Chapter Text
Marcus unlocked the hotel room door, loosening his tie as he stepped inside. The date had gone well - Stephanie was sweet, a little lonely, easy to charm. And the sex had been decent enough. He was already thinking about their next meet-up when he saw Alice.
She was sitting cross-legged on the bed, wearing nothing but panties and a white tank top, her blonde hair loose around her shoulders. A bottle of Wild Turkey sat on the nightstand, and she held a tumbler half-full of amber liquid.
She looked twelve years old.
She looked like a child drinking whiskey in a cheap hotel room.
"How'd it go?" Alice asked, her voice casual, businesslike.
"Good." Marcus - Basil - closed the door behind him and shrugged off his jacket. "She's lonely. Divorced. Kid stays with the ex on weekends. She's already talking about introducing me to her friends."
"Perfect." Alice took another sip, not even wincing at the burn. "How long are you planning to string her along?"
Basil moved to the bathroom, checking his reflection in the mirror. Marcus's face stared back at him - handsome, trustworthy, exactly what someone like Stephanie would fall for. He touched his cheek, feeling the features he'd sculpted so carefully.
"As long as it's fun," he said, walking back into the room. "Why rush?"
Alice raised an eyebrow. "Because we have actual work to do, Basil. This is downtime, not a vacation."
"I know." He sat on the edge of the bed, and as he relaxed, his features began to shift. The sharp jawline softened, melted. Marcus's brown eyes ran like wet paint, reforming into something darker, more amber. His skin took on that strange, fluid quality - not quite solid, not quite liquid.
Clayface rolled his shoulders, his true form settling back into place like a favorite coat. Much more comfortable.
Alice watched the transformation with the bored familiarity of someone who'd seen it a thousand times. She swirled the Wild Turkey in her glass.
"So," she said. "I have our next mark lined up."
Basil stretched, his clay-like body flowing and reshaping as he got comfortable. "Already? We just got here."
"Which is why we need to move fast. This one's big." Alice set down her glass and leaned forward, her pale eyes gleaming with that predatory intelligence that had nothing to do with how young she looked. "Gotham's got plenty of wealthy perverts, but I found someone special. Wayne Industries board member. Old money. Very old money."
"Another pedophile?" Basil's voice was matter-of-fact. No judgment. Just business.
"Of course." Alice smiled - small, cold, satisfied. "They're always the easiest. They think they're clever, think they're careful, but the moment they see a pretty little girl who pays attention to them..." She shrugged. "They're done. And the best part? They'll pay anything to keep it quiet."
Basil nodded slowly. "What's the setup?"
"Art gallery event next week. High society, lots of networking. I'll be there with a 'guardian' - that's you, different face obviously. You'll introduce me around, play the doting uncle or family friend or whatever. I'll catch his eye, work my magic, and we'll have him wrapped up in two weeks. Maybe three."
"And Stephanie?"
Alice picked up the Wild Turkey bottle, refilling her glass. "What about her?"
"Just asking if I should end it before we start the new con, or..."
"Basil." Alice looked at him with something almost like amusement. "I don't care if you keep fucking her. Just don't let it interfere with the job. Can you manage that?"
He grinned - a disturbing expression on his half-melted face. "I'm a professional, Alice."
"Good." She took a long drink, then set the glass down with a decisive click. "Because this Wayne Industries mark? He's worth at least half a million if we play it right. Maybe more. I'm not letting anything screw this up."
Basil leaned back against the headboard, his body rippling and settling. "You ever worry we're going to run into trouble here? Gotham's got a lot of capes. Bat-themed vigilantes and all that."
Alice laughed - a short, sharp sound that was far too knowing for a child's voice. "Basil, I've been doing this for two hundred years. I've worked cons in cities with gods and demons and everything in between. A couple of vigilantes in bat costumes don't scare me."
She picked up the Wild Turkey again, holding it up like a toast. "Besides, they're too busy chasing murderers and lunatics to care about con artists. We're not flashy. We don't leave bodies. We just take money from people who deserve to lose it and move on."
Basil raised an imaginary glass. "To business."
"To business," Alice echoed, and drank.
Outside the hotel window, Gotham's lights glittered like broken glass. Somewhere out there, Stephanie Brown was probably still smiling, thinking about her nice date with Marcus. Thinking about how good it felt to connect with someone again.
Inside the hotel room, a 200-year-old woman who looked like a child and a shapeshifter who could be anyone discussed their next victim with the casual efficiency of professionals.
Just another night. Just another con.
Just another city full of people waiting to be taken.
---
**THE PAST**
The school bus doors hissed shut behind Pamela, and she stood on the sidewalk, her backpack heavy on her shoulders. The afternoon sun was weak, filtered through Gotham's perpetual gray clouds. She felt tired. Sad. She didn't know why.
No—she did know why. Alice.
Alice had barely looked at her today. Pamela had waited by her locker again, holding a drawing she'd made during study hall—a sketch of a lily, Alice's favorite flower supposedly. But Alice had just smiled that small, distant smile and said she had to go somewhere. Again.
Pamela didn't understand. What was she doing wrong?
She started walking toward the flower shop, scuffing her sneakers against the pavement. Maybe Louis would know. Maybe she could talk to him. He always listened, even when he was stressed about money or the shop or whatever.
Up ahead, she saw a familiar figure leaving through the shop's front door.
"Louie!" Pamela called out, waving. "Louis, wait up!"
But he didn't turn. He was walking fast, his hands shoved in his coat pockets, his head down. He turned the corner onto Fifth Street.
Pamela frowned. Maybe he didn't hear her. The street was noisy—cars honking, people talking, a siren wailing somewhere in the distance.
She should just go inside. Do her homework. Wait for him to come back.
But something about the way he'd been walking made her uneasy. Louis had been weird lately. Stressed. He kept taking phone calls in the back office with the door closed. He'd been snapping at her over little things, then apologizing immediately after.
Pamela adjusted her backpack and started following him.
She had to jog to keep up. Louis was moving faster than usual, weaving through the early evening pedestrians with a purpose that made Pamela's stomach twist. Where was he going?
They crossed into a quieter neighborhood. Fewer people. Older buildings. The kind of streets where tourists didn't go.
Pamela stayed back, keeping half a block between them. She felt silly, like she was playing spy or something. But she couldn't shake the feeling that something was wrong.
Louis turned into an alley.
Pamela hesitated at the mouth of it, breathing hard from the walk. The alley was narrow, lined with dumpsters and fire escapes. Louis had stopped about halfway down, his back to her.
She opened her mouth to call out to him—
And froze.
Louis reached into his coat pocket. Pulled something out. A dark piece of fabric. He lifted it to his face and pulled it over his head.
A mask.
Pamela's breath caught. What—
Louis reached into his other pocket and pulled out something else. Something small and metallic that caught the fading light.
A gun.
No.
No, that wasn't right. Louis didn't have a gun. Louis hated guns. He'd told her that once, after she'd asked why they didn't have one in the shop for protection. He'd said guns only made things worse.
Pamela pressed herself against the brick wall, her heart pounding so hard it hurt. She should leave. She should run. She should—
Louis moved deeper into the alley, toward the other end where it opened onto another street.
Pamela crept forward, staying close to the wall, hidden in the shadows of the dumpsters. She didn't know why she was following. She just knew she couldn't leave. Couldn't look away.
She reached the edge where the alley met the cross street and peeked around the corner.
Three people were walking down the sidewalk. A man in a nice coat. A woman in a dress and pearls. A little boy between them, maybe eight or nine, holding his mother's hand.
They looked happy. The boy was talking excitedly about something, gesturing with his free hand. The parents were smiling.
Louis stepped out of the alley.
"Hey." His voice was rough, muffled by the mask. He raised the gun. "Wallet. Jewelry. Now."
The woman gasped. The man immediately stepped in front of his wife and son, his hands coming up.
"Okay," the man said, his voice calm but strained. "Okay. Just—just don't hurt anyone. We'll give you whatever you want."
Pamela couldn't breathe. This wasn't real. This couldn't be real.
"Wallet," Louis repeated. His hand was shaking. Pamela could see it even from here. "Throw it on the ground."
The man reached slowly into his jacket. "It's okay, Martha. Bruce. It's going to be okay."
Martha. Bruce. Pamela's mind heard the names but didn't process them.
The man pulled out a wallet and tossed it onto the ground. "There. Take it. Just let us go."
"The jewelry," Louis said, gesturing with the gun at the woman. "The pearls. Take them off."
The woman—Martha—reached up with trembling hands to unclasp the necklace.
And that's when the boy moved.
"Leave my mom alone!"
The little boy—Bruce—lunged forward, his small fists raised like he was going to fight.
"Bruce, no—!" The father grabbed for him.
Louis jerked back, startled. The gun swung wildly.
There was a sound. A crack that echoed off the buildings.
The boy stumbled. Fell.
For a moment, everything was silent.
Then the mother screamed.
"Bruce! BRUCE!"
She dropped to her knees, pulling the boy into her lap. Dark red bloomed across his shirt, spreading fast. Too fast.
The father was saying something—Pamela couldn't hear it over the ringing in her ears. He was on his knees too, pressing his hands against the wound, trying to stop the blood.
Louis stood frozen, the gun hanging loose in his hand.
"I didn't—" His voice cracked. "I didn't mean—"
Pamela couldn't move. Couldn't think. There was a little boy bleeding on the ground and Louis—her brother—
A shadow moved.
Pamela's eyes snapped to the alley across the street. There was someone there. Someone dressed all in black, standing perfectly still in the darkness.
How long had he been there?
The figure stepped forward into the dim streetlight.
A man. Tall. Wearing black clothes and a black mask that covered his face. He moved with absolute silence, raising something in his hand.
Another gun.
"No," Pamela whispered. But the word didn't come out. Her throat was closed.
The man in black aimed.
Another crack.
Louis's head snapped back. He crumpled to the ground like a puppet with cut strings.
Pamela's scream caught in her throat, trapped behind the shock that had frozen her entire body.
The mother was still screaming, clutching her son. The father was yelling something—for help, for an ambulance, for anyone.
Pamela's eyes stayed locked on Louis's body. On the blood pooling beneath his head. On the way his hand was still curled around the gun.
She turned her head, looking for the man in black.
He was gone.
Just—gone.
Like he'd never been there at all.
Pamela's legs gave out. She slid down the wall, sitting hard on the dirty pavement. Her backpack dug into her spine. Her hands were shaking.
Louis was dead.
The little boy was dead or dying.
The man in black had vanished.
In the distance, sirens wailed, growing louder.
Pamela sat in the alley and stared at her brother's body and couldn't make herself understand any of it.
She was twelve years old.
And her world had just changed.