"Realisation is nothing new to be acquired. It is already there, but obstructed by a screen of thoughts. All our attempts are directed to lifting this screen and then realisation is revealed," 
~ Ramana Maharshi

Four hours are borderline uselessly spent frequenting bars, casinos, clubs and restaurants for any hint as to where the new location for the militia worthy assemblage of weaponry is being housed. Evidently, after last night's antics, Roman Sionis has kept the new location entirely undisclosed, even amongst his own men, who are no strangers to loose lips after a few drinks and gentle smiles from pretty women. Evangeline rarely directly approached them of course, mindful of her now notorious existence, however, it truly is remarkable how the women of Gotham are willing to step up and aid one another in such endeavours sometimes, only requiring a single marginally inebriated yet friendly conversation to grow acquainted, and then occasionally a couple of free drinks to persuade them to carefully prod at fatigued and intoxicated, but relatively level headed – determined by a brief, vigilant assessment – mob men.

The private investigator is nearly convinced to call it a night, for even Barbara Gordon, has yet to unearth any information or location of import, when she elects to pay one more destination a visit, despite the danger in doing so.

Evangeline Winter has not returned to the Iceberg Lounge since her meeting with the crime families three months' prior, Edward and her preferring to frequent less prominent locations on the off occasion they desire to chat over a few drinks. It seems Mr Cobblepot's establishment is a figurative 'Switzerland' of sorts, a neutral party residence where no violent business may be acted upon whilst on the premises, similar to the concept of the Continental in the John Wick series. Regardless of the fact that it is expected of Black Mask to not actively murder her on the off chance he is in the lounge when she arrives, that does not mean he won't do so after, or if he'll even obey Mr Cobblepot's rules. The Joker apparently did not on one occasion, and as a result, has not been permitted entry again since.

Of course, this invitation is seemingly not extended to his – now-former, likely not for long – girlfriend Miss Harley Quinn, whom Eve is quick to spot upon entering the private recesses of the establishment, sat at a table with Pamela Isley in the left corner. For reasons unknown, the PI is apparently on the list of individuals permitted access to the less public part of the lounge. The first time she was here, it was because Ed had guided her to the back, and any accompaniment of a Rogue is sanctioned entry by default, and the second time she was here, she was expected, extended an invitation by the various ethnic mafia families. Yet here she is, without an infamous criminal by her side, or an invite, and is nonetheless promptly allowed to the private sector. Eve has even yet to meet the owner of the Iceberg Lounge himself, the notorious Penguin, Oswald Cobblepot, but he has seemingly deemed her acceptable enough to socialize with the criminal elite and muscle. Perhaps Edward's doing, the PI surmises, strolling amongst the velvet lounges.

Lavish, indulgent, intoxicating, daunting. The atmosphere of the parlour has not lessened in severity in regards to these aspects since her first visit here, which, in a way, is helpful to the Southerner. The day she grows accustomed and comfortable with a place like this, is the day she'll need to re-evaluate why she finds comfort amongst the dangerous, the deplorable, the unknown. If I'm being wholeheartedly honest, that day is not entirely too far away either, she restlessly realises.

Finding comfort with someone like Edward is already making her question how much she has changed within this city the past eight months, though the past four – since the death of Alexandra Markovic and Sean O'Reilly – have really been the key months that have shaped her, offering her a newfound confidence and life Eve has never felt before. Her unidentifiable, uncertain affections for Bruce, whilst convoluted, don't clash with her morals and compel her to question herself. Harvey and Two Face, however...

Eve shakes that train of thought astray, depriving it the chance to even fully take off. Not tonight, not now.

So caught up in her own tumultuous, distracting thoughts, the North Carolinian doesn't hear her name cried out the first or second time, only snapping to attention when an alarmingly familiar, bubbly blonde crosses into her immediate line of sight.

"Hiya Evie! How's it goin?"

Evangeline Winter only barely stops herself from startling back at the abrupt invasion of her personal space and thoughts, especially when she identifies the newly single jester-themed criminal standing before her, the very one who was side by side with her threatening, terrifying boyfriend last Eve saw them. The thick New York accent is of some variation found in Brooklyn, slightly jarring at first, yet also delivered in a sing-song lilt. As sing-song as a Brooklyn accent is capable of being, anyway.

"Evening, Miss Quinzel," the investigator manages a light smile, hiding her nerves behind a polite, gentle mask. "Apologies, was lost in thought."

"Na, don't sweat it detective, happens ta me all the time," the Cupid of Crime waves off nonchalantly, adorned in her customary black and red tight leather pants and a corset tank top, with a creative assortment of buckles and her four-diamond print. "Just wanted ta say sorry for everythin' that happened with Mistah J last time I saw you, wasn't nothin' personal. You actually seem pretty nice! Didn't get mad at my Puddin' or anythin', like most people do. Eddie likes you, and I'm pretty sure Harv and Harvey do too, and even Johnnie hasn't gassed you yet, so that's pretty damn impressive!"

Yet? That's reassuring, the detective's nerves multiply at the words, instantly noting to ask Bruce for an on-hand antidote for the fear gas when she returns to the manor, on the off chance Dr Crane isn't so agreeable the next time they cross paths.

"Anyways, I was just goin' ta offer ya to sit with us if you like, seein' as how Eddie or Harv and Harvey ain't here. Gotta admit, ya definitely the buzz of the streets and Arkham right now. I mean, it takes a lot to impress Eddie, and I think Harv just about blew a few blood vessels yellin' at Puddin' for shakin' you up at the Mayor's gala. Wanna see what all the fuss is about, ya know? Unless you were waitin' for someone else?"

Harv actively engaged in an altercation with the Joker over that night? Eve, as previously established, is well aware of the dual-themed criminal's fascination with her, said fascination additionally fuelling her own for them. However, protecting her against Roman Sionis – their most notorious adversary, who they would happily engage in a war with over a spilled drink – is one thing, but reproaching the Joker? The most unstable, unpredictable, relentless, apathetic individual in this entire city? That is something else entirely. Definitely a topic to broach with Harv next time I see him.

Returning to the present and staring at the hopeful, happily smiling former psychiatrist straight on, Eve almost elects to turn down the offer and continue with her so far fruitless perusing for the whereabouts for Sionis' weapons, when at the very last second, upon opening her mouth to reply, she decides against it.

One by one, Eve has begun to acquaint herself with the criminal underworld, and befriending Harleen Quinzel? The on and off girlfriend to the Clown Prince of Crime? As well as Poison Ivy herself? Those are potential connections the Southerner simply can't pass up. Not to mention, it would be nice to unwind with a drink or two, especially after such a tiresomely unsuccessful night.

The startling realisation that Eve is becoming all too numb and accustomed to being in the presence of highly notorious, wanted, profoundly dangerous criminals is alarming to say the least, especially after only just ruminating over the worrisome prospect of finding comfort in that very same element of the dangerous, the deplorable and the unknown. Eight months spent in this dark, treacherous, depraved city, where even when you're not in the East End or in the Narrows, it would be foolish and suicidal to wander the streets alone at night, and the PI is already finding herself slowly growing desensitised to the fact she is face to face with someone who actually murders people on a regular basis. Someone who is certifiably insane. Someone who – with her ex-partner – threatened her very life three months ago.

Gotham City is a large city, wrought with such diverse lifestyles and living conditions, they would seem worlds away from one another. In one part of town, aristocratic children and adults wander clean enough streets in nice clothes with refurbished, modern buildings towering over them in a friendly enough manner – but not too friendly, for it is still Gotham. Meanwhile, in another completely different part of town, there's a whole other world that the elite is purposefully oblivious to. Malnourished bodies carelessly lie in gutters with syringes sticking out of their arms. Civilians and criminals constantly go missing, only to wind up at the bottom of Gotham River, or sometimes fail to even turn up at all – more than once Eve has been hired about missing persons, only to discover them there herself. The archaic architecture of decrepit, dying buildings possesses actual stone gargoyles perched at each corner, overlooking the dirtied, seedy streets like reapers ready to collect the next unfortunate soul. Crooked, stained, unfriendly smiles sit forebodingly on the lips of heavily tattooed men, clustered in small or big gangs around each corner, and yet it is the nicer dressed men and women of these parts to look out for, their attire an indication of the kind of people they work for. Prostitutes and dealers scramble for money, as do the homeless, helpless children that scamper around in the dark, beady eyes too wide and too knowing of what sits with them in the shadows.

Overall, Gotham isn't generally what one could consider a nice city, a far cry from Metropolis or National City, yet it is big enough that the high society can turn a blind eye, even when such suffering and villainy bleeds into the corners of their own streets. The number of nameless, insignificant criminals that peruse and pillage banks, convenience stores and jewellers vastly outweighs the number of Gotham's infamous powerhouse villains, the likelihood of happening upon the latter about as likely as spying one of the vigilantes themselves. Even if you are unlucky enough to be caught up in the clutches of one and miraculously survive, what are the chances you will ever find yourself face to face with another of them again?

And yet...

Harley Quinn, Two Face, Joker, Scarecrow, Riddler, Salvatore Maroni, Carmine Falcone, Dmitri Markovic, Colin O'Reilly, Batman, Nightwing, Robin, Oracle.

Evangeline Winter has not only been in the presence of these people – people who have achieved such a mythic, legendary status amongst the regular civilian – more than once, but has talked to them. Laughed with some of them. Stood up to some of them. She's presently living with the Batman himself, and she has long since stopped feeling threatened in the presence of Edward Nygma, a man capable of being cruel and unstable, a man who subjects random or chosen civilians to convoluted death traps and puzzles that drive them insane or savagely tear them apart.

The entire revelation deeply unnerves her, even now, as Eve decides to take up the Harlequin's offer and bolster such high up connections. The fact that she is more disturbed by her increasing numbness to it all and lack of fear only heightens that alarm, something she strives to keep out of her tone when she replies.

"No, I'm not waiting on anyone else," the raven-haired woman assures, attempting to loosen some of the lingering tension in her posture, marginally shaken by her epiphany. "And to be entirely honest, I think I do need a drink or two, it's been a rather weary couple of days."

"Great! Come and tell Docta Harley all about it," Miss Quinn brazenly invades the private investigator's personal space even more, hooking her arm within Eve's own and happily almost dragging her towards the convicted felon's table.

Remain calm, and only have one – maximum two – drinks Eve, the thirty-four-year-old sternly tells herself, half-heartedly attentive to Harley's ramblings. Motives aren't entirely determined, and you have never encountered the infamous Mother Nature, Poison Ivy, before. This could be a trap, another verbal sparring match with Gotham's colourful Rogues Gallery, just like Two Face, the Riddler, Joker and Scarecrow. Remain on guard.

***

"—absolutely everywhere, I was cleaning my kitchen for days after. Really, as adept as Mr Nygma is, never trust him to perfect the art of baking in your kitchen, I implore you."

Harley Quinn's contagious, free laughter bounces around the shared lounging booth, a burst of laughter that some may consider shrilly or obnoxious, but in all honesty, now that Eve isn't neck-deep in life-endangering circumstances with the jester, it's actually quite endearing, charming even – only adding to the anxiety cultivated by her earlier revelation. In a way, the jovial 'belly-laugh' reminds Evangeline of Rebecca's kind of laughter, and despite it only being a few days, the investigator misses her friend.

Pamela Isley is a lot less carefree, more controlled, restrained; her distinct sex appeal a clever, compelling, non-violent tactic born from the sharp, multi-dimensional mastermind that hides behind it, whilst also bestowing her with the control attained through attraction, pheromones or not. Even so, the mental image that forms behind her sultry, dissecting, verdant gaze is fairly amusing to her, the fact that the blundering had resulted from Edward Nygma's own incompetence only adding to the eco-terrorist's entertainment. Ivy's relationship with the Rogue's Gallery is tenuous at best; their petty power squabbles and continuous chaotic bloodshed often leading to her babies – the flora and greenery – being caught in the crossfire. Pollution already chokes the city, industrialisation devouring the last of plant life within this concrete hell hole, and somehow, the likes of Killer Croc, Black Mask, Firefly, Mr Freeze, Bane and more still somehow manage to crush even more of it. Men like Sionis are narrow-minded and shallow, the Blüdhaven crime lord having more than once burned down a greenhouse or her favourite botanical gardens just to spite Poison Ivy, attempting to ward her off or enact vengeance.

Which, perhaps, is one of the reasons why Miss Isley finds Evangeline Winter's presence not altogether intolerable. Hearing the recount of the investigator's antics besetting Sionis last night, as well as the undoubtedly damaging, revealing article entailing said antics dropped by the Gotham Globe earlier today, must really tickle the fickle, temperamental crime lord the wrong way. Not to mention, the PI has the entire criminal underworld either on edge or ready to call for her blood and is actually fairly pleasant to talk to. Pamela has yet to identify any ulterior motives behind the all-seeing yet warm gaze of Miss Winter, and the Southerner's forgiving attitude towards Harley and her contemptible ex-boyfriend's last actions is mature, far more mature than anyone else the botanist knows in this city.

Hm, yes. Pamela Isley can see the allure in the woman and admire it. It can be quite the man's world in this city, and the supercriminal finds no problem with adding another strong-willed woman with good intentions into its mix. She's already given more than enough of the men a wakeup call, and that, that entertains Ivy to no end.

"Pfft, and here Eddie was just one month ago yappin' on about my bakin' skills, and how acid ain't a respectable ingredient for cupcakes. I wasn't gonna eat them, they weren't for me, I ain't stupid." Harley Quinn dramatically gestures over the few empty glasses strewn out between them, evidently frustrated at the three women's mutual friend. "I swear; nobody ever takes me seriously when I ain't by my Mistah J, 'specially the guys at Arkham."

Evangeline Winter frowns at the admission, a little more loose-lipped and carefree after two long island ice teas, a gin and tonic, and a particularly potent whiskey on the rocks. How quaint, I spend the night convincing women to do the same to men, and here I am, with two women who have managed to ease my own inhibitions. Karma works in ironic ways.

"It is arduous, attempting to convince the world to see past outward appearances and peer into the people beneath. Work with it Harley, it's what I do. Allow your vernacular language and stunning physique to disarm them, allow them to underestimate you. Salvatore Maroni made that mistake with me, as did the other crime lords. I imagine they won't do so again."

"After ya last stunt? Please," the Harlequin dismisses the possibility, tapping one manicured nail against the half-empty margarita glass. "Only Roman Sionis is stupid enough to make that mistake now. Did you know he tried ta kill me when I broke up with Mistah J once? Well, first he tried to convince me to join him, but I saw right through that load of crap. He just wanted any advantage he could get against Puddin'. Then, when I told old Romey I wasn't interested in buyin' what he was sellin', that's when he tried his hand at killin' me. Obviously didn't work, but he tried! He's always underestimating me like that; thinks I'm just another bubble-headed blonde bimbo. Well, the joke's on him, 'cause I'm not even a real blonde."

The North Carolinian laughs at the admission, despite already having known it to be true. You can identify whether a person's hair is dyed by the manner in which the light hits it, a result of the dye tampering with melanin in the hair. However, knowing doesn't detract from the humour of it whatsoever, especially when all Eve wants to do when tipsy is laugh and chat, her brother more than once having informed her that she's a notoriously happy and sociable drunk, far more unreserved than she usually is.

Eve isn't quite drunk, no, still sober enough to formulate sound decisions and evaluate matters and people with a level enough head, but she is happy. The PI needed this, especially after her near-death experience just last night. In all honesty, reflecting back on it, Eve is still a little shaken, still sees the barrel of the gun behind her closed eyes every so often. Gotham's Guardian Angel tries not to dwell, reserving such rumination for when she's alone, or in trusted, safe company.

Drawn back in by the botanist's disdainful tone, Pamela Isley scoffs "Roman Sionis is a plague, wrought upon a city already torn apart by several other plagues of humanity. I look forward to reading more headlines of you teaching him some manners Miss Winter."

"Eve is fine Ivy," the Southerner assures, reflecting back on how Miss Isley already corrected her earlier on for Eve's own use of formal titles. "And I honestly look forward to being responsible for doing so. After last night I'm admittedly more on edge than I customarily am, but tonight my endeavours and questioning of the whereabouts of the weapons have proven to be fruitless. Which, surprisingly enough, I seem to be alright with now. I needed this distraction. Thank you, both of you."

"Don't mention it Evie, ya ain't too bad yourself," the Cupid of Crime confesses, crimson lips pulling up into an assuring grin, the red lipstick marginally faded and staining a few of the glasses on the table. "Our own endeavours didn't end up so good tonight too, so that makes three of us."

"That wouldn't happen to involve the break-in at Ace Chemicals earlier this evening, wouldn't it?" The PI gently pokes in inquiry. Even when drinking and somewhat lax, the detective in her never rests, curiosity ever present even when the rest of her is more mellow.

Harley's eyes widen in a startling mix of surprise and awe, whilst Pamela's narrow sharply. Both rogues failed to see that line of questioning coming.

"Wow, ya really can read minds! Are you a metahuman? Is that your secret?" The blonde psychiatrist loudly whispers the last couple questions, leaning secretively over the table to keep the topic hushed, whilst Ivy simply continues to stare heavily under her lashes at the PI. Clearly, Miss Quinn is the more talkative of the two, and the more inebriated of the two. Miss Isley has hardly breathed a few minutes' worth of conversation since I've sat down, Eve discerns.

"No, no I'm entirely plain and ordinary in that respect," Eve assuages, hands gesturing out in a placating manner. "I merely have good sources. Speaking of which, I wouldn't suggest any more large break-ins for the rest of the night. I have it on good information that your 'endeavours' have piqued Nightwing's interest whilst he's in town, and I imagine you wish to avoid any forays into Arkham anytime soon."

Perhaps it's the unwinding effects of the alcohol that persuades the North Carolinian to disclose that titbit of information to the super criminals, or, perhaps it is simply the fact that neither of the two women has thus far done harm in whatever they strived to accomplish at Ace Chemicals, according to Oracle earlier that night. Even more likely, is the honest, plain fact that neither Miss Isley or Miss Quinzel have threatened, underestimated, tested or questioned Eve the past two – almost three – hours spent in their company. Since arriving in this city, everyone – from the Dark Knight and Jim Gordon to Two Face and Edward – have either threatened her life, tested her wits and competence, underestimated her capabilities, or attempted to control and inhibit her from doing something in one way or another.

Whilst Ivy has certainly been surveying her the entire time, likely scrutinising the PI to gauge how trustworthy she really is – Eve isn't blind, even when marginally inebriated – the crimson-haired eco-terrorist hasn't actively pushed, prodded or belittled the detective. In fact, the moment Eve's warning leaves her lips, something nearly imperceptibly softens in that emerald, penetrating gaze. They're not precisely friends, it's far too early to classify them like that yet, but Pamela Isley and Evangeline Winter nonetheless hold a mutual admiration and understanding for one another. Isley admires Winter's strength and intellectual prowess, finding her successful endeavours to outmanoeuvre and outsmart some of the more exasperating members of the criminal underworld more than entertaining, whilst Winter admires Isley's own fortitude, acuity and unwavering dedication to a dying natural world. Eve may not agree with the means the botanist employs to achieve her goals but finds the core motivation of her undertakings commendable nevertheless.

"Eh, like I said, we've hit a bit of a dead-end anyways. Thanks for the heads up Evie. Sorry Red, we can always pick back it up tomorrow night or somethin'," the former psychiatrist sympathetically pats her companion's hand resting on the table, sparing Isley a small, comforting smile.

'Red', however, doesn't respond for a few moments. Instead, she continues to survey the Southerner sitting across from her in the lounge booth, analytical gaze searching for a short while longer. Upon the lack of response, both the blonde and raven-haired women curiously and more firmly fix their stare on the botanist, Harley glimpsing between her best friend and the PI. Eve holds the locked gaze, unwavering. Such intense scrutiny perhaps once would've uneased her more, but now, Evangeline Winter has stared into the abyss of chaos that is the Joker's bottomless pupils. Little else has unnerved her so since.

"Eve, darling, I would like to hire your services."

However, whatever the detective was expecting, it certainly wasn't that. And that, for some unidentified reason or another, does unnerve her.

Miss Winter blinks through her slight alcoholic haze, noting the abrupt familiar term of 'darling' – presumably to liken the investigator to her more – and politely inquiring at the same time Harley also snaps to attention.

"Pardon?"

"What?"

"You are a private investigator, are you not?" The notorious Mother Nature pleasantly drawls in her smooth but quick-to-turn-sharp tongue, emerald coloured hands crossing over and clasping one another as she shifts forward in her seat, regarding the Southerner with a newfound yet careful intrigue. "I have an affair that requires investigating. Should we do it your way – well, mostly your way – then perhaps we may not only avoid any Blüdhaven or Gotham rodents but find a more promising lead."

"Ooh yeah, I wanna see you in action Evie. We can even make a girl's night outta it!" The blonde Harlequin eagerly agrees, her boisterous blue irises locking onto Eve. "Come on Angel Face! We'll even pay ya!"

The North Carolinian can't quite stop the arching of her dark brows in scepticism, casting a questioning glimpse between the two. "This money wouldn't happen to be obtained through legal means by any chance, would it?"

"Nup!"

"No."

"Then it is quite alright, my services are free for the night. May help freshen my own mind up in regards to my Roman Sionis complication," Miss Winter relieves the two, rolling out the tension in her back as she eases into her seat a little more, also admittedly intrigued by her very first official Gotham Rogue client. I've been needing to make more female friends anyway, and perhaps I can prevent a few unnecessary deaths whilst I'm at it. "How may I help you, Ivy?"

"I'm sure you've heard of my infamous pheromone toxin," the redhead inquires, Eve nodding in affirmation as she waves over the water, gesturing for a glass of water. I need to sober up for this, she internally realises, focusing all her attention on the soberest member of this trio as of this moment.

"It's something I've perfected over time, mastering the art of pheromone persuasion – like Crane has done with his fear toxin – particularly on men. Won't be long until it works on women either," Poison Ivy continues, retrieving a glass of water from the waiter that approaches and immediately passing it to Harley, who is decisively the most intoxicated member of their trio as of this moment. "I produce it naturally, perks of being a metahuman, but when I tweak the toxin in my lab – thanks to my background in biochemistry – I've found I can create even longer-lasting, more profound pheromone persuasion. I had the most recent formula for it written on a sheet at home. I have photocopies of it as well of course, but my handwritten one remains at home, safe, with a few vials of the toxin. Earlier this afternoon, I found that handwritten sheet and a couple of the vials stolen, no trace of the burglar left, no signs of a break-in, nothing."

"You suspect someone at Ace Chemicals has stolen it. That's why you broke in tonight," Eve surmises, having already emptied her glass halfway. Perhaps I need food to soak up the alcohol, this doesn't seem to be particularly working.

"A vile woman named Lauren Dubois has always wanted my formula for mass production. It was a fair enough guess, considering I have no evidence or leads to start on," Pamela affirms and defends, one beautifully manicured nail curling around a stray crimson lock. "But Edward talks almost as much as Harley when he has enough drinks in him. You see things that others don't, smaller details, piecing them together until the puzzle lies completed before you. If we were in the dark ages, I imagine an onslaught of fragile men and even deluded women would call you a witch for it."

A light laugh dances around Eve's mouth, partially escaping past her lips. "And yet, now they call me an Angel for it."

For the first time that evening, the investigator detects actual amusement behind the attentive gaze of the verdant skinned super criminal, the smallest of smiles playing at the corners of her mouth. "Indeed they do."

Their stare lingers for a moment longer, their conversation oddly familiar, considering how the three of them have only been properly acquainted for three hours. Sometimes, however, that is all it takes to find a connection with someone; a friend or otherwise. Alcohol does often help speed up the process too.

Falling back into more business talk, Isley circles the rim of her drained glass with another sharp nail, continuing "No one in this city sees things like you do, according to Edward. Coming from a man that praises nothing and no one other than himself, it speaks volumes of your talent. I left my apartment untouched, besides a few scattered papers. Essentially an untampered crime scene. I can't imagine what you'll find with that, but it should be at least more than what we found. If Edward is right."

"Mm, don't let him hear you question him like that. My friend Bec has done so before, and every time it's taken me at least an hour to convince him not to throw her in some elaborate death trap," the detective warns light-heartedly, wondering if Harley is, in fact, swaying that much or if the alcohol is affecting her more than she realises. Perhaps a bit of both. "But yes! I can most certainly analyse your crime scene – do you have any bread, by any chance? I may just tamper with your crime scene toaster a little, just to offer you a decisively soberer deduction."

A brow arches atop Ivy's head, emerald gaze skipping between the PI, and her blonde friend who is, in fact, swaying in her seat a little too much as she frowns heavily down at her empty glass. Sighing, the eco-terrorist acquiesces "Yes that is fine. Please make some for Harley whilst you're at it, otherwise, she'll either be crying about breaking up with that withering weed that is her ex-boyfriend or angrily takes out her frustrations on my dining table with her mallet like last time."

"Hey! Ain't no way I'm eva goin' back to that scummy, no good, abusive – dreamy, funny..." the Harlequin starts off furiously, dramatically pointing, until her listing moulds into something softer, more wistful. Both Pamela and Eve share a look, both decisively nodding with so much as sharing a word beforehand, the two women rising to a stand and lifting the blonde psychiatrist up by her arms as they talk over one another.

"Here we go."

"Come, Miss Quinn, none of that. Let's go solve a crime together, yes?"

Brightening her mood a little at the reminder, the red and black jester gives a happier smile to the two as they all begin to amble together. Despite how inebriated Miss Quinn appears, her coordination appears surprisingly unaffected, walking almost perfectly fine. Nonetheless, all three of them guide one another around and out of the Lounge, out into the sweltering Gotham summer night air.

Twelve o'clock at night, and Eve feels as if her night has only truly just begun.

***

On the drive over to Isley's private apartment, where the crime occurred, the red-haired supervillain offered to list the number of potential people who were most likely behind the incident, yet Eve decidedly declined. The PI wishes to see the crime scene first, without any prejudices and assumptions to cloud her judgement. Which is precisely where they are arriving at now, strolling down the empty, bought-out hallway of Pamela Isley's apartment building, the complex one of the many owned and run by the Broker; a real estate agent that specifically tailors hideouts, apartments, lairs and docks to the masses in the criminal underworld.

Harley Quinn energetically chatters away as the three women walk, one of her eccentric fingerless gloved hands curled around the worn grip of her comical mallet, a crudely carved and drawn deceased smiley face on either side of the flat ends. Eve isn't quite sure when Miss Quinn had the time to do a shoe change, but hasn't missed the fact that a pair of vibrant, eccentric rollerblades are now adorned on her feet, the clown leisurely sashaying on wheels down the hall as her black and red dip-dyed pigtails bounce with each stride. Eve couldn't imagine doing that sober, let alone drunk. It truly does speak volumes of the jester's talent for coordination and reflexes.

Poison Ivy's own smooth crimson locks swish suavely down her back in accordance with her own pace behind Miss Quinn, and are longer than Eve's raven waves, which are now neatly braided back into semi-short French braid – courtesy of Harleen's boredom in the car on the way over.

A resounding pop bursts into the otherwise still air every so often, a result of the bubble gum being languidly chewed and blown from the jester's mouth as she chatters away. The Cupid of Crime chews the pink stick of candy for a couple of seconds longer, pausing in her jabbering about the particular trying time she had acquiring custody of her and 'Mistah J's' babies, the hyenas – which successfully and startlingly managed to garner her attention for a moment because dear God they have hyenas? – and eyes the PI. Rolling back to her side to keep pace with her, the psychiatrist observingly comments "You know Evie, ya kinda remind me of Docta Crane, but different."

Despite surveying her surroundings attentively, Miss Winter has still been conscious enough of Harley to recognise the abrupt shift in tone, even without the sudden topic change or her dropping back to match the PI's pace. The remark is still uttered casually enough, but something else lies there, an acuity that Eve is aware the former psychiatrist possesses but had yet to hear until now.

"How so, Harley?"

The scarlet smudge of lipstick in the left corner of her mouth stands stark against the super criminal's pale painted features, those very lips pursed together sternly for a beat, Quinn tasting the words in her mouth before they have the chance to escape. "Docta Crane never really looks at me; he looks through me. He looks through people, surroundings an' things like they're just glass, and what's behind that glass is just for his entertainment an' scientific curiosity. They're an animal at a zoo for him. You're also always checkin' everythin' out around you, people an' places an' anythin' in sight, but when ya look at me, ya don't really look at me either, you look into me, like you're not just tryin' to figure me out with this cold detachment, but tryin' to know to me. You're both sharp, with eyes like they know things about ya that you don't, always searchin', but when they've found what they want, that's where ya different. When he finds what he wants, he revels it for a second, then doesn't care no more, like it's done its job, and moves on ta the next thing, whilst you do. All that you see matters to you."

The unforeseen yet acute observation stops the Southerner in her tracks for a fleeting second, analytically squinting at the blonde. Sure, the observation wasn't as sharp as it could've been, but the fact that Harley was still able to formulate and articulate it regardless of her lack of sobriety tells Eve just how sharp the clown princess actually is. She's not a simple henchman or sidekick like so many would claim her to be. No, Evangeline Winter can see that she's so much more.

Smiling tentatively at the blonde, the first truly warm, comforting smile the detective has given either of the other women all night, Eve confirms "That's because everything does matter to me, Harley. Every little fact I learn about you and Ivy and everyone else from the way you smile and talk to what attire you wear and the state of your overall appearance and surroundings matters. Paying attention matters. All too often people go through things alone. They don't believe anyone could quite understand or know them, or they fail to communicate what they're feeling and thinking and going through, or they don't even desire help from anyone around them. I became a private investigator because people – all kinds of people, from multi-million-dollar CEOs of large corporations to criminals who wouldn't spare me the same kindness, mercy or thought – need help at one stage or another, or in the very least someone to be there and know. I make it my goal to be knowledgeable about the worst of the worst even when they don't want saving or help because even if they don't, someone they could potentially hurt will. I don't like being unknowledgeable about any circumstances or people that encompass me. I don't like not knowing."

Pamela Isley regards Eve curiously. "Why?"

Tension returns to the investigator's shoulders, throat clamping tightly. Eve prides herself on being honest, disapproving of deceit, but she is still nonetheless guarded, and that topic is still a tender wound for the raven-haired woman, despite it having long since healed and scarred over. Nevertheless, it is no longer something anyone can hold over her, and Eve only feels it's fair to at least give some indication of her reasons why considering how knowledgeable she is of each of their so-called 'villain origin stories'. Every notable Gotham Rogue's origins have been dug up a considerable amount of times by this point; public knowledge for the world to read, gawk and judge. Eve has done her research on the prominent Gotham players, Ivy and Harley included. The least she can do is give a little something in return about her 'origins'.

Evangeline Winter's smile is weak, it falters, but the gentleness and vulnerability in her features betray a fondness and warmth that lingers in the memories playing behind those eyes. "Not knowing hurt someone I cared about; someone I cared deeply about. If it's within my power, I'd rather not let that happen again, to anyone I know, regardless of their own moral code and profession. I also intend to never feel that ignorant again."

Both Ivy and Harley appraise the detective a moment longer, Harley giving a pouty, sympathetic 'aww' as she borderline sloppily throws the arm not grasping the mallet around the usually taller Evangeline Winter's neck, pulling her in for a brief yet firm side hug as she rollerblades from her elevated height. "Don'tcha worry Evie, I don't think you'll ever be like that again. An' if anyone wants ta hurt ya or anyone you care about again, I'm pretty sure they'll have ta take it up with Harv or Eddie – actually, maybe just Harv, Eddie ain't really that scary, unless you get stuck in one of those death traps. Don't know of many besides B-man that have survived those."

"I would be more concerned that they would have to take it up with Eve darling herself," Pamela languidly chimes in, continuing the walk towards her apartment door a mere few feet away. Throwing a knowing glance over her shoulder, the jade coloured woman quirks one perfectly shaped brow at the PI, the smallest of smirks pulling the corner of her lips. "After all, how many other people have taken down a criminal empire as influential and powerful as the Maroni crime family, and come out on top without so much as a single scratch?"

Surveying the door closely as Miss Isley slips her key in and turns the handle, Eve modestly shrugs, returning her gaze to the eco-terrorist. "Whilst I may not have received a scratch amidst the contention, I irrefutably provoked enough crime families and criminals that I'm almost certain the true repercussions of my actions have yet to come to fruition. Not to mention I did nearly die twice last night, so—"

"Twice? Sheesh, whaddya do? Besides breakin' into and takin' photos of his guns like that?" The blonde loudly cuts her off, speeding into the very green and floral apartment with Ivy and Eve closely following behind, the red-head closing the door behind them. I'm honestly surprised there isn't more plant life amassing the space, Eve admits, the hall leading to the shared living room and kitchen only lined with a few hanging terrariums. Though I suppose that would be rather conspicuous.

"I was walking home when a few of his men dragged me into an alley, planned to kill me right there. In all honesty, the abruptness and swiftness of the attempted assassination struck me as out of character, for Mr Sionis is infamously known for his vast and brutal expertise in drawn-out torture, including severing off the faces of his enemies," Eve answers Harley, who catches herself against the doorframe that leads to the living room when she almost rollerblades past it. "Not that I would particularly prefer that, mind you."

"Well isn't this a sight to see; Gotham City's darling Guardian Angel with the city's infamous super-criminals Poison Ivy and Harley Quinn. Colour me surprised."

Miss Isley appears entirely unmoved by the unknown, new addition to the conversation at hand, the said new addition failing to catch Eve entirely by surprise as well. Only Harley seems put off by the unexpected intrusion, all three sets of eyes snapping to the reclined figure on Pamela Isley's couch on the other side of the room, perusing through a magazine rather lazily.

"I don't seem to recall giving you a key, Selina," the red-head casually remarks, dropping her keys onto the living room coffee table, delivering an unimpressed look the cat burglar's way.

"I don't seem to recall requiring a key, Pamela," Selina Kyle smoothly shoots back, legs swiftly kicked up in the air as she uncrosses them from their position draped over the armrest of the lounge, moving to sit up straight and rest the magazine on the coffee table. "Though it would save me the extra minute if you did, so I wouldn't quite say no to a pair either."

"You with B-man at the moment, Selina?" Harley scrutinizes, head titled as she inspects their on-and-off teammate and friend.

With B-man? Eve had heard of the rumours and speculations involving the notorious thief and Dark Knight and always believed there to be at least some credence to the rumours. Bruce actively confirmed it – whether he realised it or not – when she likened her situation with Edward to his with Selina after the night with the Joker. However, never has she had any viable confirmation of the... less professional aspects to the rumours; those involving any form of romantic intimacy. Eve has only been certain that Batman has been known to turn a blind eye to some of Selina's lesser crimes when she offers up enough information of the goings-on in the criminal underworld until now; something she is very adept at doing, according to a conversation Eve and Tim shared that afternoon.

The burglar's relationship with the Caped Crusader seems to put the other two female super-criminals on edge, despite their known public history of the three of them forming the intermittent group the Gotham City Sirens. It isn't quite so hard to see why the three are back and forth with their loyalties, however; between Pamela's obsession with her plants which always come first, Selina's connections with their enemy the Batman (as well as her fluctuating moral code), and Harley's toxic yet dedicated relationship with the Joker – that, going by Pamela's offhand comments, she does not approve of at all – there would be few moments in between where all three are on well enough and friendly terms to band together. Regardless, the fact that no one has attacked one another yet is a good sign to Eve.

Idly drumming her nails on her black latex-clad thigh, Miss Kyle thoughtfully hums before firmly responding "No, not for quite some time actually. He's been rather... preoccupied, it seems."

The way Selina's emerald eyes flit to and lock onto Eve's hazel gaze as the PI makes her way into the kitchen to make a couple of slices of toast doesn't go unnoticed by any of the ladies in the room. The look isn't precisely accusatory, but rather curious and analytical. "You don't seem to be quite as sceptical of where your new companion's loyalties lie. I wonder why that is."

Once again, nothing in the Catwoman's tone is biting or blameful, she's not one to stoop to petty jealousy over such trivial matters, and whatever affections she may presently possess for the brooding hero are certainly not serious enough to stir any negative sentiments towards a woman she's never even met before. Since the Fall of Maroni, the vigilante has been distant from her and closed himself off all the more when Selina had jestingly asked if the pretty new PI from North Carolina is the reason why. The thief has only ever met one other woman who captured Bruce Wayne's attention in such a way, and almost immediately after meeting Talia al Ghul, she could see why. Selina Kyle and Talia al Ghul are two women that shouldn't be aligned with the Batman whatsoever, in more ways than morally, and yet they appear to be the kind of women he finds himself inexplicably attracted to.

Evangeline Winter has yet to speak a single word to her, and already, Selina Kyle can tell she is not that kind of woman.

There's a gentleness behind her gaze and the way it interacts with everything it touches. There's a softness settled in her features born from optimism and compassionate, the near imperceptible crow's feet sat in the corners of her eyes telling the tale of a happy, smiling soul. Evangeline Winter is a beam of light, even when she's not smiling. It's no wonder that she stands out in a city such as Gotham, a city perpetually dwelling in the dark.

The domestic spats of the mobs and Gotham rogues are of no import to the thief however, not unless they impact her directly, so the likelihood of crossing paths with Miss Winter often are presumptively low. And in all honesty, the only vague interest Selina even has in the PI, isn't technically her own. Upon spying the PI in one of the last places the thief expected, her intrigue has piqued in the slightest, but either way, she still holds no profound interest for Selina Kyle, who is clearly not even here for her.

"That's 'cause PI's are fair game, everybody knows that," Harley answers the cat burglar, rollerblading herself until she crashes into the lounge adjacent to Selina's, collapsing onto it. "Plus, Eddie and Harv vouch for her. Do ya know of many people Harv vouches for? Or that Eddie actually finds smart? He even mentioned she has a tendency to ignore B-man and do whatever the hell she wants anyways. That practically makes her an honorary rogue already!"

As Eve analytically eyes the apartment to the best of her abilities from the open expanse of the kitchen, awaiting the toast to pop, she has half a mind to immediately dismiss the idea of her ever actively committing the kind of crimes any member of the Gotham Rogues Gallery perpetrates on a regular basis the moment the assumption leaves the Harlequin's mouth. Yet upon opening her mouth to do so, she's interrupted by the feline-esque felon.

"You have a tendency to ignore Tall, Dark and Brooding too?"

Whipping her attention from analysing Pamela's home to Selina ever so briefly, Eve distractedly responds through her sobering gaze "Hm? Oh yes, frequently. In all honesty, his orders have a habit of going in one ear and out the other. I wasn't even supposed to be out tonight, but alas, we shall cross that inevitable bridge of tongue-lashing when we get to it."

Despite finding humour in it, Poison Ivy's scrutiny nonetheless takes a sharper, more observant turn at the admission. "And what of his identity? Do you know who he is?"

A stiffness enters the air, a tension so abrupt and stifling, Eve could quite easily choke on it. The query shot her way by Isley wasn't entirely expected, but not unexpected either. At one point or another, it was bound to rise, Eve only wishes it never did.

The glance Selina sends her tells the investigator that she isn't the only one in the room with the knowledge of the Dark Knight's identity, further confirming the history between the thief and vigilante. It is with a blankly polite but not altogether guarded or empty expression, that Miss Winter answers "Last night was the first time I had laid eyes on him since disposing of Salvatore Maroni. I believe my association with Edward and Harvey has made him wary of my judgement and how trustworthy I can really be. He found no qualms with ordering me under house arrest to recover and keep me under his eye after last night, but otherwise, our interactions are not nearly familiar enough to warrant an identity disclosure."

It is true of course, for the most part. The past day of interactions have been quite familiar enough – at least by the brooding Caped Crusader's standards – but she can tell the doubts about her affiliations still linger, and he did ignore her for three months straight. The answer is longer than a simple 'yes' or 'no', which Eve is aware will stimulate suspicion from the blonde and red-head, but with half her concentration focused on evaluating Ivy's crime scene, and the other half trying to masterfully manoeuvre around the loaded question, it is the best she could presently formulate.

A thoughtful "Hm," is all the eco-terrorist offers in response, not pressing the issue any further, a likely result of the fact that Eve has graciously taken on her case for tonight without even asking for any recompense. Harley doesn't offer much suspicion either, but after the unforeseen yet fleeting evaluation she offered a few minutes ago, the private investigator is more than aware that the Clown Princess of Crime is astoundingly adept at masking her analytical gaze and thoughts.

"Whaddya even doin' here Selina? Shouldn't you be out robbin' up a store or something?" Is what Miss Quinn eventually settles for, shifting the conversation entirely away from the tense discussion of the Caped Crusader's identity, to which the North Carolinian is immensely grateful for regardless of how questionably gracious the act is.

The little tension that struck Selina Kyle's posture at the question shot Evangeline Winter's way dissipates before the other two rogues are even granted the opportunity to notice it, another thing that the PI is thankful for. For someone as languid and smooth as Miss Kyle to perceivably tense upon the inquiry – no matter how slight the tensing was – would've simply raised additional flags.

Eve's toast pops just as the cat burglar calmly shrugs at the inquiry, responding with an air of indifference "It was a slow night, planned on turning in for the evening when I overheard a little mouse in the East End mention my dear friend Ivy got robbed. Naturally, I got curious."

"Didn't you ever hear that curiosity killed the cat?" Poison Ivy condescendingly inquires, a hand firmly placed on her lightly jutted out hip.

"Didn't you ever hear that satisfaction brought it back?" The Catwoman challenges right back, eyebrow quirked and exhibiting how readily prepared the thief is for another verbal sparring match.

"Hey, how do we even know it ain't you that stole Red's formula? Returning to the scene of the crime? Awfully suspicious," the former Arkham psychiatrist narrows her eyes in distrust, interfering in their dispute to voice her own thoughts, all the while crossing her arms as she stares down the raven-haired thief. Her arms don't stay crossed for long though, not when Eve – after spreading a generous amount of jam that she plundered from Ivy's cupboard on the piece of bread – hands her a slice of toast.

"Mm no, Miss Kyle is right-handed; the perpetrator was left-handed," the North Carolinian offhandedly refutes Harley's suspicion, biting into her own slice as she begins to languidly amble towards the work desk sitting in the left corner of the living room. She barely ghosts the tips of her free fingers across the glass of the small, vial shelf cabinet sat upon the desk. It's small enough to fit in the corner of the large desk but large enough to hold at least four to six vials or smaller glass jars on both of the cramped shelves. There are two starkly empty spaces where the formula presumably was, and papers only half-heartedly strewn about but otherwise still semi-neatly also rest atop the bench. Amidst it all, however, sits one rather innocuous letter opener. Innocuous, at least, to the other three women present in the room.

All three of the super criminals perk straightaway at the unanticipated pronouncement, Ivy's vested yet composed interest contrasting with Harley's animated jolt up and Selina's lazy yet attentive enough eyebrow quirk and head tilt.

"Wait what? How do ya know?"

"Have you found something, my dear?"

Both Pamela and Harleen speak in unison once Evangeline's proclamation mentally registers, all sets of eyes latched firmly on the private investigator.

"I believe I have, Pamela," the kind detective affirms as she basks in the momentarily offered semblance of peace, her brain finally able to undistractedly process the crime scene as she narrates her thoughts and findings. Don't even have the time or mental capacity to consider Miss Kyle's potential ulterior motives right now, but shall keep them vaguely in mind nonetheless.

"Ooh here we go, let's hear it, Evie. What's the sitch?" Harley leans forward eagerly, taking a generous bite of her bread in anticipation.

"Here we have an almost untouched crime scene. Miss Kyle, you have yet to touch anything besides the door, the lounge and the magazine, yes?"

"I was considering borrowing the lovely set of diamond earrings in Pam's middle dresser drawer, but she's, unfortunately, wearing them tonight, so no," Selina confirms, entirely ignoring the scathing look sent her way by Ivy.

Coming to a stand in the centre of the living room, between the television and the coffee table, in full view of the two super-criminals on the lounges and the owner of the residence stood beside those lounges, Miss Winter begins directing their attention to various points of interest in the apartment. "Perfect, a virtually untouched crime scene. The papers on your work desk are slightly scattered, but for the most part, neatly stacked, a state you admitted was your doing. Whoever breached the apartment and purloined your formula sheet as well as the vials of your pheromone is someone with experience, but not quite a professional—"

"Not quite?" Pamela repeats, head cocked curiously.

"I'll be getting back to that," Gotham's Guardian Angel assures, picking up where she left off. "This person was hired specifically to steal your formula, all other valuables – jewellery, TV, money, other electronic devices – are entirely left alone. They were, for the most part, careful; no footprints, the door was opened with a key – only scuff marks there belonged to Miss Kyle, and the windows are clear and locked – the only things I believe that were touched, were the doorknob and this letter opener."

Pointing to, but refraining from touching, the letter opener on Pamela's desk, Eve elaborates "They likely had a spare key made and procured to enter your apartment, meaning it is likely someone you know or have worked with before. But what they were not prepared for, was the very outdated lock you used to seal your vials away in this small, vial shelf cabinet. I'm presuming this is your letter opener Pamela, but have you used it recently?"

Poison Ivy shakes her head, eyeing the bronze, engraved, antique letter opener as if only noticing it for the first time. "No, not at all. It is mine, but I can hardly even recall the last time I received a letter worth opening."

"Judging by the scuff marks on your tiny cabinet lock, and the fact it is here in plain sight, it was evidently used to pick the lock securing the vials. However, do you see the way it has been placed back down?" The North Carolinian asks, her index finger following the vector line of the letter opener without touching it. "It's diagonally pointing down from left to right, and the scuff marks are more severe on the left side of the lock, meaning they came at the lock from a left angle. You, Pamela, are right-handed; you picked up your drinks with your right hand, opened your front door with your right hand, the pen is placed over your research diagonally pointing down right to left as if held by your right hand, USB is in the port on the right side of your computer, toothbrush on right side of the sink, TV remotes placed on right side of the coffee table – those are just a few observations that indicate so. Miss Kyle is also right-handed; scuff marks on her front door lock were predominantly on the right side, she placed the magazine down with her right hand, she's seated on the right side of the couch and her right-hand glove shows more discernible signs of wear than her left does. That ruled the both of you out—"

"What about me? Ya didn't mention me," the former psychiatrist pouts, the childish display working an amused albeit tamed smile from the detective.

"You're ambidextrous Harley, picking up drinks and swinging that mallet equally as potently with both hands all night," Eve patiently answers, simply to include the clown-themed criminal who was clearly feeling left out. She seems pleased – and proud – by the observation made of her as Eve takes another bite of her toast. "Of course, knowing the thief is left-handed doesn't exactly narrow down the list of potential suspects to a more manageable number, but it does rule out Miss Kyle. Unless you're familiar with anyone you know or have worked with possessing the motive and means to procure a key to your apartment just to steal your formula, under normal circumstances, that would just lead us back to square one."

"Whilst the foreplay is cute, it isn't why I hired you detective. Be a dear and be out with it Eve," the eco-terrorist intervenes, her drawl a little sharper, yet maintaining a particular tone of politeness out of the consideration of the free service the private investigator has offered her for the night.

The Southerner internally winces upon the realisation that she was doing it again; setting up and construing more than necessary. Old habits die hard, she admits, returning to her exposition. "Right, yes, apologies Pamela. Do you remember how I mentioned the thief was close to, but 'not quite' a professional? It's because they were immaculate until they reached the second lock, messily using your letter opener. What they didn't care to take into consideration, was fingerprints. I imagine a very select few outside of the GCPD has the means to analyse fingerprints, so why bother wearing gloves? This thief certainly didn't, you can see the way the bronze metal very lightly shimmers from the recent palm print left on the tool. That is our next lead."

Harley shoots up from where she was happily sat on the couch but a moment ago, having finished her toast by now, and leisurely skates over as Pamela Isley joins her in their inspection of the letter opener. The blonde crouches until she's at eye level with the small blade, scrutinising it severely. "Wow, how do you notice somethin' like that? I need to be up close ta barely even see it!"

Leaning languidly against the desk with her right hip, the crimson-haired supercriminal spares Eve a sideways glance to the left of her, the two women barely a couple of feet apart. The look is mildly appraising, with a glint of gratitude. "I'm impressed, Eve. It's more than anything we've been able to dig up tonight so far. Though, I do suppose this means we'll either need to break into the GCPD, or find another with the right technology to analyse this."

"Ah, that won't be necessary," Eve is quick to assure after finishing the last of her toast, lightly resting a hand on the emerald shoulder as she reigns in her unease of the prospect through a practised smile. Breaking into the GCPD is the very last thing the raven-haired detective wants to do, she can imagine the look on Bullock's and Jim's faces now, watching her crash the joint with the likes of Harley Quinn and Poison Ivy. Another reason for Detective Harvey Bullock to verbally spite me, wonderful.

"And why is that?"

Grounding her wandering mind with the aid of Miss Isley's expectant gaze, Eve whole-heartedly returns to the conversation with an element of fervour. Her hand slips into the pocket of her creamy white blazer, fishing around for the particular tool she thought to borrow from the Batcave after Miss Gordon's suggestion to do so.

"Because this," the detective assures, grasping and pulling out the L-shaped, handheld device for the other ladies to see. "Shall save us the world of trouble and hassle involved with breaking into the GCPD or whatever likely illegal plan you had in mind for convincing anyone else to help us."

"Is that one of Bat-Brain's fancy toys?" Harley incredulously asks, leaning heavily forward to inspect the gadget.

The investigator nods affirmatively. "It is indeed. He has so many of these kinds of tools, I'm wondering how long it will take him to notice one is missing. Alas, that is another problem to deal with upon another date. Future Evangeline Winter can handle that."

Lowering the device to the letter opener as Pamela Isley releases a quietly amused breath, and Harley a less graceful snort, all three condemned criminals crowd Eve as the biometric scanner analyses the antique. After a few lengthy beats, a small sound resonates from the device, two names appearing on the screen, one of which is Pamela Isley, and the other...

"Carson Wilkes?"

Glimpsing sideways at Poison Ivy, Eve's inquisitive look is met with unfamiliarity clouding Isley's emerald eyes. "Never heard of the man in my entire life."

"Maybe he's someone you've had under your influence before?" Selina suggests, shrugging as she gives Eve space, the interest that was briefly flickering behind her eyes slowly snuffing out.

"That's hardly a shortlist," the redhead drawls, hand on hip.

"Allow me a moment of silence please," Eve requests, falling into a professional concentration, but unable to completely eradicate the surprise within her when all three women actually do fall silent. This time reaching inside of her blazer – after pocketing the biometric scanner once more – the North Carolinian finds the earpiece given to her by Barbara, slipping it on and in her ear before bringing it to life.

"Edward, it's Angel."

Her first instinct would've been to open a line to Oracle like she had done so a few times tonight already. However, with Pamela and Harley already giving her a side-eye for obtaining a Bat gadget, Eve didn't think it wise to risk further scrutiny by contacting the Bat-family hacker and information broker. She had already opened up her line to Edward sometime earlier when commuting from the Iceberg Lounge to Miss Isley's apartment when neither of the women were paying attention, a foresight she is thankful for now.

"Ah my dear detective, I was just about to call you actually. Certainly not on this rodent frequency, but no matter, we are talking now. I have gone to great lengths to collect some very discreet information on that obscene ignoramus Sionis for you. It isn't easy obtaining such intelligence on a mud monkey as paranoid as Roman Sionis, but alas, I have it nonetheless, because this friendship of ours is prolific for all parties involved detective—"

"Is that Eddie? Hey! Hey Eddie!"

Once again, the North Carolinian failed to notice the former psychiatrist sneak up on her and enter her personal proximity, the jester hollering her salutations into the earpiece lodged in Eve's ear. The PI winces at the volume, Pamela sighing tiredly at her friend's actions whilst Selina finds perhaps a little too much enjoyment at the display.

Over the line, Edward Nygma somehow manages an even deeper sigh than Poison Ivy, and Eve can perfectly picture him pinching the bridge of his nose under his banged-up glasses. "Ah, I see you have found yourself in the vociferous company of Miss Quinn. How fortuitous."

"What did he say? Did he say hi?" Harley continues to badger the investigator, leaning in closer in an attempt to listen in.

"Yes, he says hi," Eve convincingly relays to the blonde, much to Edward's chagrin.

"No, I did not—"

"He also says to convey his congratulations for breaking up with the Joker. He's always known you to be even stronger standing on your own."

"I said no such—"

"Awww, thanks Eddie! You were always nicer than Romey, Docta Crane and the rest," Harley loudly thanks into the earpiece, hugging Eve tight to her to do so.

"Detective, why are you with Miss Quinn?"

Detecting the exasperation growing within his tone, Eve swallows her entertainment to fall back on track. "After a few relaxing drinks at the Iceberg Lounge with Harley and Pamela Isley, I decided to aid Pamela with a case she has tasked me with. Someone by the name of Carson Wilkes has purloined her pheromone formula and a couple of vials of the toxin. I was hoping you could offer some background information on the man, maybe where we could find him."

"I'm beginning to feel as if this relationship is rather one-sided, Eve."

"I'll bake you those lemon tarts I know you adore," the PI compromises, the banter like familiarity slipping past her lips mildly surprising the other members in the room. Only mildly.

A palpable pause hangs over the line, feigned deliberation on Edward's part. He doesn't say no to many of Eve's requests these days but likes believing he still holds more of a semblance of power than her in their relationship. She lets him believe it, despite the fact they're both aware of how even the ground they stand on between them is by this point.

"Very well, give me a minute detective."

"Thanks, Ed," she sincerely conveys her gratitude, turning the mic off on her end for a moment as she addresses the rest of the women in the room, Harley now effectively out her space. "I imagine he'll only be a minute or two."

"I'm admittedly intrigued to see where this leads, and I have absolutely nothing else to do tonight anyway. Perhaps I'll help you see this through Pamela," Selina Kyle confesses abruptly, piping into the conversation for the first time in a while. The confession somehow feels hollow, something none of the other women comment on, but Eve is sure they pick up on nonetheless. The private investigator doesn't doubt that Miss Kyle was having a slow night, she can tell by how unstressed and nearly entirely unbothered her suit, makeup and general posture is. That being said, it's obvious that the cat burglar is invested in seeing this through for reasons undisclosed to the rest of the members present, something Eve has every intention of interrogating her for out of Harley and Pamela's earshot later, one Batman ally to another.

"Here we go; Carson Raymond Wilkes. Forty-three years of age. Small-time crook – plebeian – who has intermittently been in and out of jail since he was sixteen years old for trivial, primitive crimes ranging from petty theft to assault and battery. Divorced three times. No children, no relatives to speak for in Gotham, no current-day partner. Works a bar on the edge of the East End, near the Monarch Theatre, called The Styx. Overall, an entirely uninteresting, boorish monkey with far too much time on his hands."

Turning her microphone back on, Eve partially agrees as the other three women chatter in the background, tuning them out momentarily. "Perhaps, but even if he is entirely uninteresting and boorish, he was still able to break into this apartment and steal some vital belongings. Where did he get this information from? Why does he risk the wrath of one of Gotham's most notorious super-criminals when he's only been invested in petty crimes throughout his life thus far? Why does he even want the pheromone formula and samples of the toxin? I have a few theories that require more validation, his bar sounds like a fitting place to start though. Thank you again for your help Ed, I really do value our friendship, I hope you realise that."

The pause on the other end is one of surprise this time, Evangeline Winter can tell. She caught him off guard.

"... do you consider us friends, Eve?"

"Of course I do," Eve declares without hesitation, the criminals in the room still bickering and conversing, no longer even paying attention to Eve as she confers with her enigmatic friend. "The mutual benefits of our partnership have been reduced to a simple perk by this point Edward. Above all else, I value and enjoy your wit, intelligence and admittedly dark yet entertaining sense of humour. I look forward to our reading days and mundane yet charming trips to the grocers. I enjoy hearing about all of your wonderful inventions – less so your fatal ones, but they're ingenious nevertheless. All in all, I revel in your company Edward. I know you and the other guarded criminals of this city don't use the term 'friend' lightly, many don't even believe in having any, but even if you don't, I do, and in my very eventful eight months of living in this city, I have come to consider you one of my most valued friends Edward Nygma."

Whilst Eve considers herself substantially more sober than she was forty minutes ago, the PI can still tell her inhibitions are still significantly more loose than they normally are, which is undoubtedly why the admission unashamedly continued to spur from her lips despite the fact a simple 'Of course I do' would've sufficed.

And yet it didn't, not for her, because the words began to creep up her throat and escape the confines of her mouth as the troubling realisation dawned on her. Troubling, because though Edward has shown a vested interest in maintaining their relationship, it is quite likely that one day he could wake up bored of her, see her as nothing but another solved puzzle. Even if he doesn't, Edward has yet to show a capacity for truly caring about anyone but himself. If there was a decision to be made, between something his ambition desired and her, he would choose his ambition, each and every time. If they were simply somewhat amiable friends with shared interests, that would be fine. Evangeline would feel a little betrayed, but move on. Now, though, she realises it's more than that.

Edward Nygma has become a good friend, a very good friend, and she just admitted that to him, blatant as day.

"You shouldn't do that, detective."

It takes a very long beat for his voice to return to her ear, his tone far graver than it has been for a few months now. There's no underlying threat, not like the first time she met him, but it's still grave, catching the North Carolinian off guard.

"Do what?"

"Admit such an exploitable weakness to a clever, manipulative criminal who holds no shame in exploiting such a weakness to his advantage. You are fortunate that I like you, Eve my dear – that in this cesspool of a city, teaming with simpletons so easily corrupted and manipulated, it is you who's intellectual company I would trade for no other. The depraved, vicious, and pitiless likes of Two Face and Roman Sionis, however, would spare you no such kindness. Neither would the women present in the room with you, regardless of how amicable they may seem now. At the end of the day, every one of us is only vested in our own interests, which are valued above all else, even friends. Miss Quinn's love for Joker is something that she will always choose over her friendship with Miss Isley, and Miss Isley will always choose her plants over Miss Quinn. It's why Quinn always returns to Joker despite Isley's advice, and why Isley has indeed fought Quinn and the Joker more than once when the imbecilic clown has set fire to her Botanical Gardens. Do not admit your weakness in their or any other Gotham criminal's presence ever again, are we clear?"

Evangeline Winter is quite grateful that the Gotham City Sirens have long since been distracted by their own quarrels and conversations, because even with her back to them now, she is sure they would notice the way in which she has effectively stiffened all over. Those are the last words Eve expected to hear from Edward upon her heartfelt admission, and yet, she knows he's right. Every sentence was spoken truthfully, honestly, and she thinks that's what hurts the most; that in this vast, colourful city of unique individuals, at the end of the day, friends are not a luxury any of them can afford.

At least, not the criminals.

Eve reminisces on Timothy Drake's youthful smile earlier that afternoon, finding unending amusement in her misery as she worked out with him. She recalls the gleeful, free laughter of Dick Grayson across the breakfast and dinner table, poking fun at his adopted younger brother. She recollects the gentle warmth of Alfred Pennyworth, continuously sincerely offering his services to a woman he hardly even knows. She even looks back at the spirited Barbara Gordon, all too ready to defy the man who has mentored her and worked with her for years, all to help a woman she had just met track down one of Gotham City's most notorious, ruthless mob bosses.

And starkly, amongst them all, she remembers the tentative cerulean gaze of Bruce Wayne, his calloused yet oh so delicate fingers gliding through her hair, so gentle against her head injury, so concerned that she risked her life so carelessly. For a man widely known for coming off inhumanely unemotional, so much care was packed into that caress, that stare.

Evangeline Winter may never find any true friends amongst the criminal elite of Gotham, but she knows, without a doubt, that she certainly can amongst its local vigilantes.

"Do you understand, Eve?"

The urgent tone of Edward Nygma jarringly drags the detective back to reality, away from her own tumultuous thoughts. Clearing her throat of the lump that had found its home there, Eve nods, despite the fact Edward can't see her. "Yes—Yes, you're right. Apologies, I'll refrain in the future."

A tired sigh travels across the line to Eve's ear, the Prince of Puzzles clearly aware of the effect his words had on her. "Not quite what you wished to hear in return I'm certain, but I would never lie to you, my dear. Of course, I value your company in return, that goes without saying, but that's precisely how we communicate our gratitude and whatever semblance of care we may have in the Gotham Criminal Underworld – without saying it. I can only imagine how Jonathan would've reacted if you had confessed something like that to him. A thought I do not wish to entertain."

"I know, I understand. It's your way of exhibiting that you do care, whilst simultaneously reminding me of the perils of Gotham's criminals. Thank you, Edward." Hearing him admit that he does in fact value her company lessens the sting, and if she were sober, Eve likely wouldn't react nearly as emotionally as she is. But as she chances a glance back at the three super-criminals in the room with her, one of which she knows has her own undisclosed agenda, the PI truly realises Edward is right. She has been growing too comfortable with the other criminals; Harvey, Two Face, Jonathan Crane, Pamela Isley, Harleen Quinzel. Remaining friendly and amiable is still an option, but dropping her guard so low is not.

"Anytime Eve. I'll save the information I've gathered on Roman Sionis for us to discuss tomorrow when you aren't so occupied by other Gotham Rogues. Watch yourself, my dear."

"Thank you, Ed. You too."

Click.

Immediately, the investigator's left-hand rises to toy with the silver ring on her other hand's middle finger; an anxious tick that she has been unable to dispel over the years, a tell of her distress and dismayed mood. The anti-clockwise movement of the ring turning around, around, around – so simple and small a gesture, and yet the fixed repetitious motion is rather like a controlled breathing exercise, soothing her dejection. I'll just bottle those troublesome thoughts and emotions for later, Eve concludes, sucking in a sharp breath before she twists on her heels, facing the still very much occupied cons and criminals. Amidst the haze of her emotions and inebriation though, a sliver of perplexity slithers through, the PI's dark brows drawing together upon tuning into their conversation.

"—know that's because I have this natural immunity against poisons, toxins, and the pain and suffering of others. Go figure."

"Yeah but Red, ya couldn't even breathe last time you were at my place."

"In Pamela's defence Harley, no one can breathe inside that apartment of yours. You never clean up the carcasses littering the place."

"Bud and Lou get hungry! And sometimes they save 'em for later. Whaddya want me to do? Let my babies starve?"

"Cleaning out the old carrion before giving them more would be a good start."

"Do I want to know?" Gotham's Guardian Angel intervenes, flickering her unsure gaze between the women.

Harley opens her mouth as if to vividly explain why she's defending herself, but both Pamela and Selina beat the blonde to the punchline with a sharp "No," before even gets a word in, resulting in the jester to give a pouty humph.

"Do you have a lead Eve darling?" Ivy inquires, bringing their former conversation to a clean end. Once again, the detective notes the term of endearment, concluding it to be a term from her regular vernacular by this point.

"Carson Wilkes operates a bar called the Styx on the edge of the East End by the Monarch Theatre. A good place to start as any. Gotham bars seem to linger into the early hours of the morning, and we still have a few good hours of moonlight ahead of us. Shall we continue?"

"Hell yeah!" Harley rejoices, climbing to her feet off the couch again, rollerblades gearing to move. "Gotham City Sirens tagether again! Probably for one night only, but who cares? Not when we got our brand new memba'."

Startled by the proclamation, once again, Eve finds herself casting a hesitant glance between the three, Selina and Pamela not making any complaints upon Harley's announcement, meaning they're actually in agreeance about it. They're making it awfully hard for Eve to pull her guard up higher, especially when the North Carolinian's engraved instincts is to repay kindness and acceptance with even more kindness and acceptance in return. How do I refrain from crossing the line between a general, professional kindness and something more personal, when the waves of Gotham criminals have washed it entirely from the sand?

"I don't know if I'm quite suited for—" The raven-haired woman tries to gently turn them down, and yet, it seems they're not quite having that.

"Think of it as your initiation night," Selina shrugs, clawed, gloved fingers drumming rhythmically on her jutted out hip, a daring smirk tilting at the corners of her lips. "You're doing wonderful so far. Relax, just enjoy yourself."

Enjoy herself she might, but relax? She knows she won't.

A/N: *nervously sweats* So.... it's uh, been a minute hasn't it?

I haven't even been on Wattpad since November last year, and that realisation struck me a couple weeks ago. It's not that I've given up on any of my stories, or this site, or even writing, it's just... motivation in these times are hard, but I don't need to tell any of you that. The world has been through the ringer this past year. I know here in Australia we didn't have a moment to breathe after the worst drought we had seen in decades upon decades, only to be hit by the worst bushfires that has ever devastated our country for months, and then there were severe floods up and down my coast, barely recovering from all of that before the coronavirus hit.

And that's just been Australia. From China to America, the UK, Italy, Yemen, and every single country that has felt severe devastation, pain, suffering, death and injustice, my heart goes out to you. We have our own problems here in Australia with how we've treated our Indigenous community, how the government has treated and is still treating our Indigenous community, so seeing the change being made in such influential countries like America is so heartening to hear. 

To anyone - anyone - of any race,religion, spirituality, sexual orientation, sexual identity, ethnicity or nationality that is reading this, that has faced prejudice, injustice, cruelty and hate for simply being you, I want you to know that this is a safe zone. I wish I had the power to ease your pain, to make a change in the world so you don't have to experience unjustified hate and injustice, but I recognise that me saying my prayers are with you will not do that. That me saying I'm sorry for what you've gone through will not do that. The best I can do is donate (which I have), spread awareness (done that too) and in the very least, make my books a safe haven for you. You are welcome here whenever you want. Escapism isn't a permanent solution, I know, but that is what books were made for, wasn't it? To fall into a story, and escape our own world for a little slice in time.

I hope everyone is healthy and safe. This virus won't be going away anytime soon, and if the difference between living safely and healthily, and contracting a virus that has killed so many thousands of people already, is wearing a mask, staying indoors and maintaining healthy hygiene, I hope you all are taking these precautions. More than anything on the site, I value the health and safety of you guys, who have more than once made my day with your comments and uplifting words.

A very long author's note, apologies, but it needed to be said. I'll likely repeat this on my next chapter of my Marvel story, Broken by the Enemy, because the next chapter of that is also almost done. Until then though, if anyone is still even reading this story, please stay safe, please be kind, and please keep an open mind. 

Thanks for reading and that's all for now, bye! :) xxx

~ T.L