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See No Evil: Tracing (ch. 13)
🕑 Added 2020-09-16 14:50:09 +0000 UTC“Tifa Lockhart, huh?” Oswald Cobblepot muttered to himself, taking in a deep breath of smoke as he looked at the finalized papers for the fake identities he set up for the freshly minted Vergil St. Jude and Tifa Lockhart. He gave them the works -- driver licenses, passports, social security numbers, birth certificates, added their names on electronic records, and so on. Vergil paid a hundred and fifty thousand a pop for them, unknowing that the identities he had bought were worth ten times what he paid.
Oswald decided to eat the cost and keep that secret under his tophat. He had a vested interest in both Vergil and Tifa, though for very different reasons.
Vergil was a ghost. A real one. It was like the kid just appeared from thin air -- his prints weren’t in any system, facial recognition also didn’t get any hits, nor did a DNA test so not even his parents were in any kind of database. Whoever the kid was before he became Vergil St. Jude was a great big question mark. And that raised red flags.
“Any word on the job Vergil is on?” Oswald asked Candy, his favorite of his two secretaries. He kept Tracy around because of two very big reasons in her shirt, but Candy had the brains and the beauty. Even better, she had an exceedingly rare trait called competence. Oswald would say it was like someone was putting stupid juice in the water, but considering that it was Gotham, someone probably was. If anything, it would explain how the city went utterly insane over the past few decades.
Candy had an answer ready for him, as always, “The deal seemed to go smoothly. Though, Vergil has decided to keep his cut of the job instead of kicking up the whole amount to you. Additionally, he’s making use of the Henching app.” Candy told him, making Oswald lean into his chair as he took in another deep breath of cigar smoke.
Then Candy gave him a look, “You seem to be paying Vergil an unordinary amount of personal attention.”
That was true. He had to. Scales needed to be balanced, “Those cards of his are a gold mine,” Oswald mused. They were absolutely perfect for smuggling. They could transport more weight than his usual means without any of the bribes or routes since the kid could just walk through a metal detector and hop on a plane.
“Talent like that needs to be nurtured. He has to want to work for me,” Oswald continued, thumbing through a few reports. He pulled up a slip of paper detailing what those cards were. He had hoped that they something he could buy in mass. The cards themselves would cost him about fifty thousand a pop, but they were next to worthless unless they were in Vergil’s hands.
The cards were training wheels for magicians. They helped a mage or wizard or whatever those magical freaks called themselves -- it helped them discover where their magical talents reside and helped them create spells. Or something. Oswald was a businessman, not a warlock. The storage capability that the cards displayed came from Vergil, that was the kid’s magic. Hardly the flashiest kind of magic, but in the right hands -- his hands -- that magic could make billions.
“It’s just making sure he is who he says he is,” Oswald grumbled to himself, casting a glance at the kid’s ID. In a city like this, things that seemed too good to be true often were. The sweetest of wines were often poisoned. Vergil had balls -- he walked into the lion’s den. He was ruthless -- he murdered a man in cold blood to save his own life. He understood Gotham in ways that most people never could -- everything, absolutely everything in this city, came down to power. The cherry on top? He had a magical ability that could make them both richer than Oswald could have ever imagined. He was already a billionaire, but what about a trillionaire?
Except for the first near two decades of the kid’s life was a mystery. There were no hints to who he was. None. Nada. Oswald had looked under every stone and shook every tree, there wasn’t a single iota of information about who Vergil St. Jude was before he was Vergil St. Jude.
Oswald didn’t trust it. He didn’t make it in this business as long as he had by not checking a gift horse in the mouth. The fact that the vast majority of his life was a massive void of nothing was the only thing that reassured Oswald that Vergil wasn’t some child secret agent sent by the government or one of Batman’s Robins or whatever else the city could throw at him to infiltrate his organization. Simply because if it was one of them, then they would have given the kid a background instead of just making him appear out of thin air.
“Hm,” Candy hummed, making him glance up at her.
“What?” He questioned, wondering what she was on about.
“I think you like him,” Candy responded candidly. He gave her a thoroughly unimpressed look in response because that didn’t sound like him at all.
“The only people I like are the kind that have tits, darling,” He reminded with a scoff. Oswald took in a deep drag to hide his annoyance when Candy simply rose an eyebrow in response. He wasn’t sure why she was giving him that look. It wasn’t like it was some great secret or anything. He let out the smoke in the form of a deep sigh, “Are you talking about that show a couple of weeks ago? Flys and honey, Candy.”
The hook was the cocaine deal. The show with trashing about ten million worth of junk he was going to toss out anyway was reeling him in. A touch here and a touch there and the kid would be putty in his hands.
“You liked him before that. You’ve liked him since he came here after his henching job went bad,” Candy said, making his eyes narrow at the reminder of that fuck up. Oswald avoided killing his guys when he could. Bad for business. Executions were reserved for betrayals or exceptional incompetence. But Noah, the last remaining guy that had worked that job since Vergil only knocked him out, had deserved to die.
To that, Oswald simply shrugged, “The kid was smart enough to realize coming to me was the best choice and had the balls to see it through. I can respect that.” He dismissed easily enough. He had been the same way during his rise to power back when he worked under Falcone all those years ago. It was how he established himself enough that when Batman went after Falcone first, Oswald had been able to split off and sweep up the pieces to a shattered crime empire.
Candy continued to stare at him like she could see his soul or something. “I meant when he threatened to kill whoever you sent with him on a human trafficking job,” she said with some amusement, making Oswald let out a chuckle as well.
She wasn’t wrong there. The kid was in so far over his head, but he drew a line in the sand and refused to cross over it. Going as far to threaten murder right to his face. Vergil had a spine in him, that much Oswald was willing to admit. “Heh. Well, it’s an empty threat. But I can’t blame him for thinking that.”
Human trafficking wasn’t worth the trouble. Batman, and his whole family, were colossal pains in the ass. But they couldn’t be everywhere. They had to prioritize crimes to bust and that was further narrowed down by the gang of the week. Human trafficking? That was something they hunted down like a bloodhound and that Robin 2.0 was a brutal piece of work when he busted an operation. The batfamily didn’t kill, but some of those guys were better off dead when Robin 2.0 was done with them.
So, Oswald had washed his hands of the business. The same with important guns into the city. Exporting was a different manner, but importing wasn’t worth the hassle. Not touching those two markets saved him so much hassle. Guys like the Joker or Ivy or whatever flavor of crazy crawled out of the woodworks that week snapped up his attention, leaving Cobblepot Industries a low priority.
“You started to like him then, but when he brought back the drugs and money, you took a shine to him. You can admit it, I won’t tell anyone, Mr. Cobblepot,” Candy teased, making him frown in annoyance. Then he sighed before he snuffed out the cigar he had been enjoying.
Because she wasn’t wrong. That bullshit he had fed Vergil to reel him in hadn’t all been bullshit. “He reminds me of me. And I love me,” Oswald admitted. “He has that fire in him. That kid wants it all.” That fire that just demanded more and more and more to be fed into it. Money, women, cars, yhats, private jets, fancy jewels, and everything else that represented wealth and power.
That flame that still burned in his chest after decades of feeding it. Enough was never going to be enough. He could have every speck of wealth, every pretty girl at his beck and call, and be the most powerful man on the planet… and the first thing he would do would be to look at the stars above. Because that's who he was -- the short, ugly, fat man that waddled like a penguin that wanted it all and more.
"Enough to betray you?" Candy questioned, and she was leading him by the nose. But that was one of the things that he liked about her. Oswald's gaze slid over to a bust of his late mother -- a saint of a woman. And he butchered men with his bare hands for saying differently.
She had been the one person to ever love him. Who believed that he could accomplish anything that he set his mind to. There weren't words to describe how much he loved his mother and how much he missed her. If there had to be a comfort, it was that she passed away surrounded by luxury, so proud of him for reclaiming the Cobblepot wealth and completely ignorant of the means he used to achieve it.
"No," Oswald admitted. "The kid's loyal," something Oswald rarely said about anyone. "Oh, I'm sure he's plotting something just in case. He'd be stupid not to. But I have his number -- that kid walked in here, ready to die if it came to it, to protect a woman that dragged him into deep shit and to support a bunch of bums because they helped him first. Now I've taken him under my wing and leading him around with a carrot rather than a stick… he's mine." Loyalty was such a useful trait. Both to leverage and a sense of security. "And he knows if he gives me a reason to, I'll go after those bums in 7th Heaven."
"He has given himself a number of weaknesses," Candy agreed. That the kid had. He betrayed just how much he cared when he worked himself down to the bone to support them. The kid cared. He really did. And all of those bums could be used against him. Every single one.
In a city like Gotham, having weaknesses could get you killed. Especially in this line of business.
But, because Oswald could understand the kid -- hell, he could empathize with him -- he knew that wasn't an option to control the kid. Going after those bums would meet the same reason as someone going after his mother.
It was the nuclear option. Winning didn't matter. It was just about making the other guy hurt.
"He has and knows it. So he'll go right for the throat every single time to protect them. Not that it matters. If he wants to waste his time with that lot, then it's no skin off my nose," Oswald remarked with a careless shrug. Then he gave Candy a long look. "What's with you about the kid?"
Candy didn't hesitate to answer. "As you said, Mr. Cobblepot, he is a great deal like you. And you're fond of him. So, I believe we both know that he's the type that will claw his own throat out to take off whatever leash you put on him. No matter how loose. He's establishing himself with the 7th Heaven as a base of support, he's going to make inroads with your luteniutes provided that the quality of work continues…"
Ah, that's what she was worried about. That Vergil was going to pull a him, use his time in the Penguin mob to make connections, and when it came time to split, he'd take half of his empire with him.
"Hmm… maybe," Oswald agreed. "But, unlike me, the kid is loyal. It all comes down to what matters more to him -- that loyalty or his ambition." He couldn't see the future, but he could make predictions. "Either way, I have a feeling that it won't end in blood."
To that, Candy simply nodded, reassured that they weren't dealing with a Judas. Oswald turned his attention back to the stack of papers that marked another potential headache that he had to deal with.
“Tifa Lockhart… How in the hell did you end up in a box on one of my ships?” Noah had just been a set of hands in his smuggling business. He had associates, who were also dead, but none had any answers. His trade routes were being hijacked by someone. At some point in the route, boxes were being added, they were coming to the city, then the help unloaded them without being any wiser.
Not only were they stealing from him, but they were bringing heat onto him because if Batman thought he dipped his toes back into the human trafficking business then…
Oswald was going to find the leak. And bodies were going to start piling up.
"There has been no progress. Whoever was using your trade routes seemed to realize that the method was no longer available. There hasn't been any additional cargo noted during our check," Candy reassured. But that probably just meant whoever was doing it found other ways to.
"It's someone in house," Oswald muttered darkly not for the first time. Someone that knew his trade routes for smuggling. Someone high up the chain. So, Oswald was starting from the top. His lutenaites were each being investigated on the down low -- the six of them would be in a position to. They had the means, knowledge, and motivation. All six of them rose to their position by putting money over morals and knowing to toe the line.
"But, there is another matter that requires your attention," Candy said, her tone all business. She passed a folder to him and inside contained notes about East End, the Narrows, and Crime Alley. There was a marker pinned on the map labeled 7th Heaven in East End. "There has been a shift in power and it could prove most disastrous for your favorite employee."
Oswald read the report in a few seconds, then he let out a laugh. "The kids fucked," he mused with some amusement.
"Should we help?" Candy questioned, but Oswald was already shaking his head.
"No. If the kid wants my help, then he'll have to ask for it." Because then he would be doing Vergil a favor by coming in to save his bums like a white knight in shining armor. And the kid wasn't the type to forget a debt like that. "Or, he gets himself out of that pickle by himself," and the claws of the underworld would dig that much deeper.
So long as the kid didn't die, then Oswald Cobblepot won.
And he did oh so enjoy winning.
…
A week was so little time, yet it was so much. And it was amazing at what could change in a week, I thought as I stood before a burnt out building that I had visited once before three weeks earlier. The windows were busted out, the door was reduced to splinters then charcoal. The blackened brick was peppered with bullet holes.
I hadn’t believed it when I heard, which brought me here. I wanted to see it for myself. Over the past week, a gang war had raged in the streets of Crime Alley. Though, calling it a war gave it too much credit. It was a one-sided slaughter. It couldn’t have been anything else. The Lost Souls were gone.
Their safehouses were hit one after another until they finished it off with burning out the final one after killing everyone inside. A dozen guys dead. That had been what was left of them in the end. After only a short week. There wasn’t any other way their story could end. They had gambled and lost back at the drug deal, then they had bet their chips on me getting them the guns that they needed.
And that had been a bad gamble.
They killed the arms dealer because they didn't have the money. They didn't have the money because Jeremiah gave it to me along with the drugs to get access to my cards. And they didn't have the guns because I brought Waylon with me as back up. Not that it would have mattered because I would have turned those guns into junk.
Now Jeremiah was a leaf in the wind, I was still here, and I had the guns.
"If you… hadn't accepted the deal for the hat, then none of this would have happened." I hadn't realized it at the time, but that was the first domino. Jeremiah owing me. Then I wouldn't have gone to him after the cocaine deal was busted, he never would have found out about my cards, they would have had the drugs and money, thus their sudden demise could have been avoided. I probably would have been screwed, but the Lost Souls would still be here.
A single conversation. That's all it took to avoid this fate. It was almost as surreal as the fact that I had set this in motion. I hadn't meant to…
But I would have gone through with it. My plan to destroy the guns to make it look like they were sold crap. So, in the end, this result was going to happen no matter what. A gang destroyed and their territory snatched up. Just another day in Gotham.
"Vergil?" Tifa questioned, reaching out to place a hand on my shoulder. I glanced at her to see that she wore a worried look on her face, so I reassured her with a smile. "Did you know them?"
I shook my head, "Not really." Not in any way that mattered, at least.
Tifa looked at the burnt-out husk of a building, "The gangs are getting roused up." She noted with a note of frustration. "You'd think that they'd be driven indoors because of the cold, but it's like it drives them to the streets."
"There's an opening," I answered before I gestured for us to resume walking. Tifa latched onto my arm, pressing herself into my side and I just about missed a step. But I didn't, nor did I comment. "The Lost Souls were a minor gang, but they were able to keep other minor gangs in check. Now they all want to rise up, but the Blackgaters want to move in. The minor gangs want to keep them out, so things are heating up as it cools down."
"I just hope that Dr. Thompkins will be alright," Tifa muttered as we walked towards the clinic. It looked as it ever did if a little busier than normal judging by the number of people walking in and walking out. I hoped so too.
"She should be. The clinic is neutral ground, so no matter how bad things get, she should be fine. If only because of self-preservation,” I reassured as we walked along the sidewalk. Speaking of self-preservation, another change that happened in the past week was my bulletproof vest came with me every time I went out. Because, despite my words to Tifa, things were getting messy.
Several gangs got hit hard in East End. Tifa told me what happened at the fight club, so I at least had an idea of what was going on. Though, I did have to drag it out of her. But, the point was, several gangs were hit hard while others were looking for blood. Add that to the fact that territory was suddenly up for grabs… it was a recipe for disaster.
The most powerful of the lot was the Blackgaters by far. It would be a stretch to say that they controlled East End, but they were undoubtedly the most powerful gang. They had the numbers, money, and weapons so it was a long drop between number one and number two.
"Doctors are sacred. It was the same in Midgar," Tifa noted, making me spare her a glance. She noticed it and cocked an eyebrow at me. "What?"
"Midgar. Not home?" I asked, wondering if I should have said anything at all when Tifa looked away sharply as she bit her bottom lip and squeezed down on my arm. I felt a little bad -- I was gaining weight back, but I was still Mr. Noodle Arms. That was slowly changing, thanks to Tifa’s training, but it would take time for me to bulk up.
“Midgar. Not home,” Tifa agreed with a nod. So she really was settling in. I was glad for it for reasons beyond the 7th Heaven being lost without her. She pointedly rested her head on my shoulder to drive her point home. Though, it as unfortunately shortlived as we neared the clinic. I pulled out a card from my jacket pocket when Tifa let go of my arm, allowing me to unseal a vase filled with flowers.
Tifa let out a content noise upon seeing them, “They’re pretty,” she approved. Given the business that I was going into, it was probably a bad thing to admit, but I didn’t know much about flowers. But she was right. They were pretty. The vase was a round violet one and the arrangement was bright and vibrant. Hanging off a white ribbon was a stylized card that could be opened, but on the front, it simply read Sainthood Flowers.
Pulling open the door, I saw that the waiting room was deceptively empty. I figured the place would be packed, given the ramping up in gang fighting. More surprisingly, Dr. Thompkins was behind the counter to retrieve some files. She looked tired for a brief moment before she seemed to realize it was us.
“Vergil, Tifa,” Dr. Thompkins greeted, “I’m hoping that you’re here for non-medical reasons?” She hoped, her gaze one the vase. Then my leg and side. After another week, I was as good as new. I had a scar on my leg and abdomen, but there was no lasting damage beyond that. And no infection. Shockingly.
“We come bearing gifts,” I answered, holding up the vase as we approached. “The first bouquet from Sainthood flowers, free of charge to boot,” I said, giving her a warm smile before I passed over the flowers. Dr. Thompkins cocked an eyebrow at the two of us, but there was a slight smile on her face.
I didn’t want to say it, but I had the impression that she didn’t see many success stories.
“Sainthood Flowers?” Dr. Thomkins questioned, and I offered a small shrug while Tifa explained.
“It’s a company! Vergil’s company. It’s not all official with licenses and stuff, and we’re based out of 7th Heaven,” Tifa eagerly elaborated and I caught a hint of recognition in her eyes at the name. Then they softened as the slight smile grew into a full on gentle one that she aimed at the two of us. “But we have a ton of flowers and Amanda, she was a trained florist before she was homeless, so she’s the one making the bouquets.”
Dr. Thompkin’s looked down at the flowers for a moment, “So, the rumors about 7th Heaven are real?” She asked before she looked between us, “You have a homeless shelter in the metro tunnels underneath 7th Street?” She questioned for clarification.
I nodded, “We do. Jack and the others that we brought in were the first. When things started to get colder, we accepted more. Now that word’s gotten out, more people have been coming,” I confirmed. The temperature was hovering around the low forties and dipping into the twenties at night. And that sent more people to 7th Heaven -- the ones that were just that desperate, or were new to the streets.
A week ago, we had about thirty to forty people living in 7th Heaven. Now we had closer to seventy.
Dr. Thompkins’ looked at me for a long moment, “From what I’ve heard, it sounds like heaven on Earth. Most people seem to think its an organ harvesting cover.” Tifa actually gasped at that, like she couldn’t possibly believe it. I was much less surprised.
“No organ harvesting. Some underage drinking, probably harboring some wanted criminals and there is the threat of Waylon eating you if you try to pull something, but other than that it’s all on the up and up.” Though, if she were to ask how it was being funded, that was a whole different story.
“Threats of cannibalism to keep people in line?” Dr. Thompkins’ echoed, sounding very unimpressed.
“They’re only threats. And I’m not completely sure if it would count as cannibalism. Per se,” I added, though that probably didn’t help my case much. Tifa let out a small laugh before she quickly came in with the save.
Still smiling ever so slightly, Tifa said, “Waylon wouldn’t eat anyone -- he’s a real sweetheart underneath. But most people don’t bother looking underneath, and he doesn’t care for those that don’t. And doesn’t mind if we take advantage of his reputation to make sure things stay civil.” It was working too. Despite the number of people, no one had complained of any stealing and there hadn’t been any major fights.
Then it clicked for Dr. Thompkins, “Waylon Jones? As in Killer Croc? How-”
“Waylon was looking after Jack and his crew way before I had met them,” I interject with a shrug. That didn’t seem to convince her, “He’s a killer, but in the month of knowing him, I can’t say I’ve ever seen him start a fight. If he’s killed anyone, then I’m willing to bet it was a case of him ending the fight that someone else started.”
Dr. Thompkins took in a deep breath, glancing at Tifa for confirmation, which she received as a firm nod. “You know him better than I do,” she decided, “just be careful. Not just of Killer Croc, but the gangs are getting nasty. If you’re serious about the shelter, then there will… be growing pains.”
“We’re prepared,” I reassured, and I could tell that there was a lot more that she wanted to discuss, but she seemed to swallow her questions. Instead, she offered a kind smile.
“Thank you for the flowers, Vergil,” Dr. Thompkins decided on. “I hope things go well with your flower shop. And I'll help clear up the rumors where I can."
“I do too,” I said, smiling back and sensing the conversation coming to a close, “And thanks, but we should let you get back to work.” She nodded in response, setting the flowers on the front desk that really helped brighten the place up, and once she said her goodbyes to Tifa, Dr. Thompkins returned to her job.
Stepping out of the clinic, Tifa let out a content sigh before she glanced at me, “Now what?”
“Now,” I said, starting to walk down the street to a lamppost that didn’t work. “I collect this dead drop,” I answered before sliding a bit of broken concrete out of the way to reveal a paper bag. I opened it, Tifa leaning over to see what was inside, and while she inspected the package, I slid a package of my own underneath the lamp post before replacing the bit of concrete.
Taking out my phone, I pulled up the Henching app that I had heard about through Nervous Guy a month ago and hit the confirm delivery button.
“Contact lenses?” Tifa questioned before I gestured for us to start moving again. “And what did you just put in there?”
I took the package from her, revealing a dozen packages of contact lenses. Ninety contact lenses in each box, putting me at over a thousand contact lenses. Taking out my deck, I shuffled my cards with a flick of my wrist to reveal a card at the bottom.
Left Contact Lense B-Rank.
“I have a project I’m working on,” I told Tifa before I sealed the bag of contact lenses into a card to gain a multicolored card. “Since I’m kicking up less money to Mr. Cobblepot, I have more money to experiment with. So… I had a guy steal a dozen boxes of contact lenses.” I explained to find that Tifa was giving me a thoroughly unimpressed look, prompting me to explain further.
“I had a job that went bad last week. The one that I went with Waylon. I’m fine, and I wasn’t in any real danger, but when I had to explain things to Mr. Cobblepot… well, it got me thinking that if I had a video camera to prove it, things would be a lot simpler,” I said. “But carrying around a bodycam would be pretty suspicious. So, I started thinking of less suspicious ways to hide a camera on me.”
Understanding flooded Tifa’s gaze, “You want to put a camera in your contact lenses?” I nodded in response.
“It just takes some grinding. The effects of my cards are better the higher the rank. I tried with a pair of normal lenses, a camera, and a memory card and got… I don’t even know what I got. So, I’m grinding the contact lenses up to A-Rank, and I’m going to do the same for the camera and memory card. Which sucks since I have to do it for each lense,” I explained. It was costing me about five hundred a pop, but it was worth it.
At first, I wanted the lenses to confirm whatever story I had told. Just in case a job went bad and it clearly wasn’t my fault. Now? Now I had thought of another use for the lenses. A secret camera on me at all times? One that couldn’t be frisked?
Mr. Cobblepot had dirt on me. He said he was going to give it back on me… but I’d be an idiot if I took him for his word.
With my contact lenses, I could get my own dirt. Hard evidence that Oswald Cobblepot was the Penguin. That he was a drug and arms dealer, a smuggler and a murderer. If Mr. Cobblepot threatened me, then I could threaten to send the data file to the police.
Mutually Assured Destruction, or a MAD plan. If it worked for the USA and USSR, then it could work for two gangsters.
Not to mention, if I could put a video camera in a contact lens then who knew what else I could put in there?
"Is that why you've been working more lately?" Tifa questioned, referring to my uptick in jobs that I've taken in the past week.
"Sort of," I answered, "Mr. Cobblepot vouched for me, so now more jobs are being tossed my way. Nothing too dangerous," I quickly reassured. "They've been about as exciting as the deal we went to. So, not every job I go on ends up as a disaster."
Now that I was back in shape, a few of the luteinates that Mr. Cobblepot introduced me to were extending hands. And, more importantly, jobs. There hasn't been a big half million deal yet, but each job was netting me a thousand dollars on average, which wasn't nothing. Much better than running around the city with a backpack full of weed. Each deal lasted about ten minutes, less if there were fewer steps of verification, and that was it.
"I thought you were taking a step back because of your flower business?" Tifa approached the topic carefully, and I saw a flash of disappointment cross over her face when I shook my head.
"That's the goal, but Sainthood Flowers has to get off the ground first," I told her. We had one employee, Amanda, who was an older woman that had jumped at the chance to work with flowers. And we had all the materials to make bouquets -- flowers, vases, plastic wrapping, ribbons, the works. Not only that, but we also had a secondary place that crafted the cocaine fertilizer packets.
Remaining anonymous was a big issue. Inevitable, I had to assume that someone would notice that the coke heads that they busted all had flowers from Sainthood Flowers. So, steps were being taken to make it look like the packets were placed post-production on my end, and the packets themselves to be as unassuming as possible. It wouldn't last forever, and I doubt that it would fool someone like Batman for long, but given how low a priority petty amounts of drugs seemed to be, I figured I had time.
"So, I work some jobs for them, build up a nest egg and equipment, until Sainthood Flowers can stand on its own two legs. After that, I can take a step back. Then maybe I can look into buying a more legal business," because 7th Heaven was going to be an utterly massive drain of resources and getting passive revenue streams sounded appealing.
Tifa let out a content noise, satisfied with the answer. She opened her mouth to say something as we made our way across a street, only to be cut off by the sound of gunfire in the distance. We went still, and so did the others that walked beside us as our attention snapped in the direction of the gunshots. I heard the echoing pops of guns, but they sounded far away. About a block over.
"Come on," I said, striding forward to a metro tunnel. Tifa offered a token of resistance, her gaze lingering on the direction the shots were coming from before she followed. I heard more pops join the chorus as a shootout began in broad daylight. Everyone rushed to the metro as well, not quite running but moving with a sense of urgency. "We have too much to lose getting involved."
We reached the metro tunnel and we got on a train. Tifa sat next to me in silence as we made our way to 6th Street station so we could walk to 7th Heaven.
"Do you think it's-" Tifa started, and I knew exactly what she was going to say.
"No," I cut her off. "You went to win a tournament, and you did. Everything that came after was because of other people's actions." That excuse seemed to work about as well for Tifa as it did for me, which was not very well. "You did what you could. The fact that all it took was a room full of guys getting the stuffing smacked out of them to turn East End in its head just goes to show that it was already a powderkeg. This was always going to happen, Tifa. If it wasn't you, then it would be a gang trying to claim territory. This isn’t your fault."
A wane smile was offered by Tifa, showing that she didn't quite believe that, but she was thankful all the same. She rested her head on my shoulder as we traveled through the metro, crossing Gotham until we reached 6th Station. From there, we jumped off the platform after the train left and made our way to 7th Heaven.
The tunnel that had once been sealed off was filling up with people. People were marking off their homes with makeshift tents, filling up the spaces so the tracks were the only place with a clear walkway. Most of them greeted Tifa warmly with a few awkward head nods in my direction. Things had to change a bit now that word was really getting out.
Stuff like the bathrooms beings expanded to accommodate so many people, the platform was more or less covered by a meal area with a section cut off for the flowers. The train car itself was getting tagged with various markings, some more explicit than others. The once silent tunnel was filled with noise, the harsh darkness pushed back with light, and there was a real community forming underneath the city of Gotham.
“Vergil,” I heard a woman call out in heavily accented English. Looking over as I walked, it took a moment for me to remember where I had seen her before. Then it clicked.
“Carla,” I greeted the small Spanish woman that had helped patch me up after Gotham’s finest questioned me in a back alley. A nurse that I had last seen in a building that was burnt out. “You’re here? I’m… I’m sorry for your loss,” I said, hoping that she would understand as I apologized for being the domino that set it all in motion. I didn’t know what relation she had to the Lost Souls, but judging by the fact she was here and the redness in her eyes that she had lost someone.
She offered a pained smile, “Jeremiah gone. No where to go… stay here?” She questioned in clipped English.
“Of course, Carla, you can stay here however long you want,” I quickly answered. Some of the tension eased out of Carla, and I couldn’t help but wonder if that burnt out building had once been her home. She reached out and grabbed my hands, squeezing them tight as she blinked away tears of relief.
“Kind heart, Vergil,” Carla told me, giving my hands a tight squeeze. I squeezed back before she stepped away, gathering herself.
“We’ll set you a place up,” I reassured her. “For now, let’s get some food in you, okay?” I said slowly, leading her to the meal area. Various projects were implemented and somethings had been stolen to making things a little more manageable. Like, for example, there were now stairs from the train tracks to the platform. Stone steps. Meaning that someone, at some point, stole someone’s patio stairs and brought them here.
I glanced at Tifa, then I looked at the train car. Carla thanked me again when I sat her down, and a group of Spanish women seemed to absorb Carla into their number, I explained at Tifa’s questioning look. “Carla’s a nurse.”
“Ah,” Tifa realized. Like she said, doctors are sacred. However, before she could say anything else, a loud shout of irritation cut her off. We both glanced over to see the source, though both of us already suspected who it was.
Rebecca Lee, also known as Revy Two-Hands.
“Ugghhhh! What the hell?! When did Gotham fill up with pansy-ass pussies?!” Revy shouted to herself, banging her hands against the counter. After some time and money, it started to look like a real bar counter with stools lining it. As if she could sense us, Revy turned around and turned her glare in our direction, “All you did was bust some bones! They should be on their feet by now, right? Why in the hell aren’t they hunting us down?!”
Tifa let out a small sigh as we approached, “I’m guessing that you don’t think that’s a good thing?” Tifa ventured, sliding behind the counter with practiced ease while I took a seat a stool down from Revy. Taking off my jacket, I folded it up and set it on the counter next to me. “And if they don’t come, then you got free money. That’s a good thing, right?”
“No. Yes,” Revy hedged, propping her head up with a hand while Tifa made a pot of coffee. “But Those guys should be on their feet and hunting us down right now. This is Gotham. Something like that can’t just be ignored.” She argued before a heaving sigh escaped her, “Or maybe I just got my hopes up for the Crime Capital of America?”
“Probably,” I butted in, earning a mild glare from Revy. “You beat them heavily outnumbered and outgunned. Then you talked about executing them and burning the corpses to hide the evidence. My bet is that they cut their losses.” To that, Revy tsked to herself, but she didn’t argue the point.
There was a point that avenging a slight to avoid losing face became not worth it.
“Is that what you would do?” Revy asked, turning to look at me. It was impossible to not notice the two pistols she proudly displayed on her harness. “Just take the beating, lick your wounds and tuck tail and run?”
“If the alternative is getting a bullet in the head? Yeah,” I answered shamelessly, earning a small huff from her. Then she lashed out with a hand and smacked me on the back as hard as she could.
“I can believe that if you’re wearing a bulletproof harness everywhere. Just be quick on your feet and predict where the bullets going to go,” Revy advised like that was easy.
I let out a small huff as I watched Tifa make the coffee. There were two pots -- one for me, and one for everyone else. Apparently I was the weird one because I had yet to find anyone who liked coffee as strong as I made mine. “I’ll do that. Until I can do it reliably, I’ll keep my vest on. I like my insides on the inside.”
“No balls,” Revy muttered, already losing interest in me.
“Is that how things were done wherever you came from?” I questioned, and this time when Revy looked at me, her eyes were hard. They didn’t match the smile tugging at her lips.
“Don’t you know it’s bad manners to go pestering people for their pasts?” She questioned, a sharp edge in her tone. I met her withering gaze without flinching, something that just made that smile of hers grow ever so slightly bigger. “They might do the same to you, ‘Vergil St. Jude.’ Now that’s a made-up name if I’ve ever heard one.”
I shrugged at that, “Sounds more real than Revy Two-Hands. And I was just curious. You’ve mentioned more than once that you came back to Gotham recently. And, as you said, this is the Crime Capital of America, so if you’re disappointed with the quality of criminals, I have to wonder where the standards were raised for you.” I was fishing for information.
I wanted to know if when she said back home if she meant a different universe like with Tifa.
Revy met my gaze for a long moment and only looked away when Tifa placed a cup of coffee in front of her. She grabbed hold of it before blowing on it to cool it down. “Roanapur. Not that it’s the same anymore,” Revy added bitterly.
So… I was taking that as a no. Meaning that Revy was a native of this universe. Huh.
“What happened to the city? It get blown up or something?” I asked, knowing that Roanapur was a rather crazy place. It was a place that was worse than Gotham except it didn’t have a Batman or a Jim Gordon for that matter.
“Worse. It got reformed,” Revy answered, taking a sip of her coffee before wincing as she burned her tongue. “The Justice League put a great big spotlight on the place, so there was a whole lot of the government acting like they were all surprised that the city was a hellhole. And when Superman tells you that you have a mess, the lapdogs are going to jump to clean it up while pretending that they hadn’t made it.”
A sigh escaped her as she paused. Tifa placed a cup in front of me and I mouthed a thank you to her, which she returned with a smile. Revy snorted, the interaction not escaping her notice. “The company I worked for got busted up. Benny’s past caught up to him, and the American’s threw him in prison. I came here to bust him out, but he was killed in lockup. Dutch is in the wind…”
“And you’re here,” I finished for her, earning a grunt from Revy.
“And I’m here,” Revy agreed until she shrugged. “At least until I have a reason to leave or Butch contacts me.” If he contacted her. The conversation lapsed as all three of us sat in silence for a bit, but as all good things, it came to an end rather quickly.
“Vergil!” I heard Jack shout, and that was a red flag if I had ever heard one. I turned around to see him running up the tunnel, his face pale. And he didn’t have to explain why.
Behind him were a dozen guys, all wearing black and orange.
The Blackgaters were here.
Comments
Benjamin Lawton
I'm guessing this is probably an Auto-Corrupt Strikes Again issue, but the three places where the word should be "lieutenant", is coming out as stuff like "luteniate". Oh, and Dutch's name comes out as "Butch", the second time it should have appeared.
