Title: Veni, vidi, vici

Author: OnyxSphynx

Beta: Radpineapple

Rating: T

Warnings: Canon-typical violence, language. Content may not be suitable for younger audiences.


Later, much later, she visits Wayne Manor, and is alarmed to see Bruce standing on the lip of the roof, as if contemplating suicide—after all, the boy's wings aren't well developed enough to save him from the fall. A minute later, Alfred appears around the corner, huffing as if having run the entire way. "Master Bruce," he shouts. "Get down here!" Bruce, seeming to have heard the butler, disappears from the edge and Alfred ushers Jaimie into the living room.

Bruce's standing there when they get there, and, seeing the looks on their faces, says, sullenly, "I wasn't contemplating suicide, I was teaching myself to conquer fear."

"Fear is a good thing," Jaimie retorts. "It keeps you alive—tells you where the edge is. But that's not what I'm here for," she pauses. "Pepper was framed, but I promise that I will do everything in my power to find their killer—but you mustn't speak a word of this to anyone else, or we'll all be in grave danger."

"Of course," Bruce agrees. "And thank you, again, Detective."


On the far side of Gotham Bay, Osvalda, soaking and shivering, climbs out of the river, alone except for a fisherman, who hasn't noticed her. Desperate times call for desperate measures, she thinks, and, grabbing the man's fillet knife, slits his throat and opens his tackle box, wolfing down the sandwich within. She looks across the bay and remembers the Detective's mercy, remembers how Jaimie was kind to her when others turned up their noses in disgust or tried to kill her. Osvalda looks across the bay to Gotham, and thinks, Soon. Soon, I will rule Gotham, with my saviour by my side.


The room's barely lit, blinds drawn and blocking out the moonlight, its single light source—a flickering candle—obscured by Bruce. Taking a deep breath, he steels himself for the pain and places his hand over the flame. He stifles a gasp of pain, squeezing his eyes tight to try and prevent tears from falling—the pain is more than he expected and he can almost immediately smell the scent of burning skin, sickly sweet and burning plastic and paper set alight all in one. As if sensing his pain from afar, Alfred's suddenly there, yanking his hand away from the flame.

"Master Bruce!" he exclaims, inspects the boy's hand, noting his glassy eyes and how he winces when a small breeze whispers across the angry red skin, already blistering, and, tears in his own eyes, thinking, Oh, Master Bruce, you foolish, stubborn boy, gently pulls the boy into a hug. Bruce is stiff for a moment before he melts into the butler's embrace.


Meanwhile, in a back alley on the other side of Gotham, two people climb out of an unmarked van. The children warming their hands over a fire in a metal trash bin look up in interest, and fear, as the man and woman approach them, each holding a bag in each hand.

"Hey," the woman says, addressing them, posture non-threatening, "I'm Patti and this is Doug. We're volunteers in the mayor's Homeless Outreach project." The man, Doug, opens the bags, and hands each of the children a sandwich.

"Mmm, thank-ye miss," says the youngest boy. "These are really good!"

"Of course," Patti replies, smiling. "Anything I can do to help the citizens of the City." The children ravenously devour the sandwiches, licking their fingers. Doug stares in disgust, but is careful to hide it.

A minute later, the children sway slightly, and the oldest, a girl who introduced herself to them as Lana, says, "Miss, I feel diz-zy," she yawns, and then her eyes snap open, panic shining in them for a second before her eyes, like the two other childrens', roll back into her head and she collapses. Patti and Doug return to the van and open the trunk, pulling out three black bags.

"Hurry up, you moron," Patti snaps at her partner. "What if someone sees them!"

"Then I kill 'em," Doug replies, patting the gun clipped to his belt. The two turn around, and see a man leaning over the children, a sandwich in his hand.

"Hey! You!" Doug shouts when the man sees them and scrambles up and begins to run. Doug chases behind him, pulling out his gun, but the man vaults up through a restaurant window, and Doug figures that the shattered glass probably knocked him out and returns to the van. Patti lugs the last child—in a black garbage bag—into the trunk and climbs into the driver's seat, waiting for Doug to climb into the passenger seat and they drive off under the Gotham night.


"Ugh," Jaimie groans quietly, closing her eyes and her hand comes up to rub the bridge of her nose as the pompous officer spouts off another list of bullshit reasons why she can't take the convict in for questioning. "Look, officer Robinson, I don't care how much you're being paid to keep this man here, I am taking him back for questioning, got it?"

The officer sneers at her but relents. Just as she begins to escort the man, who officer Robinson tells her only goes by Mackey, Bullock strides in, loudly complaining that their shift is almost over. Jaimie digs her fingers into her palm, the small crescents of pain just barely enough to remind her that if she throttles him she'll be fired.

Back at the precinct, after Ed graciously makes her a cup of dark coffee, and Jaimie wishes her well, she heads back down to the interrogation room. As she cracks the door open, she hears Bullock demand Mackey tell the truth.

"I swear it's true!" Mackey pleads. "There's people takin' kids off the streets by the dozens—ask Cat, she'll tell you!"

"Tell me the truth or I'll beat it outta ya!" Bullock roars, and Jaimie steps in.

"Harvey," she says quietly, remembering to say his name without the loathing tone that accompanies it in her mind. "That's illegal."

Bullock turns around to face her, the shorter man glaring up at her. "As if that stopped you from offing Cobblepot, raven," he sneers, and Jaimie wishes she could murder him. "Our shift is over." Bullock exits, slamming the door behind him.


Osvalda limps along the lone road back into Gotham, the break from her now-retracted wing having transferred into a break in her left leg. She remembers having passed a "Ten miles to Gotham" sign around two hours ago, so she reckons she's probably nine miles from Gotham. Hopefully, someone driving into Gotham and willing to take me with them comes along soon, she thinks, unsure how much longer she'll be able to deal with pain like this. It's one thing if it's an unavoidable monthly ordeal, and one can curl up with a hot-water-bottle and ice-cream and quite another if it can be relieved by just not moving. Thankfully, the universe seems to be smiling on her today, because not five minutes later, a van rattles to a stop and a girl, probably in college and drunk, opens the passenger window, and says, "Hey, you! You need a ride to Gotham?"

"Yes, thank you," Osvalda says politely, and gripping the fillet knife tightly just in case, climbs into the car.

"Beer?" asks the boy sitting in the driver's seat, probably just of legal drinking age, only a few years younger than she is.

"No, thank you," she says, and he guffaws.

"'No, thank you,'" he mocks, imitating her in a high and meek voice, "listen to your voice—and you stink. What'd you do, go swimming in Gotham Bay?" He shakes his head.

"You looked like a penguin waddling on that road," the girl in the passenger seat says offhandedly, and it opens up a pit of hidden rage from all the times that Fish called her little Penguin. Osvalda, in a blind rage, lunges forward and slashes the girl's neck open with the fillet knife. The driver shrieks and slams his foot on the breaks, making the tires screech, and tries to leap out of the van, but Osvalda knows better than to leave witnesses, and semi-regretfully kills him as well, placing both of the bodies in the trunk, taking the boy's place in at the wheel and at the first opportunity dumps them into a ditch. After driving for a while, she sees a For Sale sign for a trailer outside of a farmhouse, and trades the farmer living there—a wizened old man who doesn't notice the bloodstains in the back and probably never will—the van for the trailer and his truck, driving onward to her destination: Gotham.


"She won't let me force the answers outta them," Bullock whines childishly to Essen. Good gods, the man is annoying, Jaimie thinks, not for the first time that day.

Essen turns to her, eyes boring into hers. "Are you with the program, Detective Gordon?" she asks, voice soft, but danger lurks beneath. Jaimie doesn't reply. "Give me an update on your case, Detective Gordon," Essen says, changing the subject.

Jaimie gives her a brief rundown, ending with, "Mackey claims that people are kidnapping street kids."

Bullock snorts. "I can't imagine why anyone would want to buy homeless kids unless they're attractive girls." Jaimie wants to throttle him. Thankfully, for both Bullock's life, and Jaimie's sanity, the door opens and Ed enters. Jaimie taps a quick, Thank you, you're my knight in shining knitted green to Ed using taps of her fingers to replicate Morse code, which she knows the other is fluent in, what with her love of puzzles, and Ed smiles lightly at her.

Turning to Essen, Ed says, "Mackey had a very high concentration of ATP in his system-"

"Use regular English, you pompous airhead," Bullock mutters and Ed glares at him before continuing.

"-a very potent knockout drug. As it's unavailable on the street, the only way for his assailants to have obtained it is having bought or stolen it from a pharmacy," Ed concludes, before Essen thanks her and dismisses her.

"One last thing," Ed says, looking at Jamie, as she exits, "The start of every incident, the middle of every thing, once in illness, twice in an illusion, and thrice in illicit, what am I?"

"The letter i," Jaimie responds after thinking for a moment, and Ed breaks out into a megawatt grin, and spins on her heel, closing the door softly behind her and Bullock mutters something about useless word games.

"Detectives, you will investigate this," Essen orders, "and for God's sake, keep it out of the papers."

"But-" Jaimie starts to protest.

"That's an order, Detective."

Jaimie scowls but agrees, and she and Bullock leave.

"Maybe we shouldn't go," Bullock says, suddenly hesitant, "That's on Fish's turf, and, well..." he trails off. I hope she does murder you, Jaimie thinks viscously, but Bullock's already started off to grab his coat.


Fish lazes in her seat, watching in rapt attention as the singer on stage performs some truly astounding feats of vocal—and aerial—prowess, wings of a turtle-dove's fanning out as like a halo. Unfortunately, they remind her of that Cobblepot girls', and for a brief second, she feels envious—she should've been the one with wings, not that little misbegotten wretch. However, the club doors open and Carmine Falcone enters, taking her mind off of the subject.

"What brings you to my humble abode?" she questions, instantly on guard. Surprise visits from the Don never mean anything good. He gestures to his men to stand off to the side as he takes a seat across from her.

"I fear that the death of the Waynes will throw my plans off, and attract my enemies," he replies. "Already, my rival, Salvatore Maroni, begins to move against me."

No, no, no, you can't get rid of him, he's crucial to my plans! she screams inside her head. Outwardly, she keeps her expression bare of any hint of her internal turmoil. "You needn't worry about Maroni," she placates. "He's number two for a reason."

Falcone smiles, teeth glittering an unsettling white. "I never lose sleep over my enemies, only those who are my supposed friends," he says, and oh this isn't good. Fish's warning alarms are blaring inside her head, deafening. "Before Cobblepot died, she told me something interesting," Carmine casually says. "She claimed you were plotting against me." Fish's mind scrambles, fight or flight but no, she can get herself out of this.

"I wouldn't dare," she says, voice sweet as a double-edged blade, playing the submissive card.

Carmine cocks his head, observing her.

"Good." He seems to accept it, before asking, "How is your paramour?"

"Lazlo is well; though really, I only keep him around for exercise," she replies, calling for said waiter. The man, dressed in the typical red uniform of all waiters in the club, but when he sees Falcone he pales slightly. Falcone gestures to his men, who casually take Lazlo aside. A second later, there's the sound of flesh meeting fists and screams of pain. After a few minutes, all of which Falcone spends smiling pleasantly at her, hands folded in his lap, he and his men leave.

As soon as they're gone, Fish's façade shatters, and she practically howls, "Leave! All of you, get out!"


"Mrs. Cobblepot-"

"Kapelput," she corrects the irritating detective.

"Mrs. Kapelput, it would really be a great help if you could tell us when you last saw your daughter," the Detective says.

"She will be back soon, my little girl. No man can keep her away from her mother," she insists, before getting up to go check on the kettle. Through the wall, she can hear them theorizing that her darling Osvalda's death. One suggests it was probably Fish Mooney and some corrupt cops' doing. She sighs. It's not as if she doesn't know what her daughter does—really, her lies are transparent, and, having worked in the Austrian Mafia when she was younger, Gertrud knows the signs. She also deeply distrusts police, but she knows that if she acts like a senile old woman, they'll be more likely to leave her alone.

She thinks of her daughter, who just the other day came home radiant and chattering about a police-woman she'd met ("You'd like her, mother. She's honest.") and how her daughter is cunning. Gertrud doubts that her daughter is truly dead, but she also knows that it would be in both Osvalda, and her, favour if everyone else believes so.

So, she returns to the sitting room, a tray of tea in her hands, and plays the senile old mother, convinced that her daughter's run off with some man.


"I will kill him," Fish hisses, barely acknowledging her right hand, Butch Gilzean's presence. "I'll play his loyal lackey for now, but when the time comes, I will kill Carmine Falcone, slowly and painfully. I wish I'd made that wretched Penguin suffer more." She snatches the rag from Butch, wetting it in the ice-cold water in the bowl on the floor and dabbing carefully at Lazlo's wounds.


Jaimie and Bullock get out in front of Mooney's nightclub, and Bullock gulps, anxiety showing. Jaimie almost feels bad for him. Almost. When they enter, the club is empty, save for a menacing looking Butch Gilzean, Fish's right-hand man.

"Boss's busy," Butch growls, eyeing them suspiciously, but at that exact moment, Fish Mooney sweeps down the staircase, red dress fluttering slightly.

"No, Butch, I'm never too busy for my favourite detective," she smiles, but it's fixed, her fingers white-knuckled around the base of her cup. "Come, sit with me. I do apologise for that little...incident. Truly, I regret ordering your deaths." She motions to a booth in the corner. She looks at Jaimie, a pitying smile flits across her lips. "You know, Detective Gordon, I believe I misjudged you—though I am slightly disappointed that you turned out not to be the paragon of integrity you pretended to be, getting with the program and killing my dear Penguin." Mooney swirls her drink, a deep burgundy, and asks, "Would either of you like a drink?"

"No, thank you," Jaimie declines, but Bullock gives a hearty yes. Mooney gestures to a waiter, who disappears to the bar before returning with a cup and a bottle of what appears to be vodka and pouring a finger. Bullock looks at the cup dubiously, but the waiter's already left, taking the bottle with him. Smart move, Jaimie congratulates him mentally.

"But now, to business," Mooney claps her hands. "I assume that's what you're here for?"

"Word's that someone's kidnapping street kids," Jaimie says without preamble, "do you know anything about that?"

Mooney taps her chin thoughtfully. "Come to think of it, I have heard rumours that someone in Florida is paying good money for anyone who's young and healthy, but no one knows why, or who the buyer is, though frankly, I doubt anyone cares."

Jaimie bids her goodbyes, politely declining Mooney's offer of alcohol once again and drags Bullock out the door with her, though not before he mouths same place same time to Mooney, and Jaimie really didn't need to hear that.


As soon as Harvey gets away from his damned partner, Gordon, he phones into the Gotham Gazette and, with glee, anonymously leaks the details of the case. Maybe that'll finally get Gordon fired.


"What do you mean, it got leaked to the press?" Essen paces the room, before turning back around, striding to Jaimie's desk. She slaps the morning's paper, a headline that screams, GOTHAM'S CHILDREN GOING MISSING: WHAT IS THE GCPD HIDING?

"It was leaked," Essen growls, "and it could only have been you or Detective Bullock."

"It wasn't me," Jaimie protests. "I value my position too much."

Bullock, too, denies his guilt vehemently.

"I choose to believe you, Gordon," Essen says, "for now. One more slip-up, Gordon, and you're fired, understood?"

"Yes, Captain."

"Good."

"Only three pharmaceutical companies in Gotham stock ATP," Jaimie informs Essen. "We were planning on searching all three of them."

Essen nods, dismissing them.


The pharmaceutical wholesaler, Quillan's, is lit only with dim lights, forsaking any kind of LEDs, and within, the owner, Morry Quillan, sweeps the floors. He nervously glances at the basement door, behind which he knows lay dozens of children, drugged and slumbering. A cheap thug-for-hire guards the door.

The front door opens and his main clients, Patti and Doug, enter. "We're here for the children," Patti announces.

Quillan gulps. "Th-the recent p-press coverage has turned up-turned up th-the heat. I'll need an-an extra five grand for-for my services."

Patti's face darkens, and she whips out a dart, throwing it with a frighteningly accurate aim at the guard, who makes a startled yelp before falling to the floor, dead, as far as Quillan can tell. She pulls another out of her coat, and he trembles in fear.

Fortunately for Quillan, Doug whispers to Patti that two police officers are about to enter, and Doug pulls Quillan into the alcove next to the basement door while Patti rushes behind the counter.

"Excuse me, can we speak to Mr. Quillan?" Jaimie asks the woman behind the counter, who introduces herself as Patti. She's...a bit jumpy for a receptionist, her inner voice notes, and Jaimie can't help but feel a sliver of dread flutter in her gut like a particularly hyperactive butterfly. The feeling only worsens when the "receptionist" leads them to Quillan's office, only to then claim that she'd forgotten that the man was taking a vacation.

Jaimie slips away, quietly walking around the rows of medications, gun in hand. It's when she hears a muffled whine and the sound of a gun's safety being turned off from near a door that she's approaching that she raises her voice and yells, "GCPD, put down your weapons!"

Barely a second later, a man leaps out from the passage that leads down to the basement door and begins shooting. Jaimie ducks and returns fire from behind boxes of medicines, trying to conserve ammo, shooting only to cause fear, not mortal wounds. Patti, who's definitely not a receptionist, comes running, and shoots at Jaimie, forcing her to drop to the ground, a bullet grazing her shoulder, and when she gets back up, both the man and Patti are gone.

Bullock goes after them, but Jaimie stays to search for Quillan. And a good thing she does—a few minutes later, she hears a man—Quillan—whisper to a brute who was just a moment ago passed out on the ground, "Quick—kill the children and dump their bodies in the sewer!"

Not on my watch, Jaimie thinks grimly and, ignoring her bleeding shoulder, ambushes the two men before the goon can fire at the children, kicking Quill in the back of the knees so he drops to the ground and shooting the goon in the shoulder. Unfortunately for the goon, the force of the bullet sends him screaming as he falls backwards into the open manhole and thus, the sewer.


Why on earth the Mayor decides, once again, to make a speech at the GCPD baffles Jaimie. Thankfully, Ed is perfectly willing to chat with her about the values of cats over that of dogs. She even gets around to asking the other over for tea or a game of chess or cards sometime when both of them have some free time without the mayor noticing.

"We should probably pay attention," Ed whispers.

"Eh," Jaimie shrugs, "since there's no law against two-hour speeches, I think it's fair to assume that it's also perfectly legal to ignore said speech." The two of them burst into giggles, and Jaimie feels a warm, comfortable ball settle into her chest. Friendship. It's a nice feeling. As she tunes back into the speech, she hears Aubrey James end with saying that all of Gotham's homeless children will be taken into the care of the juvenile services.

"Sorry, I have to go," she apologises, making her way to Captain Essen's office, where the mayor is headed.

James seems to be expecting her as he says, "Ah, Detective Gordon!"

"Mayor," she greets frigidly, "You can't possibly think that the people will stand for your usage of these abductions as an excuse to round up the children and throw them into the juvenile equivalent of prison without trial!"

Essen, who's standing next to the door, glares at her, annoyed that Jaimie's not following the unspoken rule of the system, don't question your superior.

James shrugs. "This is Gotham, the city will be happy with the solution. And frankly, I don't care what you think."

"You're dismissed," Essen snaps.


Later, Alfred comes to speak to her. "Would you come talk to Master Bruce? I'm at wit's end," he confesses, "I've never raised a child before."

Jaimie huffs a laugh. "What makes you think I have any more knowledge than you?"

"Master Bruce respects you," Alfred counters.


Selina Kyle, known to most of her associates as Cat, fiddles with her frizzy hair as she's herded into a line to get onto a bus with other street kids to be sent off to juvenile prison.

"Move it," snaps an irate guard, and she pulls her lips back, baring her teeth, tempted to make an attempt at flying away, the feel of the wind under her inky-blue feathers, but then remembers that the last time she tried to fly very far—or high—she got vertigo. She grimaces. Yeah, not an experience I want to repeat. Then, she remembers something.

"Hey," she shouts to the guard. "I need to talk to Detective Jim Gordon!"

"Shut your mouth and move!" the guard snarls, and she's shoved into a seat next to two kids who look terrified. She feels a moment of pity.

"Your first time?" Selina asks, and they nod, eyes wide. "Bit of advice that might save your life," she whispers, "Go for their eyes." She looks back down the row to see the guard-

Shit. Her eyes widen in recognition. Patti. She tries to leap out of her seat and go for the emergency door in the back, only to find it locked and barred, and before she can do anything, the barrel of a gun's pressed to the back of her head.

"Next one of you rats to stand up gets a bullet in the face," Patti warns the children sitting in mute terror.


"Bus number twelve is missing," Sarah Essen informs the mayor, watching in concealed glee as the colour drains out of his face.

"Tell me it wasn't the abductors," he begs, voice hoarse.

She tries not to look smug that his mistake has caught up to him. "It may very well be, in which case, you'll be crucified by the press, and not just for sending them off without a trial, but also for essentially delivering them to the people that they were just liberated from."

The mayor begins to pace, before turning to her. "Well? Then what are you waiting for? Find them!"


The pages of the phone book flutter and Quillan groans in pain. A second later, the book connects once again with flesh, and Quillan screams, cowering. Jaimie looks on from where she stands next to the desk behind the two-sided mirror, stone-faced.

"I swear I don't know anything else!" Quillan begs. "Please, I swear!"

Bullock raises a brow. "See my partner there, Detective Gordon?" Quillan nods, mute. "She's usually gentler with scum like you. Do you wanna guess why she isn't raisin' a finger ta stop me?" Quillan shakes his head.

Jaime replies, face devoid of all emotion, "It's easy—you do the math. Thirty kids are worth more than one scumbag like you."

Bullock grins, raising the phone book again.

"Wait!" Quillan yelps, "I do remember one thing—the truck they were driving when they came to get the kids, it had a distinctive logo: a fork over a blue plate. I didn't want to mention it, cause, y'know, it's a gruesome idea that their fates might be-" He screams, terrified as Bullock raises the phone book again, but Jaimie steps next to the man and, grimacing at the physical contact internally, places a hand on his shoulder to make him stop.

She pulls out a pad of paper and a pen she grabbed from the desk. "We need you to draw that logo," she orders.


Doug and Patti watch the children like hawks as they're herded into the storage container. However, after they've all filed in, Doug frowns.

"There's one missing," he notes, and Patti goes to check the bus, looking under and between each of the row of seats, but in the end, she shrugs and returns to her partner's side. "Huh," Doug scratches his head. "Must've been a miscount—doesn't matter though, thirty children're more than enough." The two grin and high five.

"The Dollmaker'll be pleased," Patti comments, not noticing the small, darkly dressed girl crouching atop a shipping container behind them.


"Nope," Ed says, popping the p, then accidentally knocks over her cup, spilling some coffee on Jaimie, flustering as she apologises. Jamie waves off her apology—she has extra shirts in her locker. Ed continues, "We don't have any logos filed that match your description of a fork and a plate, sorry."

Jaimie sighs, closing her eyes for a second. Then her eyes snap open, an idea popping into her head.

"Are there any with a trident?" she asks, and Ed clicks the copyrighted logos in Gotham file on the computer, scanning it for a second.

"Oh!" she exclaims. "There is—Trident Shipping Co. And, they have a shipment to Florida scheduled at two this afternoon!"

"Thanks, Ed," Jaimie says, glancing at the clock, which shows one-thirty. "I owe you one!"

"Yeah," Ed sighs, watching the Detective race away, "no problem."

Mirror Ed grins, distorted slightly by the textured window pane, singing, I threw a wish into a well, Don't ask me for I'll never tell, I looked to you as it fell-

"Shut up," Ed snaps, "I will not let you hurt Dete—Jaimie."

The darkly suited version of her laughs, high-pitched and taunting, That's what you said last time—and we both know how that turned out, don't we? I'll get to her in the end if you don't.

"Shut up!" Ed roars, and, laughing darkly, Mirror Ed shimmers out of view.


One of the guards cranks the lever, shearing the container.

"Remember," Patti orders its handlers, "handle it gently, and if any of the cargo is damaged...well," she chuckles darkly. "Let's just say you'll be lucky if our client decides to kill you." The handler, a small, wiry man, shivers and nods frantically. Suddenly, a scream erupts from a few containers away. After a few minutes, one of the guards, Sampson or Sanders or something similar, stumbles in, clutching his face, blood streaming down it. Patti nearly throws up when she realises that the man's eyes have been clawed out. Nearly. "Don't worry," she soothes the shaking man, drawing her gun. "It's just a scratch; we'll get you to the hospital and they'll fix you right up." She turns off the safety as she speaks, and as soon as that's done, shoots him in the head.

She gestures to Doug, and they split up. She takes the left, walking softly between the shipping containers, calling, quietly, "Heeeeere, kitty-kitty-kitty." She hears a skittering on the container to her right, and whips around. In a corner, with no way to escape, is a girl with frizzy hair and aviator goggles. Patti grins triumphantly, about to shoot-

Someone knocks her to the ground, wrestling the gun out of her hands and handcuffs her. She snarls when she sees it's the detective from the pharmacy. The other tsks, picking the gun up and taking out the bullets. "Didn't your parents ever teach you not to play with weapons?"

Selina grins.


Jaimie arrives at Wayne Manor in time for tea, a lavish, five-course affair.

"Thank goodness you're here, Detective," Alfred says, "Master Bruce's been intentionally hurting himself, hardly sleeping, and, to make matters worse, what little sleep he does get is plagued by nightmares." The butler wrings his hands.

Jaimie asks, "Have you suggested he see a psychiatrist?"

"Of course!" Alfred replies, "he refuses every time—and I made a promise to his father that I'd raise him as he would've, had he lived: trusting Bruce to choose his own path."

Bruce, who, unbeknownst to the two, has been listening to the entire conversation from the doorway, says, "I know Alfred wants you to talk some sense into me, Detective." He crosses the room, presenting his blistered hand to her. "I haven't been hurting myself—just testing my boundaries," he says, answering the unspoken question.

Jaimie blinks. "What you're going through is normal, given the situation you're in, and talking to someone can really help," she encourages.

"Did it help you get over your war experiences?" Bruce asks.

"Sometimes," Jaimie fibs, thinking of how she stormed out and never returned after the fifth session.

Bruce smiles. "You're a terrible liar, Detective. I wish to commend your rescue of the kidnapped children." Bruce fingers the hem of his shirt, and asks, "Could I write you a cheque to pass on to them?"

Jaimie grimaces. "This is Gotham—it doesn't work that way. Money won't buy the children someone to care for them the way that Alfred cares for you."

"Well then, at least allow me to donate new clothing to them—they looked very ragged," Bruce replies.


Back at the station, Ed and Jaimie help to herd the rescued children towards the correct social service workers, watching on fondly as the children fiddle with the fabric of their clothes, awe on their faces.

In a corner, an officer tries to cajole Selina into following the rest of the children. "I'm. Not. Going," she stresses, stubbornly refusing to move "I need to speak with Detective Gordon." The officer throws his hands up in frustration.

"You have to, kid, you're thirteen and you have no relatives, I can't just let you back onto the street!" the officer's exasperation is clearly visible.

Selina glances around, then, stretching and arching her spine, addresses the officer. "Officer, you have to three to get Detective Gordon before I scream that you tried to molest me." The officer looks a mix of doubtful, shocked, and confused, so, to get her point across, she begins counting. "One...two..." it seems to get the point across, as the officer hastily gets up off of the bench and bolts away, just as she opens her mouth to scream.

A little later, the Detective appears. "Detective Gordon," she says, "I'm Selina—or Cat, if you prefer. I know you're investigating the Wayne murder, and that you ain't like the rest of the crooks that're the GCPD-" she raises her hand to stop the Detective's protests. "I can tell you who killed the Waynes, 'cuz I saw the man who did it—if you get me out of juvie."


Osvalda lays inside the trailer, maps of Gotham she's found wedged into various parts of the trailer tacked onto the ceiling, pictures of the various major players in Gotham's underworld pinned to their respective turfs. The most prominent are Falcone, Mooney, and Maroni's—they're the only ones she'll need to take out to ensure her place as Queen of Gotham.

She smiles, jaggedly, and ignores the twinge of pain from her still-healing leg. The cramped interior of the trailer makes her claustrophobia—a trait shared by most homo avis—act up, making her itch to go and take a flight. Osvalda doesn't though—this close to Gotham, she might be recognized, and her survival instinct is stronger than her urge to stretch her wings. Briefly, she wonders what Jaimie's wings look like—the shadow of them was unmistakable when the Detective used them to cover her movements. Perhaps they're a regal, iridescent blue and rusty red of a kingfisher's, or the powdery grey-blue of a Victoria Crowned pigeon's.

She falls asleep with a smile on her face.