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Gotham is... weird.
It's loud and bright and dark, there's so much going on and yet no one seems to know where they're going. No one's paying any attention.
Helena could last a long while in a place like this.
She can smell the death and decay in the air, and no one asks questions when someone turns up missing.
All that can wait, though. She's here for a reason, and it's not looking for new hunting grounds.
Revenge. So close she can almost taste the blood on her lips.
It's simple recon when Helena slips into the club, not really expecting to find anything of interest.
Just more of the same- flashy people drowning themselves in colors and noise, so desperate to be noticed, and desperate to lose themselves in the throng of sweaty club-goers pressed against their skin.
They never stop to think about what might be lurking in the shadows, just whose attention they might be attracting.
They never consider that once they get lost among the crushing waves of bodies and heat, they might never be found.
All presumptions of a boring, straightforward night of observation are shattered when the woman on stage starts singing.
At first, Helena thinks it's another siren.
The hair on the back of her neck stands on end, a shiver running down her spine. The singer's voice draws her in, and Helena can't look away. Doesn't want to.
She doesn’t so much as glance in Helena’s direction, but the words spilling from her lips are transfixing.
No, not the words. The sounds.
It’s her voice. It’s the way she moves, it’s the shape of her mouth as it curls around bitterness, it’s the mastery of the control and power and feeling she puts in every note- it’s everything about her. The lyrics are nothing next to her, without her, and she is-
She is-
There’s nothing supernatural about her singing. She’s just that good.
And so beautifully human.