A Life in DC
Chapter 8 - Part 3
Later, back in the Batcave, Batman stood before the main console. He watched the video. Once. He didn't flinch. He didn't react. He just watched. He recognized Vieri immediately. And he recognized the raw power that had already broken Selina's will. He saw the way it had utterly destroyed Harley's. There was no question in his mind that this was the same man.
He watched as Vieri folded Harley in half on the back seat, his hips driving down with relentless force. He listened to Harley's screaming, broken cries of "Daddy!" He saw the final, brutal convulsion of her orgasm. And then he closed the file.
He initiated a level-seven data purge. The video, all associated metadata, the transmission records, everything was wiped from the Batcave's servers and routed to a single, air-gapped quantum storage drive locked deep within the armory. It was now the most secret piece of information in the entire arsenal. A secret he intended to keep to himself. For now.
He stood there in the cold, humming dark of the Batcave, the only sound the low thrum of the servers and the distant drip of water into the subterranean river. The screen was blank now, the damning evidence locked away in a digital vault. He should have felt relieved, in control. He didn't. He felt the phantom burn of shame, a bitter taste in the back of his throat that had nothing to do with the cave's recycled air. He had watched her. He had watched Selina, a woman who had always defied capture, who had always been her own fierce, untamable self, become… undone. Not by a villain's scheme or a city's cruelty, but by raw, overwhelming physical pleasure. By a man he had dismissed as a ghost, a flatfoot.
And worse, he had felt that traitorous heat. The biological response that had shamed him previously, that had shamed him again tonight as he watched the video, was still a faint, thrumming hum beneath his ribs. It was a weakness. A vulnerability. And the Joker had known it. The Joker had weaponized it, using Harley's betrayal, her newfound devotion to Vieri's body, as the fuel for his entire, narcissistic tantrum.
"Master Bruce."
Alfred's voice was a quiet anchor in the storm of his thoughts. Bruce didn't turn.
"The GCPD is on-site. Commissioner Gordon is requesting a preliminary report. I have informed him you will contact him personally."
"Good," Bruce's voice was gravel, low and rough. He finally turned away from the console, the cowl a mask that hid the turmoil in his eyes. "Prepare the medical bay. Jason and Damian may need treatment for chemical exposure, even with the filters."
"Already done, sir. And the sedative for the Joker... the dosage you administered was... significant."
"I wanted him down, Alfred. For good this time." He started walking towards the Batmobile, the need for action, for the physical release of a mission, pulling at him.
"Sir," Alfred's voice stopped him. "The file. The one you secured."
Bruce froze. His back was to Alfred.
"Is it wise to retain such... emotionally charged data? Perhaps purging it entirely would be more prudent. For your own... clarity."
Bruce's gloved hands clenched into fists at his sides. He thought of Selina's face. He thought of Harley's screams. He thought of the sheer, impossible size of the man who had elicited those responses. Purging it wouldn't erase it. The images were burned into his memory now.
"It's evidence, Alfred," he lied, the word tasting like ash. "In case Vieri becomes more than a complication."
Alfred didn't respond. He didn't have to. They both knew it was a lie. A necessary one, but a lie nonetheless. Bruce continued to the Batmobile without looking back. He needed to be in the city. He needed the rain and the shadows. He needed to lose himself in the hunt.
The air in the greenhouse was thick, heavy with the scent of damp earth, night-blooming jasmine, and the low, simmering anger that was more potent than any of Ivy's latest pheromone blends. The humidity clung to them like a second skin, a damp, suffocating blanket that matched the mood perfectly.
Poison Ivy stood at her workbench, her movements unnervingly precise. With a pair of small, sharp shears, she trimmed the browned edges from a broad, waxy leaf. Her touch was gentle, almost reverent, but the tension in her shoulders was a coiled spring, and each snip of the blades sounded like a tiny, metallic snap of bone. She wasn't just grooming her plants; she was pruning away her fury, trying to maintain control in the face of utter chaos.
Across the room, Selina Kyle sat perched on the arm of a wrought-iron chair, one leg crossed over the other, the black leather of her suit creaking softly with every slight movement. She wasn't looking at anyone. Her focus was inward, turned upon the sharp, gleaming claw she was methodically honing with a whetstone. The rhythmic shink-shink was the only sound besides Ivy's snipping. Each pass was deliberate, each scrape a meditation on the discipline they were supposed to share. A discipline that was currently being shredded by a two-toned cackling moron.
"...and then he grabbed my hair, right?" Harley Quinn was buzzing around the humid space like a wasp on speed, a chaotic whirl of red and black leather. She was pacing, her pigtails flying, her phone clutched in her hand. She wasn't just replaying the video; she was narrating it, her voice a giddy, breathless stream of consciousness. "He was all, 'Take it all, you dirty slut,' and I was all, 'GLUCK GLUCK GLUCK!' God, the stretch... I thought I was gonna split in half but it felt so good." She stopped her pacing to sigh dramatically, clutching the phone to her chest. "I called him Daddy. The whole time. And he filled me up so good, I swear I was still leakin' him when I got back here. I totally won."
That did it.
The snipping stopped. Ivy set the shears down on the bench with a soft, deliberate click. She didn't turn around. Her voice was dangerously soft, a low, melodic purr that cut through Harley's gloating like a shard of ice. "The only thing you won, Harley, is a starring role in Vieri's ever-growing collection of sexual conquests. You were reckless. You exposed him. You exposed us."
"Oh, come on, Red, don't be such a buzzkill!" Harley whirled around, puffing out her chest. "I had to claim what's mine! I staked my claim! He's my Daddy now. That makes him part of the family, right?"
That was the breaking point. The shink of the whetstone ceased. Selina slowly looked up, her green eyes flashing like polished jade in the dim light. Her voice was cold, flat, and sharp enough to cut glass.
"There is no 'yours'," she said, each word a clipped, precise dagger. "There is 'ours'. The mission. The plan. The plan was quiet recon, not to get yourself recorded on a spy camera you planted and then broadcast that recording to God-knows-who." She stood, her movements fluid and predatory, the sharp claw in her hand looking less like a tool and more like a weapon.
Harley's face soured, her pout a practiced, petulant thing. "Jealous, Kitty Cat? Mad you didn't get to ride him in the front seat of a beat-to-shit sedan?"
Selina's lips twisted into a humorless smirk, a chilling baring of teeth. "I'm mad you jeopardized the mission. Tonight, we hit the Falcone jewels. The Wayne annex gala. We need to be clean. Quiet. Focused." She took a step forward, her presence filling the space. "You screw this up, Harley. You get twitchy, you get loud, you get greedy... and I'll personally make sure you can't sit down for a week."
The threat hung in the humid air, thick and undeniable. Harley's bravado faltered for a second, her eyes widening slightly. But the manic glee returned just as fast. "Whatever. Let's just go get the shiny rocks. Daddy's probably waiting for his girls to come home with a present."
Three hours later, they were inside the Wayne Enterprises warehouse annex. The air up here was cold, smelling of steel, dust, and the faint, sterile scent of a high-end security system. Ivy's power outage had worked perfectly. At 23:47, the entire block had gone dark, and in the ninety seconds of controlled chaos, Selina had slipped them through a service hatch on the east side. So far, so good.
Inside, it was a maze of crates, display cases, and laser grids. Selina moved ahead, a shadow in shadow, her body a fluid line of grace. She pointed out silent pressure plates with subtle gestures, indicated the path through the infrared beams with the angle of her head. It was a silent, deadly dance of precision.
Harley was the bull in the china shop.
While Selina flowed, Harley stomped. While Selina was a whisper, Harley was a giggle. "Ooooh, look at all the pretty things!" she whispered loudly, her eyes wide as she stared at a display of antique Faberge eggs. She couldn't resist. She reached out a gloved finger.
"Harley, no," Selina's voice was a sharp hiss of command.
Too late.
Harley's finger tapped the glass of the display case. It wasn't wired to a silent alarm, but it was on a pressure-sensitive platform. A faint, almost inaudible hum filled the air as a secondary security system activated. A series of steel shutters began to slide down over the exits.
"Shit," Selina snarled, her whole body going rigid. "The back exit. Now."
The escape was no longer clean. It was a scramble. They sprinted down a service corridor, their footsteps echoing in the enclosed space. Up ahead, the main escape route was blocked by a heavy-duty security gate. Dead end.
"Get back!" Ivy commanded, her voice ringing with authority. She slammed her hands against the concrete wall. The ground trembled. From the cracks between the floor and the wall, thick, ropy vines erupted. They weren't the subtle, creeping kind she used for recon. These were monstrous, things, thorny and aggressive, like living battering rams. They slammed into the security gate, the metal groaning and buckling under the force. It was a massive, overt display of power, the exact opposite of the quiet, surgical strike they were supposed to be executing.
The gate didn't break, but the force of the impact was enough to shatter the locking mechanism. With a loud screech of tortured metal, it buckled inward, leaving a gap wide enough for them to scramble through.
They burst out into a loading dock, gasping for air. The alarms were blaring now, a full-throated wail that would bring every GCPD cruiser in the district down on them. Selina clutched the satchel containing the Falcone jewels, the weight of it feeling like a lead anchor.
"That was not quiet," she spat, rounding on Harley. "That was a mess."
"We got the shiny rocks, didn't we?" Harley shot back, completely unrepentant. "That's a win in my book."
As if on cue, the squeal of tires echoed from the street. A GCPD patrol car, its lights flashing red and blue, skidded to a halt at the mouth of the alley. They were boxed in.
"Cover me," Selina ordered. She unspooled her whip, the black leather hissing through the air. She was about to make a very loud, very messy exit.
But Ivy was already moving. She slammed her palm onto the pavement. From the storm drains, from the cracks in the asphalt, a forest of thick, thorny vines erupted. They weren't just blocking the alley; they were creating a living, breathing wall of chaos, entwining the patrol car, snaking around the tires, and smashing against the brick walls. It was a display so powerful, so unmistakably Poison Ivy, that it left a signature a mile wide.
They got away. They swung up to the rooftops, the satchel of jewels bouncing against Selina's hip, and melted into the Gotham night. They had succeeded. But they had left a disaster in their wake. The scene was a mess of bent steel, cracked pavement, and forensic evidence that pointed directly to the Queens of Crime. It was sloppy, loud, and the kind of tactical failure that would put a target on their backs, Vieri's task force surely wouldn't miss it.
The rain had stopped, leaving the Gotham air tasting of wet asphalt and ozone. The Wayne Enterprises warehouse annex was a mess. Blue and red lights painted the chaos in strobing flashes, casting long, dancing shadows that made the shattered display cases look like the teeth of a dead giant. The air still hummed, a low, electrical thrum from the tripped breakers, mixing with the acrid tang of burnt wiring and the cloying, sweet scent of the giant, wilted vines that were already being bagged and tagged by forensic techs.
Renata Montoya stood in the middle of it all, a still point in a sea of chaos. She'd changed from her casual tank top back into her work clothes, but the outfit was the same: dark slacks that hugged her solid hips and a simple white button-down, now rolled to her elbows, exposing her toned forearms. Her dark hair was pulled back into its usual tight, no-nonsense ponytail. Her sharp gaze swept the room, cataloging every detail—the scuff marks on the floor, the trajectory of the scattered glass, the specific angle of the dented security gate.
Her new detective, Maggie Sawyer, was a presence that filled the space. She wore a Metropolis PD blazer over a simple black tee, and tailored pants that did nothing to hide the powerful line of her thighs or the firm, rounded curve of her ass. Her light brown hair was pulled back in a severe, practical knot, and her sharp blue eyes took in everything, missing nothing. Renata's praise about Vieri had already settled in her mind as a point of intense, professional curiosity.
"Sloppy," Maggie said, her voice a low, alto rumble that cut through the din. She nudged a shattered magnetic lock with the toe of her practical leather boot, the metal scraping against the concrete. "Catwoman's work is usually cleaner. A ghost. This... this is a tantrum." She gestured with her chin toward the massive, thorny stalks still coiled around the compromised security gate. "Pure Ivy. That's her signature all over it. But the mess... the broken glass, the loud exit. It's not their MO. They're ghosts when they want to be."
"It was the third member," Montoya said, her voice flat. She gestured to a small evidence bag a tech was holding up. Inside was a scrap of red and black leather, frayed at the edge. "Quinzel. She was here. This has her signature all over it—the wanton destruction, the complete lack of finesse. She was the liability."
An hour later, the task force was gathered in the briefing room. The air smelled like burnt coffee and stale air conditioning, the fluorescent lights buzzing overhead. The whiteboard was already filling up with crime scene photos and lines of red string connecting points of interest. It was Vieri's observation notes, printed out and pinned in a neat corner, that started to bring the picture into focus.
His handwriting was a clean, block script, almost architectural. He'd noted the exact model of the lock Harley had triggered, the specific time the power grid had been tripped, and most crucially, the precise direction the Queens had fled. He'd even noted the scent of a specific, rare hybrid night-blooming jasmine that only grew in one part of the city. His notes weren't just observations; they were a roadmap.
"He noted the pollen on the gate," Maggie said, leaning over the board, her tall frame blocking the light. She pointed a finger at the line in Vieri's report. "It's a strain of Dracena Ivy Noir, a hybrid Pamela Isley developed about two years ago. It's incredibly hard to cultivate. Needs a very specific humid, soil-rich environment."
"He said he recognized the scent from a bust we did on a nursery in the old warehouse district two years back," Vieri added, his voice low and even. He stood across the table, his arms crossed over his chest, his posture relaxed but his eyes missing nothing.
Maggie's gaze drifted to him. This was the man Renata had been practically gushing about. He didn't look like a superstar cop. He looked… solid. A bit worn around the edges, sure, with a faint exhaustion in his eyes that spoke of too many long nights. But there was a steadiness to him, a competence that was impossible to fake. He spoke without posturing, his statements concise and to the point. Renata was right. He was solid. Intriguing.
Renata, sensing her partner's assessing look, continued. "The power relay they tripped is on the same grid as the old greenhouse district. And Vieri's notes on their escape route point directly to a series of condemned apartments on the East End. That's two locations. Two solid leads."
Maggie's eyes met Vieri's. "The apartments on the East End. What do you know about them?"
Vieri met her intense stare without flinching. "Most of them are gutted. Squatters, mostly. But a few are still structurally sound. Used by low-level fences as stash houses. There's one building in particular—438 Kane. It's got old tunnels running beneath it, connecting to the old sewer system. Multiple exits. Hard to pin down. If you were going to hide out, that's the one I'd pick."
Maggie gave a slight, almost imperceptible nod. The man didn't just know the streets; he understood the architecture of the city's underworld. She found her gaze lingering on him again, analyzing the set of his jaw, the way his shoulders filled out his shirt, the calm focus in his dark eyes. He was a puzzle, and she was a woman who loved solving puzzles.
Vieri didn't miss it. He caught her staring once, an intense, analytical look that was less about suspicion and more about simple, direct curiosity. He just raised a questioning eyebrow, a silent, unspoken query.
Maggie just gave a slight, unreadable smile and looked away, turning her attention back to the board. "Alright. We hit both locations. End of the week. A coordinated strike. Montoya, you and I take the greenhouses. Vieri, you'll run point on the Kane Street apartments. You know the terrain."
Vieri filed the interaction away, another piece of the complicated puzzle that was his life now. A new detective watching him. A new team to lead. And somewhere in the city, three women who maybe knew his face, his body, and the sound he made when he came. It was all connected, a web he was now caught firmly in the center of. He just had to figure out how to navigate it without getting eaten.
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