Phobia.

The high heels pressed hard against the end of my toes, the ache growing and running up the soles of my feet. I slid past a couple of senators, smiling lightly as they accepted some pathetically small food from the tray balanced in my upturned palm. I continued onwards, grimacing as a hand brushed along my lower back.

Most of the men here were pigs.

I watched Gordon make his way to the podium, stepping back into the darkness at the back of the large tent, pretending to be rearranging the tray to give me a moment of peace.

He didn’t know I was here, the red wig over my hair made my skin look even paler than usual, my make-up darker, a fake name given to the company advertising for waitresses. A fake passport that I had brought for a ridiculous amount of money from one of the last small criminal gangs barely glanced at and I'd been given access to one of the most private places in the city.

Wayne Manor.

Gordon looked uncomfortable, he looked older every time we met at a café, every time I gave him information on any crimes. Well, not any crimes, never any that benefitted me, or Selina.

I felt my brow furrow as I saw a slink figure I recognised, the one I had been thinking of just seconds prior, Selina was here. I sighed slightly pulling my attention back to the Commissioner. If she was here, then Bruce Wayne had something she wanted.

I felt a stab of pity for him, I always had since I had worked it out.

But then, it seemed obvious to me. I was a watcher, I paid attention to the little things, stayed in the background, I was never a main character in the play that was my life.

My brother said it was because I had never truly developed a sense of myself, I picked up habits from others, the only one I had ever established myself was drawing the lines, marking off each time, each act. I was a true child of Goffman’s theory, you act a certain way around various groups of people, around individuals. I acted as different people to find out what I needed, in my best interests or for Gordon.

But even alone, I had never developed who I was, I had always been told.

I was an orphan, I was too quiet, too shy. I spoke and was too loud, irritating. I'd let Jonathon tell me who I was. It had gotten to the point that I was never not playing a character.

Gordon stood still, the seconds stretching on as he pulled the paper from his inner pocket, the words messily scrawled revealing who Harvey Dent had become, how in the end everything that came from him time in office was a lie. I waited, my breathing shallow, the tray shaking slightly in my hand.

I was dreading the reaction as much as I longed for it.

He choked, the paper was folded back up, placed back in his pocket and I placed the tray down on the nearest table, anger, disappointment at a man I looked up to so much burning in my veins.

He mentioned the inmates, all of which would be released if the truth got out, bad men. I could understand that element. But the worship of Harvey Dent, this ‘Great man’ he had been that once, that wasn't who he had become in the end, he had turned into someone worse than all locked up because of the Dent Act.

I stalked back to the kitchen, thankful that it was currently empty as I went to the corner, grabbing my bag and coat and slipping them on, leaving my apron scrawled in a ball on the table.

Even for a professional liar the lies surrounding this city got to me.

The walk home was long, the heels thrown to a homeless man as I passed, pulling a thin pair of trainers onto my aching feet. As I got further into the city I felt watched, my hood pulled over my head as I trod carefully down the narrow roads, avoid the dog shit, avoid the smashed glass.

They had cleaned up the city a lot in the last eight years, but there were sections which would always be covered and infected with scum. Those were the areas Gordon needed me.

I heard footsteps behind me and paused, placing my hand into my deep pocket, fingers clenching around the cold flip blade. You were stupid to walk around these parts unarmed.

“Ah ah,” a deep voice rumbled, a hand landing on my upper arm, I froze, I was about ten metres from a larger road. The fingers around my arm were tight but thin. “What money do you have on you?"

Straight for money, no threats. A clear cut Drug addict.

“I don’t have any money.” He growled, pulling me back and my hood down, his eyes were sunken deeply into his skull, his hair lank and greasy in messy curls down to his shoulders. “I’ll scream. And we're close enough to the shops for people to hear.” I threatened, my hand still tightly around my weapon.

“Just give me your bag.” He spoke slowly, giving me time to examine him fully, he had scratch marks on his face, the hand on my arm was covered in bite marks, his pupils so small they were barely there. He twitched a couple of times, a spasm that rolled over his features and I finally felt my eyes widen in horror.

My hand released off of the knife, and I heard a shout from the road adjacent, footsteps quickly heading towards us but too slowly. My arm was wrenched upwards as he took my bag, his running uneven, awkward as he vanished down the labyrinth of alleyways. The ache burning in my bicep was nothing, the concern bubbling within me was far, far worse.

“Miss,are you okay?” A deep voice asked and I blinked a couple of times, greeted by the sight of a police officer. I nodded mutely, the bag was no issue, I told him, he would never catch the guy in this area, there were too many hidden bits.

“I..I need to go down to the station. I wanna see Jim Gordon,” the man looked perplexed, but I insisted, “He’s a family friend and I’m really shaken up, please just take me to him, please.” I forced the tears to spring from my eyes, the officer agreeing the minute I began to silently sob, adding a please in between my indistinguishable words.

He took me to the car, offering me a comforting smile as I slid into the front seat, wiping away the stain of put on tears, “Where’s your partner?” I asked, eager to stop him asking more questions but keeping my voice rough. He answered slowly, his voice just a ringing in my ears, that drug addict, I knew those signs.

It was Jonathon’s compound, there was no doubt.
It must still be in circulation.
I needed to speak to Gordon.