," she summarises.
"This is Gotham," Bullock retorts. "That's how thing work."
At Mooney's Nightclub, Bullock greets Mooney, and Jaimie introduces herself. Mooney's eyes rake over her, and Jaimie feels like she's under spotlights. It's not a nice feeling. Instead, she moves off to the side of the room, and introduces herself to a dark-haired woman, whom she learns is named Osvalda, and the two strike up a pleasant conversation, though Osvalda winces slightly any time her ashy-faced owl's feathers move, as her slightly oversized wings are awkwardly half-splayed open. Jaimie thinks they look gorgeous regardless, which she tells the other, who blushes and thanks her, all the while trying to refute the statement.
"Gordon! Let's go!" Bullock calls, and the two bid their goodbyes.
"And you scolded me for consorting with criminals," Bullock observes as the two leave Fish Mooney's club.
"Shut up," Jaimie snaps, causing the other Detective to bark out a laugh.
Later, after Jaimie's returned home, taken a shower and, remembering Bruce's nicely preened feathers, decides that perhaps combing her own wouldn't be the worst idea. Halfway through the coverts on her left wing, using a hair-comb, as she's never bothered to buy a set of feather combs, her phone rings, and she carefully grabs it, making sure that her now-unsheathed claws don't scratch it, and tells Siri to answer it.
"Hello," she says.
"Gordon," Bullock says at the other end, breathing heavily. "I have a lead."
The next morning, Jaimie wakes before her alarm and turns it off, yawning as she goes through her morning routine. She fries herself hash-browns and feeds breadcrumbs to the ravens that like to perch on the strip of wood that juts out a bit outside her kitchen window and waters her aloe plant.
Jaimie pulls on a coat over her uniform, grabs her badge, and sets off to meet Bullock.
Their rendezvous point is a well-maintained apartment building, where Bullock says that someone has a bit of intel that might help them in their case.
Bullock, who now insists on being called Harvey for reasons unknown, says, "Mooney says that one of the tenants, a Mario Pepper, tried to sell one of her fences a pearl necklace matching the description of the one that Martha Wayne was wearing."
"Hmm," she hums. "And just how reliable is her info?" she asks.
"Reliable enough," Harvey says shortly, and Jaimie remembers his unusual breathing pattern from when he called the night before. Huh.
"So that's what you were doing last night," she muses out loud. He doesn't blush or fluster, but he diverts her attention by ringing the doorbell.
A young girl, most likely Pepper's daughter, opens the door, and her guarded expression tells Jaimie that they weren't expecting guests.
"May we speak to your father?" Jaimie asks politely, and the girl shrugs.
"Sure." She turns around and yells, "dad, the police're here to talk to you!"
A minute later, a well-built man, probably in his forties, his red hair starting to grey, shows up.
"Excuse me, Mr. Pepper, we're with the GCPD. We have some questions to ask you," Harvey says, and both he and Jaimie flash their detective badges.
"Of course, of course. Come in," Pepper says, escorting them to the kitchen.
"Mr. Pepper, where were you on the night of the Waynes' murder?" Jaimie asks, watching his reaction.
"I was here, with my wife Alice," he replies, and his wife, who's serving tea to everyone, supports his claim readily, as does their daughter Ivy.
"Then I suppose you wouldn't mind if we had a look around?" Jaimie asks, and the man freezes up for a second before knocking over the table, sending the biscuits and tea all over the carpet and vaults out the window. After a moment, Jaimie and Harvey follow.
After a bit, they get separated, and Jaimie finally tackles Pepper in an alleyway. However, Pepper's obviously been expecting such a situation, and he pulls a small blade from under his sleeve and slashes at Jaimie, causing her to fall back. He looms over her, ready to deliver a fatal blow, and she feels fear coursing through her-
A bullet lodges itself in Pepper's side, and he howls in pain before collapsing.
Thank God for Harvey Bullock, she thinks, quickly followed by another note to see a psychiatrist, though really, she'd be lying through her teeth if she said she could afford one in Gotham.
Later, the GCPD investigate the Pepper apartment and find a lockbox, inside which is the pearl necklace and a gun.
The mayor insists on holding a press conference at the GCPD. The mayor insists on congratulating Jaimie and Harvey for, quote, "Excellent detective work!" After the entire nightmarish ordeal, the two decide to go eat burgers and fries to try and drown in the grease.
Further away, in a dimly lit room, Osvalda Cobblepot fidgets nervously under the unrelenting stares of Allen and Montoya. Good grief, why had she ever thought this was a good idea?
"Well, Cobblepot?" Montoya asks impatiently. "We haven't all day."
Right. She swallows, takes a deep breath. She's doing this for Jaimie, who believes so passionately in the right people being convicted. "Mario Pepper was framed," she says. "Fish Mooney, working with the GCPD, framed Mario Pepper."
After the Waynes' funeral, as everyone begins to leave, Bruce stops by where Jaimie is to thank her.
"Really, though, thank you, Detective," Alfred adds, "it means a lot."
"It was no problem—I'm glad I could help," she replies.
When she returns to GCPD HQ, she's greeted by a skittish looking Ed.
"What's wrong, Ed?" She asks, concerned.
"Umm," the other glances around nervously, "I just—I thought you might want to—to know that. Um." She pauses again and lowers her voice. "Allen...Allen and Montoya were talking earlier about they got it from a private source that you and the GCPD framed Mario Pepper—I wasn't eavesdropping, I just passed by," she says in one breath and Jaimie sees Mario Pepper in the ICU in the Gotham General Hospital and feels so, so grateful that the man isn't dead. She doesn't want another life on her soul, though by now the thing's probably as red with blood as her wings are dark like the night.
"Thanks for telling me," she says to Ed. "Excuse me, I need to talk to Detective Montoya."
"Yeah, no problem. Glad I could help," Ed calls after her, and thinks to herself, I'd do anything for you. In the small mirror on the wall, Mirror-Ed smiles to herself.
"Montoya," Jaimie calls to the detective. "A minute of your time?"
The other turns to face her, barely acknowledging her.
"What evidence do you have that I framed Mario Pepper?" She asks hotly, practically jabbing the other's chest with her index finger.
"You'll see when I have you and your crooked palls in court," Montoya retorts cooly and turns heel and walks away.
Jaimie controls herself, but just barely. However, she can feel there's something wrong with the Waynes' deaths and decides to pay Alice Pepper a visit.
Once there, she once again feels extremely grateful that Mario Pepper's still alive.
"Can I see his shoes?" she asks, remembering something that Bruce said. She inspects all of his shoes and concludes that Mario must've been framed—none of his shoes matches the 'shininess' that Bruce described.
"Mario was no saint, but he wouldn't kill someone," Alice Pepper adds, and Ivy agrees.
"Thank you very much," Jaimie says, and adds, albeit slightly awkwardly, "the doctors say he'll be ready to come home in a month."
"...She set us up, Harvey! She planted the evidence and framed Pepper," Jaimie yells at the other, standing in a secluded alley.
"That's impossible," Harvey retorts, refusing to see what's going on. "Fish wouldn't do that."
"Well did it ever occur to you that Fish is a criminal and criminals lie? Or are you just that blinded by your infatuation with her?" she shouts, furious. "You know what? I'm done trying to convince you." She throws her hands into the air. "I'm going to confront her." Turning on her heel, she storms away, one destination in mind: Fish Mooney's nightclub.
Once she gets there, it's half past two in the morning, and the sky's still dark, the bight lighting outside the club casting multicoloured shadows across her face. Normally, she'd take a second to stop and look at the way that the cats frolic in the shadows, but not this night. No, this night, she is pissed.
She slams the door open, and strides over to Mooney's table, causing the woman to stand up, the dim lighting accentuating her high cheekbones. She doesn't waver, her eyes steely when Jaimie growls, "How dare you—how dare you frame an innocent man!"
Instead, Mooney asks, cockily, not denying her statement, "And what're you going to do about it?"
"Wait and see," Jaimie snaps.
Mooney laughs slightly. "I don't like surprises," she says, voice icy, and three thugs leap at Jaimie. She snarls at them and knocks one out, blocking another's blow to her ribs, and everything blurs, her fingers melting into talons, and she slashes at the two homo sapiens, leaving bleeding gashes on arms and torsos. Within five minutes, the other two're knocked out as well, but in her post-confrontation high, she fails to hear Mooney move, and is knocked out cold from behind.
"Excuse me, Detective Bullock!" Ed calls, jogging to catch up with the man, who sneers at her slightly.
"What is it?" he asks, hatred of Ed evident in his tone, something she's never able to understand. She figures she must've accidentally made a socially unacceptable mistake around him—Ed's always had trouble with social cues and such, though she really has been trying harder recently.
"Ah, I was just wondering if you'd seen Ja—Detective Gordon? I was looking for her earlier, a possible lead on something, but I needed her to verify it?" her voice rises slightly at the end, making it more of a question than a statement, but, thankfully, Bullock doesn't notice.
"No, she's on a stake-out righ' now, but she should be back by five," Bullock says, and Ed nods, thanking him, and makes to leave. Her mind is whirring—Bullock lied, she knows that Jaimie isn't doing a stake-out, Ed read the case file. Which means one thing: Jaimie's in trouble, and Bullock knows where she is. Right on cue, the detective nervously glances around before hailing a taxi. Ed, too, hails a taxi, ordering the driver to follow Bullock's car, which, thankfully, is easy to follow, as, at three at night in Gotham, most people are asleep. She has to pay a bit extra, but she'll willingly give up buying a monthly subscription to Puzzles Daily if it means that Jaimie stays safe.
Once the taxis stop, Ed leaps out, chasing after Bullock into the meat-packaging plant. Once inside, she sees something that makes dread rise in her: Jaimie, hung upside-down like the cows waiting to be packaged, blood slowly dripping down her face and onto the floor. Panicking, she rushes to her side, ignoring Bullock's noise of surprise, and, seeing the cut on Jaimie's head and temple up close, as well as her split lip and bleeding nose, mutters, "Shit."
Trying to focus on stemming the blood, she fumbles for the small pack that she keeps in her coat that contains gauze, a small package of wet-wipes, a spool of suture thread, and an emergency suture needle. Ed threads the needle as quickly as possible, peripherally seeing Bullock get up and go talk to a man who she hadn't noticed before. She uses a wet-wipe to clean off the dried blood and stitches up the large gash on Jaimie's temple, wrapping the gauze around it, and is about to start on the gash in the Detective's hair when she hears Bullock yelp, and a thud. "Wha-?" she starts to ask, turning around, but the man who Bullock was talking to quickly knocks her out as well.
"Kill them all," Fish hisses into her phone, furious, and hangs up. Osvalda, seeing that the mob boss's glass is empty, quickly moves to refill it, lest Fish gets mad. "Osvalda, massage my feet," Fish orders as soon as her glass is full, and Osvalda complies. "Falcone grows old and weak," she says to Osvalda, "and someone will have to take over from him soon, and who better suited to the position than me?" Her eyes are slits, and she drapes languorously.
"Of course," Osvalda agrees, "you'd be the perfect fit."
Fish opens her eyes and takes a sip of her wine, listening to the comic on stage, and says, nonchalantly, though there's a hidden blade in her tone, "I know you betrayed me—you were the only person who saw me handling the pearl necklace."
"No!" Osvalda protests vehemently. "I would never betray you—I'd cut my own vein open if you told me to!"
Fish sits up, and pulls a small blade from beneath a cushion and hands it to Osvalda. "Prove it—prove your loyalty to me, my little Penguin."
That's the last straw—Osvalda hates that nickname with a burning passion, hates how it highlights her weaknesses, hates it, hates Fish. She lunges at the woman, wings out and flapping to give her an extra boost and make it hard for Fish to see, aiming at her face, but Fish's prepared. She grabs a chair and knocks the smaller woman over, beating her with a bat, and there's a sickening crunching sound as the bat connects with Osvalda's left wing breaking the bone and causing her to scream, until she passes out from pain.
Jaimie comes to eventually, feeling the gauze and stitches, and wonders why everything seems to be upside down—then, she realized that she's hung up next to Harvey and Ed, the latter of the two not having yet woken up yet.
A man, whom Jaimie IDs as Butch, one of Mooney's thugs, walks past, and, after grinning at her in an ominous way, calls, "Franky!"
Another man, presumably Franky, appears, clothed in chainmail and a black hood, and selects a butcher's knife from off of a table covered in various blades, and begins to advance on them-
The door opens and the people enter, shooting all of Mooney's thugs, save for Butch, dead. A second later, Carmine Falcone himself appears. "Tell Fish that if she wants to kill policemen, she has to ask me first," he tells Butch, who's cowering in fear. "Go on—tell her!"
Butch yelps slightly as a warning bullet streaks past his face, and he hurries away.
"Release them," Falcone orders his men, who make quick work of their bindings. By now, Ed's lack of reaction's begun to frighten Jaimie, and as soon as she's stood up, she checks the forensic scientist's pulse, breathing a sigh of relief when she finds Ed's heartbeat, steady and strong. However, Falcone calls, "Gordon, I'd like to speak with you in private," and Jaimie's forced to follow after the Don.
"I was good friends with your father, and I admired his integrity and zeal as a D.A." Falcone says, and Jaimie barely hides a snort of disbelief. Integrity, she thinks, What integrity did Peter Gordon ever have?
Instead, she says, "I admit, at first, I suspected you killed the Waynes—but now I'm fairly certain that if that were true, I wouldn't be here talking to you."
The Don chuckles, then grows serious once again. "Truly, I do not know who killed the Wayne's, and I doubt that anyone else does—it was, most likely, the low-rent crime that it seems. But what matters is that justice is being served, and that law and order are upheld in the city," Falcone continues, "After all, Ms. Gordon, I am a businessman, and anarchy is bad for business. But if you try and expose the frame up, or Gotham, and the GCPD's corruption—well. It would be in everyone's best interests that you don't," Falcone finishes, threateningly.
Later, after they return to the precinct and Ed's taken to the infirmary, Harvey says, "Hey, Gordon, there's something we need to do at the Docks."
Jaimie feels suspicion rise in her, but decides to leave a note at her desk, saying that she's at the Docks, and if she isn't back by seven, she's probably dead. That cheery note on her desk, she follows Harvey to a car, a '67 Impala—his car, or so he claims.
"Yeah, right," Jaimie rolls her eyes. "You'd never be able to afford a car like this."
"Oh shut up and get in," Harvey grumps, and the two settle into a silence as they drive, the sky painted pastels from the sunrise. Once they get to the Docks, they both get out, and, as Harvey goes around to open the trunk, Jaimie blinks in the morning sunlight.
She goes around back and gasps—it's Osvalda, whimpering in pain, one wing bent at an odd angle. "Osvalda!" She exclaims, going to check on the other, but Bullock blocks her.
"Sorry, Gordon," he says, "the Don's ordered ya to off this little thorn in 'is side, prove ya'll remain quiet 'bout the frame-up."
And Jaimie, in that moment, remembers what her mother told her as a child: fool me once, shame on you, fool me again, I'll be the viper in your bed. Play the enemy, deceive them, and when they trust you, you can strike their weakness.
"No," she says, and the game has begun.
Bullock shrugs. "If ya don't do it, I have orders from the Don to kill the both of you—I've grown to like ya, Gordon, and it won't be easy ta off ya, but I will, or else Falcone'll kill alla us an' probably Nygma, too."
Jaimie nods, as if in defeat. Keeping up the charade, she pulls her gun out and grasps Osvalda gently, careful to make it seem as if she's digging her fingers into the other's skin, and marches them both to the pier.
"A terrible war is coming, Detective!" Osvalda warns, trying to convince Jaimie to not shoot her, panic evident in her voice. "Falcon's enemies will try to take advantage of his weaknesses; I can be a useful spy for you—I can help prevent the bloodshed that's coming-!" she pleads.
"Shut up," Jaimie growls, and thinks, Osvalda, please, forgive me, and spins her around to face the water, placing the gun to Osvalda's head.
"Please, have mercy," Osvalda begs, and Jaimie leans in, spreading her wings to hide the movement, aware that her raven wings will only make Bullock more likely to believe the hoax she's about to commit.
"Don't ever come back to Gotham," she whispers into Osvalda's ear and, firing the gun right next to head, shoves her into the water.