Larissa Diaz

Slim Shady's back and so am I.

....

Vampire Rule N°27: The only reason you sparkle is because you spent too much time in children parties...you bloody degenerate. 

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The rumble of the mechanical steed beneath them echoed through the nearly empty streets of Gotham by night, as the ever so faithful, slightly superhuman miracle of man called Reginald Cousins drove the battered SUV out of Redhook and the Industrial Storage Zone. Careful to avoid the patrol cars rushing toward the scene of the dozen or so crimes committed in that warehouse.

So much law breaking was bound to get at least some detectives off their asses and into the ghetto from some good ol' murder policing, not to mention the dozen of uniforms rushing toward the scene.

Either way, nothing a Gothamite wanted to deal with.

They were soon back home in East End, where the SUV with its damaged front and multiple bullet holes looked perfectly normal, if not a bit too posh for the area.

'Perks of living three floors up from hell.' John chuckled, earning himself a strange look from his new pet...collaborator, he meant his new collaborator, no need to call HR on him. Bubbles didn't react, he was already used to his antics.

Copperhead kept glancing at John, her brow furrowed. The silence between them was thick with unasked questions, but it wasn't long before she gave in.

"How the hell did you do it?" she asked, the almost painful curiosity breaking through her thick, and rather attractive accent, "You took all these bullets like it was nothing, slaughtered these icho de puta and ignored my poison...no one can just ignore my poison, only I have the antidote."

The fact that he took these bullets for her was not stated, but understood by both parties, she owed him big time.

Still, the way she was more interested by his ability to shrug off her poison was quite amusing...almost endearing in a messed up way.

John chuckled, flicking the hair from his eyes as the wind whipped past from the open window, "Practise, sweetheart. That, and a killer diet."

Literally.

Reginald, who had been sitting stoically in the front seat struggled to fight off a smile.

"See, Reg gets it. It's about keeping things fresh." John smirked, enjoying the inside joke.

"Fine..."Copperhead sighed, clearly frustrated but unable to deny the results. "What even are you?"

"Technically? A guy who hates paperwork and loves going on walks, very enthusiastic walks," John quipped, and somewhere in the depths of Oblivion, someone watching Adventure Time while slaughtering Nazis felt very proud of him, "But also, I guess you could call me a problem solver, and this world is full of big, angry problems who just can't let a man enjoy his life stress-free."

"Problems like me?" She hissed, shifting into a more casual sitting position, one bandaged foot on the seat where it will doubtlessly leave a stain.

John could almost picture Tarantino getting a nosebleed.

"You? Nah, you're not a problem." He shook his head, opening an eye to give her a look that clearly meant; 'You don't even qualify as an inconvenience, but I'm not gonna say because I've got manners and shit.'

She didn't like like it very much, but was smart enough not to do something stupid and possibly suicidal.

Reginald's eyes flicked to the rear-view mirror as they approached a discreet garage in the East End. The ride had been smooth, the night passing by in a blur of neon lights and grimy streets, with a noticeable loss in the amount of hardcore dopefiends lurking around.

Not a huge difference, but it was something, it meant that their efforts where starting to pay off and would soon produce dividends.

But now, it was time to switch.

"We're here, sir," Reginald said, slowing the car to a halt. The garage door creaked open, and an older mechanic with grease-stained hands waved them in. It was part of their escape plan: switch cars, leave no trail.

If there was one thing John would learn from the bat, then it would be his plans, their contingencies and the contingency to their contingencies.

Now planning for a one ghoul strong exfiltration team in case things went south wasn't exactly rocket science, but it did the job.

They stepped out of their vehicle, the clinking sound of tools and the soft hum of machinery filling the air. The mechanic grunted a hello before motioning toward a sleek, black Lincoln parked on the far side of the garage.

"Lincoln's prepped and ready," the mechanic said, tossing Reginald the key to his baby.

Copperhead stayed oddly silent in the meantime, not quite knowing what to do with herself, trying not to think about the ramification of the betrayal, how deep it went and what it meant for her future.

Fleeing was an option, and she knew she could deal with a life on the run, taking hits and trying to avoid the heat until the cartels forget her.

The new Copperhead would surely come after her, to prove himself and save the cartel the embarrassment of a previous ace killer running about on her own, for a group that relied on fear and reputation, letting her be wasn't on the table.

But she could beat him, she knew she could do it.

He might be some snake-faced freak, but she had years of experience on him, and she never had to rely on some powers she never earned in the first place.

Yet she stayed put, standing around like an obedient puppy and following that monster and his insane butler into the car, half-listened to their banter as they got more comfortable.

Was it out for fear of the bruja?

Was it to honour some debt for saving her life despite her trying to take his?

Was it because she couldn't forget how it felt to be held, protected from harm at the cost of his own flesh, to have someone finally care enough to suffer for her?

To have someone put her life, her safety above their own?

Because she wanted more of that? More of those absurd, useless emotions? Those liabilities that would only hinder her work, her purpose as a killer for hire, things she hated with passion and craved so desperately.

She didn't know.

She didn't want to know.

"Larissa." She said, not daring enough to look at the monster who spared—saved her life.

"Hm?" He said, and she could almost feel those eyes on her, once a terrifying red yet somehow turned into a more peaceful, striking blue.

"My name, it's Larissa Diaz." She said curtly, so that he might not realize what kind of gesture it was.

To give away her name, something that she hid since her childhood, since the day she started training to become the finely tuned instrument of murder she was today.

A name nobody alive knew was hers, not in the cartels, not in this city that imprisoned her for years, not even that d*mned batman that beat her so long ago.

It almost felt foreign on her tongue, but she didn't regret it, she felt like she needed to do it.

"I will remember it," He said with such weight that she knew, she truly knew that he realized what she did, understood the implication and accepted them.

'I will be in your care,' Was what she wanted to say.

"You better," Was what she ended up saying, gaze stuck to window, still unwilling to meet his eyes.

And John took that personally.

When someone snatched her chin and turned her head, her immediate reaction was to slash his throat with a poison covered metal claw, but her hand was stopped midway and held in a strong vice-like grip.

She was about to insult him, curse him out for startling her...and for ruining such a nice moment, though she would never admit that one.

But she looked at him, her slitted eyes meeting his own, and her anger was blown away.

"It's very nice to meet you, Larrisa Diaz." He said slowly, deliberately, tasting the way her name sounded and finding it adequate, "I am John Harker."

She did not blush.

But this man—this John Harker was a dangerous man indeed. Those lying, backstabbing cowards had at least one thing right, he really was a monster.

. . .

Meanwhile, elsewhere in Brideshead, Commissioner Jim Gordon stood amidst yet another scene of urban carnage. The warehouse was littered with bodies—over forty men lay dead, their corpses twisted in brutal ways.

Blood pooled on the cracked pavement, and the air was thick with the scent of gunpowder and death.

He felt like he was back in Vietnam, minus the mosquitos.

Thirty more gangsters had been injured, ten of them in critical condition.

Gordon pinched the bridge of his nose, feeling the weight of the night pressing down on him. This was more than just another gang fight—this was a massacre.

No, more murders in one night and one place than most big cities saw in an entire month was more than a mere massacre, that was an understatement if he ever saw one.

It's a Gotham-grade massacre.

Harvey Bullock stood next to him, his face twisted into a grimace as he surveyed the scene. "This is Batman's work, I bet," Bullock grumbled, lighting up a cigarette.

Gordon shook his head, his brow furrowed. "That's not his way."

Batman doesn't kill, you'd think people would know it after so much time.

"Forty dead, Gordon. All of them from the same gang, all of them fighting a single man. And the survivors? They're all moaning about some fuckin' monster. Monster this! Monster that! Came outta nowhere and bashed my friend's skull, broke our guns with one hand and beat us with it? Rings any bell?" Bullock spat, smoke curling up from his lips. "And where's that anti-Batman task force I was supposed to get? Judge Harkness already gave his word."

"Calm down Bullocks, you know as much as I do that Batman never kills," The commissioner said calmly, now used to his subordinate's rowdy nature, "And unless our good friend the Judge steps down from his high chair and becomes the Police Chief, then that taskforce can wait, we're spread thin enough as it is."

"Well, maybe if I had it then all this wouldn't have happened," Bullocks growled under his breath, but didn't dare meeting his superior's eye.

Gordon ignored Bullock's complaints, scanning the scene again. It was true—Batman had his ways of dealing with criminals, and every once in a while some other vigilante without nearly as much moral fibre would come along and start cutting throats, but this… this was different. This was systematic, almost surgical. Every kill seemed purposeful, not random or reckless. This wasn't a symbol being sent—it was extermination.

A man stabbed with his own shattered pistol, another's rifle shoved down his throat...the risks the killer took to pull it off was nothing short of impressive.

"We'll need to gather forensics," Gordon said, his voice steady. "I want to know exactly what happened here. And start questioning survivors properly. Somebody knows something, and they better tell us everything if they don't want to be charged for everything we can find."

Bullock snorted. "Good luck getting anything out of these guys. Half of 'em can barely breathe, let alone talk. Reminds you of somebody?"

Still, Gordon was certain that it wasn't Batman behind this, he might be a vigilante but he has his own rules, he was someone Jim could rely on even when the brass decided that hunting him down was a good idea despite all previous attempts failing.

'There is something else at play, something wicked.' Gordon lit up his pipe, ignoring the nagging voices of his wife and daughter echoing in his head and telling him to put it down if he knew what was good for him.

Ignoring the fact that he did not know what was good for him, he joined the police in Gotham after all, that made him a moron amongst morons.

He was no stranger to wickedness either, not as someone who spent so much time in this city, seen what it did to people, experienced all the grim and gore first hand.

He really should retire.