See No Evil: Polish (ch. 17) (Patreon)

"It's been a while. How have you been?" I asked, keeping myself calm. It was rather frightening how used I was getting with guns being pointed at me. In response, Jeremiah grabbed me by the jacket and slung me into a wall. My back hit it with a solid thump, but I was more focused on the gun being jabbed in my face and the expression of utter fury on Jeremiah's face. I kept any emotion off my face as I clenched my hands -- beneath my gloves were two cards: Murder Weapon and my pistol.

This wouldn't end like the last time I was dragged into an alley.

"Killer Croc is one of yours," Jeremiah spat at me, his gaze filled with pure hate as he jabbed me in the chest with his gun. That was better. My head wasn't bulletproof, but between my suit and my vest, I had better odds surviving a bullet to the chest. "You attacked the deal. You killed my friends."

I met his glare with one of my own. "You know, it rings a little hollow when you're saying I screwed you over when you were planning to do the same to me right from the start," I shot back at him. "You fired the first shot -- Waylon was my backup in case things went to shit. And they did because of you pulling the trigger. If you hadn't planned to steal the guns and drag me into that shit, your friends would still be alive. You want to blame someone for that deal going south, then bland yourself."

Jeremiah was planning to betray me. Or, at the very least, he was willing to let me burn. I worked for the Penguin, and Mr. Cobblepot had arranged the deal. Then Jeremiah killed the arms dealer and was going to make me transport the stolen weapons back into Gotham. Meaning I had aided in a robbery and murder of one of Mr. Cobblepot's contacts. No matter what angle you looked at it, that wasn't a good look.

Me leaving the deal with the guns was the only way I could have won in that deal.

That was apparently the wrong thing to say to a man with a gun because he looked pissed enough to pull the trigger. "You're saying this is my fault?" He asked dangerously, his hand shaking from the rage. "All of this wouldn't have happened if it wasn't for you. I should have capped your knees the moment I saw you and given you to the Penguin. We would have been set! We would have the drugs, I could have just bought the guns -- everyone would still be alive, and… this shit is all your fucking fault!"

As much as it sounded like he was just slinging blame for his own failures, I agreed with him. I had similar thoughts looking at the burnt-out husk of a building in Crime Alley. If Jeremiah had never met me, then he would be golden. If he had turned me over to the Penguin instead of making that deal of a hat for a car, then he would be even better off. That interaction, though neither of us knew it at the time, was pushing the Lost Souls onto the path of destruction.

But, it wasn't like I was going to say any of that out loud. "It's my fault? The deal still would have been hit and you still would have lost the drugs and money. Without me, you didn't have the balls to hit them back. And I sure as hell didn't hold a gun to your head and make you murder that man. You did that yourself." I scoffed, standing tall despite being pinned to a wall with a gun pressed against my chest. "You had options. You could have rolled over to the Blackgaters, you could have cut a deal with the Penguin or you could have used the favors I owed you to get my help instead of tricking me into shooting myself in the foot."

"Ask for help? Like I'm one of your pet bums?" Jeremiah snarled at me, jabbing me with the gun, "I'm a fucking gangster, not a charity case."

"Are you now? Because after you tuck tail and ran, leaving everyone at the deal behind to die -- including your friends, I'm guessing that charity case describes you rather well." I pushed myself off the wall, and while he tried to push me back with the gun, I pressed my own into his sternum. Unlike me, he wasn't wearing a vest. There was a brief flash of panic in his eyes as I took another step forward, so we were standing in the center of the alley, each with a gun pressed against the other. "I could have helped you, you dick. Honestly, you taking on the Blackgaters would be a great big help for me at the moment. But you didn't ask for help. You made shit choices and you're blaming me for the outcome."

Despite having the tables flipped on him, Jeremiah didn't back down. Between the Blackgaters and Mr. Cobblepot, he was very much the one with his back against the wall. "Except it would have worked if your pet lizard hadn't murdered my friends!" He shouted back at me, drawing the gazes of a few walking by the alley before they quickly moved on once they saw the guns. "It would have worked. We would be at the top right now if it wasn't for you and Crock. You expect me to believe that bullshit that it was an accident? When you took the guns?"

I met his gaze evenly, idly figuring that Jeremiah might have made contact with Carla. Or, maybe, Jeremiah was one of the new faces in 7th Heaven and I just didn't see him. Regardless, he knew that I had the guns.

"It was an accident. Believe it or not, if you hadn't pulled the shit that you did, then Waylon wouldn't have ever shown his face. But you left me to die, surrounded by bodies. Of course, I took the guns." But that wasn't true. Just like how Jeremiah was planning to screw me over, I was planning to do the same to him by turning the guns into scrap.

Then I took in a slow breath, "Why are you even here?" To kill me? If I didn't like his answer, then I was going to pull the trigger. I could seal the body in a card, change my clothes and no one would be the wiser. It was so frighteningly easy to get away with murder in this city.

"I want my guns back. I want to rebuild the Lost Souls. And I want your help to do it," Jeremiah said with a sneer as he glared at me.

Ah. He was delusional.

"The Blackgaters are getting hit hard right now. I still have some connections that I can use. We flash the heat, and they'll jump on board. You… you still owe me. So you have to help me. We take down the Blackgaters, and when the Lost Souls are at the top of East End, then we're through." There was a desperation in his voice. A tone that only belonged to the desperate and delusional holding onto a fantasy like a lifeline while blatantly ignoring every problem with that fantasy.

I really didn't care for how much of that could be used to describe me. But, the difference between me and Jeremiah was that I had the means to see my delusion come true.

I shook my head, “No.” I told him firmly, and shockingly, that answer somehow surprised him. He looked like I smacked him in the face or something. Jeremiah really did fully expect me to jump right on board with that insane plan of his.

“You owe me,” Jeremiah reminded and my lips thinned in response.

“I did, but that debt was settled when you tried to screw me over and left me to die,” I told him. And that didn’t feel right. I gained everything while he lost everything. I got the half-million in cocaine, I got the money, then the guns. In every single interaction, I came out ahead while he lost the prize each time. From a purely financial standpoint, I owed him a lot. “I don’t owe you a single thing.”

But I was juggling too many plates as it was. Throwing in helping an unhinged man that hated my guts and would undoubtedly use the power that I helped him gain against me… I just couldn’t do it. Not when I had so much at stake. Not when it could be other people paying the price for my poor decisions.

Pride is what got me into the situation with the Blackgaters.

But part of me couldn't deny that I wanted to do it. It was idiotic. It was flat out stupid. But part of me wanted to go along with his hairbrained scheme just to say that I up held my end of the bargain. Because your word only has any worth when you keep it when things are difficult. I wanted to follow through with what I owed Jeremiah to say that I followed through.

But the stakes were just too damn high for that.

“You owe me,” Jeremiah insisted. I could practically see the crushing realization that he wasn’t going to get what he wanted. He pushed his gun into my chest, opening his mouth to continue but I cut him off.

“No. I don’t,” I responded firmly and I braced myself for pain. A loud bang that made my ears ring echoed out in the alley and it felt like I had just taken a sledgehammer blow to the ribs. Any breath that I had was expelled from my lungs as my mind flashed white with pain. But, despite the pain, my finger curled down on my own trigger.

And unlike me, Jeremiah wasn’t wearing a bulletproof vest. My gun bucked in my hand, a bullet tearing through Jeremiah. He jerked once, then again as I pulled the trigger again. And again, and then a third time. Beyond my ears ringing, I heard some shouting, telling me that I had to get out of here. I pushed Jeremiah’s gun away and shoved him away from me, his back hitting the alley.

A hand went to his chest, a growing wet stain on his shirt, he looked down at it, then up at me. His lips moved, but between him speaking so softly and the ringing in my ears, I couldn’t hear a word he said. Without uttering a response, I took aim at his head and fired once. His head snapped back and he slid down the wall, dead. Glancing to my side, I saw that the alleyway was clear so I tossed a card on his corpse and sealed the body. Then I scooped up the bullets that were fired along with the gun that was used to shoot me.

“What a stupid ending,” I cursed to myself, keeping my head down as a hand went to my chest. My ribs ached with every breath, but instead of any wetness, I found a single bullet lodged worryingly deep in my vest. My suit hadn’t been able to stop it at such close range. That was good to learn, especially considering that I hadn’t died to learn that lesson. I clutched the bullet in a hand as I hastily fled the scene.

The bullet in my hand was evidence for no one but myself. The only evidence left in the alley was some blood that I honestly doubt that anyone would notice. But the bullet that I just pulled out of my vest was undeniable proof that Jeremiah had shot first.

There was an old debate that I suddenly recalled about Han Solo, way back when his character was first introduced. The scene with that alien that had threatened him with a gun, and while I thought nothing of that scene for years, and only learned of its implications much later… That scene determined if Han Solo was an honorable rouge or a ruthless smuggler.

If Han shot first, then he killed a man before he could kill him after Han had screwed the alien over. If Han shot second, then he was defending himself.

I never thought that the defense would apply to me.

But I doubt it would hold up in court, so I had better beat feet. I could only hope that Revy was having a better time of it with the Blackgaters.

…

“You… aren’t going to kill me, right?” Jacob asked, sending her a glance that told her that he was one mean look away from pissing himself. This was the guy that Vergil was sending in to lead the Blackgaters by the nose? Eh, wouldn't have been Revy's first pick. Or her tenth. If it were her, she wouldn't have bothered with all of the scheming in the first place. But, she guessed his fear would help sell the story.

"I might if you don't start moving," Revy snapped, shoving him forward when he started dragging his feet. This was a Blackgater? Really? When she was a kid roaming the streets of Gotham, the Blackgaters were filled with the hardest, meanest, cruelest sons of bitches in all of Gotham. The kind to beat a man to death because they thought he was giving them a funny look and go about their day like it was nothing special.

Jacob moved with a sense of urgency that only belonged to those that expected to get a bullet to the back of the head. Revy was glad for it. Every second she spent babysitting was a second too long. She swallowed a sigh as she brushed some brown hair out of her eyes -- the purple hair was gone. Too recognizable for something like this. So, the purple dye was purged then redyed brown to match her natural hair color since her hair had been bleached to make it such a vibrant purple.

Following him, Revy spotted their destination. A fortress of a building. The Blackgaters office building, as it were. It was located smack dab in the middle of East End, a tall building that topped off at about twenty floors or so, which put it a head over the buildings around it but it wasn't quite a skyscraper. It was an ugly thing too -- tacky gargoyles looking down at them, the building itself was made up of an unholy combination of gray stone and metal. But it didn't need to be pretty.

The windows were thick, and she recognized the sheen of a carbon fiber film placed on them to prevent glass cutting and to make them bulletproof. The walls were thick stone reinforced with steel -- you could hit the thing with an RPG and the building would be fine. Most importantly, the number of people wearing black and orange showed that the building was undeniably the Blackgaters.

"I have a message for the boss -- I know who started this mess," Jacob said as he approached the doorman. That got the big guy's attention, his eyes flickering to Revy, who waved with a too sharp smile on her face. Now it was time to see if Jacob had any balls and Id Vergil was an optimistic idiot. "She helped break me out of the people holding me and my boys -- it's the Jokers. The Jokers hit us. Or they hired some crew to do it-"

The doorman shook his head, "I just opened the doors. Tell this to management," The doorman dismissed gruffly. He reached out and patted Jacob down ever so gently. Jacob hid it, but Revy knew that the bums in 7th Heaven had taken a few shots at the tied up prisoners. Nothing that could easily be seen, but the punk's shot one of theirs, and now that they were at the mercy of 7th Heaven… well, Revy doubted that there would be many doubts about Jacob's story of being held by the Jokers when they saw the bruises.

The doorman held his hands out to her, but Revy opened her jacket to flash her cutlass, the twin pistols that rarely left her side. But after doing this for years, you learned when to dig your heels in. No matter what she said or did, they wouldn't let an unknown walk into their fortress armed. They weren't that stupid. "I want them back later, so be careful with them."

The doorman nodded, taking her guns and completely missing the one that was strapped to her inner thigh, hidden by her skirt. The metal detectors wouldn't pick up on a snub nose revolver made up of plastic. Vergil promised that it would work at least once, so she had her shot of getting a real gun and fighting her way out of the fortress. She might even make it if Vergil was serious about hitting the place to make sure she got out.

Revy followed Jacob, who was following some no-name goon into an elevator. The lobby was bog-standard, enough so that it was hard to believe the place was owned and inhabited by hardened criminals. Annoyingly pleasant elevator music filled the silence as they made their way to the top, giving Revy a few seconds to let her mind wander.

What in the hell was she doing? Really? What was she doing? She was here, possibly risking her life for some guns she could buy or steal on her own and for shit pay. She should have told Vergil to get fucked, sell-out 7th Heaven for a decent profit, and then she would get to take a real shot at Tifa. That plan was the one she should be going with right now. It hit every checkbox for all the things that she wanted.

Except she wasn't.

Revy swallowed a sigh, and she knew what the problem with her was. She got… infected with whatever the fuck Vergil was putting in the water. She grew up on these streets. A real street rat. Revy knew she only managed to make it off the streets because of her willingness to kill. First her deadbeat dad, then a cop that raped her, then everyone else who got in her way. She chased the trail of dollar bills like a fucking bloodhound, and it took her out of state for years… but…

No matter how much she got grown, Revy remembered the streets.

How different would her life had played out if there had been a 7th Heaven when she was a street rat? If there had been a Tifa in her life as a kid? If there had been a Vergil to… fucking look up to, or something. To be willing to fight, kill, and even die for that sliver of paradise and could inspire others to do the same? It was too late for Revy, but she saw the street rats that came in and out of Heaven.

Thankfully, the doors opened before Revy could dwell on the subject much longer. As the doors slid open to reveal a long hallway with a singular door at the other end -- she recognized a kill box when she saw one. The goon led them forward and Revy saw that Jacob was getting nervous. Bullshitting a doorman and the boss were two different beasts.

If he failed to stick to the script, then he would die. His friends would die too. Vergil was doing his best to pretend to be a lapdog, but there was a killer's instinct in him. He'd execute the prisoners then he'd wage war on the Blackgaters. This was his first pick only because Vergil wanted to avoid the attention of Batman. And that was frustratingly smart of him, no matter how annoying it might be.

Batman failed at his self-imposed mission. He didn't deter crime. He just motivated criminals to be smart.

They walked in silence towards the door. Upon reaching it, the goon knocked at the door. And they were let in with a single word in a deep southern accent. The door swung open to reveal a decorated office, if simple. Revy's eyes scanned over the interior, noting five guards standing in the corners. There were another three standing around a desk -- war plans and information how fucked they were.

It was easy to tell who the leader of the Blackgaters was -- a puggy man that just screamed cowboy Texan. He wore a white gallon hat, matching his white suit with a blue dress shirt, one of those string bowties… frankly, the guy looked like an absolute moron, but if he was dumb as he looked, then he wouldn’t be in charge of the Blackgaters.

“Howdy,” Ted something something greeted, his gaze as sharp as a naked blade. “A birdy told me that you had a story to tell me son,” He said, his gaze sliding over to her. He checked her out, half out of wanting to fuck and half out of sizing her up as a threat. Revy paid it no mind as she strode into the room next to Jacob, who looked like he was just about to shit himself. If she didn’t die here then Vergil was going to owe her big time.

Though, that did beg the question of when did Revy take credit rather than cash up front when it came to this kind of stuff.

“I… I do sir,” Jacob said, trying to project as much confidence as he could muster. Which, frankly, wasn’t a lot. “Me and my guys were sent to investigate some rumors about a human chop shop in the metro, but… but we never made it there.” Good. He was sticking to the script. “We were in the tunnel when we got hit by the Jokers. They gassed us and the next thing I knew, I was in a chair.”

He hesitated, and Ted leaned forward, “Go on. Give me the full story,” He ordered, his tone dangerous.

“They were asking me questions about our safehouses and stuff -- where we keep the money and how many guys are there, that kind of stuff. I didn’t tell them shit, I swear,” Jacob insisted, pulling up his shirt to reveal some real nasty bruises on his torso. He would be pissing blood for a week. But that’s what happened when you found yourself in the hands of the powerless -- they passed the ass beatings and pain onto you because they didn’t get many chances to not be on the bottom end of receiving abuse.

“They beat the hell out of me, but I didn’t say anything. They gave me a map to mark where our houses were, but I didn’t touch it. You have to believe me, sir. I didn’t say shit,” Jacob repeated the point, knowing that if they thought he was a rat then he would drown like one, the Blackgaters falling apart or not.

The room was silent for a moment, Ted looking at Jacob’s bruises. “Why didn’t they touch your face?” He asked, his tone calm as can be.

“One of them said that the Joker wanted out faces to be recognizable,” Jacob lied through his teeth. And Revy had to give him props for thinking on his feet. He still looked like he was going to piss himself, but fear made him think fast rather than freeze up. Ted held Jacob’s gaze for another long minute before he offered a slow nod, apparently buying that excuse. It did sound like something the Joker would do, after all.

Jacob continued with his script a moment later, “I didn’t say anything, but they were asking the others the same questions. Comparing our answers, and stuff. Then they hit the spots they confirmed for drugs and money -- they might have hired someone to do it for them, I don’t know. But they said that the Joker was going to use the money for something big. Something like a birthday present for Batman.”

A few of them grumbled and Ted was turning an ugly shade of red, “That clown hit us for that Bat freak?!” He snapped, slamming a fist hard enough into the table that he knocked a cup of coffee over. One of the others at the table quickly saved some papers from the spill -- a map of East End. The places that she and the others had hit… and a few more that they hadn’t known about.

“... Yes sir. At least that’s what I overheard. They… they were going to kill us, so I don’t think they had any reason to lie,” Jacob said. Then he gestured to Revy, “That’s when she came in.” Ted turned to her, and Revy offered a shrug.

“I’m looking to cash in on Joker’s bounty, and I stumbled on to this idiot. I heard about your troubles, and I smelled an opportunity to make some money,” Revy said, adopting a careless attitude.

Ted smiled, “I can always appreciate a mercenary that knows an opportunity when they see one,” He said in a far friendlier tone. Ugh. He was going to hit on her. Idiots like him were the types to brag about their magnum cock and how no other man would be able to satisfy her after a taste because they didn’t understand how a pussy actually worked. But, Revy was stuck gritting her teeth and taking it for now. It would just make killing him that much sweeter. “What’s your rate?”

“Twenty-five thousand, half now, half after the job is done. If the Joker is there, and I bag him, then I’m not sharing his bounty,” Revy said, knowing that those terms wouldn’t fly. The Joker was at the top of every nation’s most-wanted list and there was a bounty of fifty million on his head. Closer to seventy-five million if you count the cash from bounty pools from victims willing to pay to get a little bit of payback.

But, Ted just nodded, and that was a great big red flag. “I can understand that.” He offered before he walked around the table, maintaining eye contact. As he approached, he held out a hand to the goon that walked them in, and the goon handed over a nice looking beretta. “But, I do have to say, it does seem a little convenient and with the weeks I’ve had, I’m running a little low on good faith.”

He was in striking distance, she could take him as a hostage, blow out the brains of the guards nearby with that beretta while retreating to the desk for cover-

Ted handed her the gun, grip first. “Kill the kid for me,” He ordered with a smile on his face before he stepped back. Revy looked over at Jacob to see his eyes widening, his jaw-dropping as a look of pure panic appeared on his face.

He died with that expression on his face. The gun bucked in her hands and Jacob was sporting a third eye in the middle of his forehead. No hesitation, no remorse.

Ted nodded, “He was a rat if I’ve ever seen one,” He remarked. And said nothing when Revy didn’t hand over the gun back to its rightful owner who was holding out a hand for it back. She slid the beretta into one of her holsters and walked forward, paying the corpse no mind as it slowly soaked itself in a pool of blood. “Tell me what you saw,” Ted ordered as he leaned against his desk, gesturing to the table.

With the murder, she proved that she wasn’t a cop. And with how efficient the kill was, she proved that she was a killer for hire. Once you knew the game, it was rather simple to play it so long as you understood the role that suited you best. Revy was a gun. She wasn’t a plotter, she wasn’t one for running anything. She was a gun that was aimed at a target and used to kill that target. First, she was used by Dutch, now she was being used by Vergil. And now Ted thought he was using her.

“The Jokers are hold up in Amusement Mile. They were held up in one of the storage places for prizes and stuff, but they probably got moved after I hit them. And I don’t know what they’re planning. I just know that the Jokers are there in force. The kind of force when they’re planning something big.” Revy lied through her teeth, parroting the script that Vergil had given to her.

And there went her last chance to betray 7th Heaven and reap the profits of it. Now, if she backtracked, then she was a two face liar that couldn’t be trusted no matter what she said. A year ago… before Ronarur fell apart like a castle of sand, Revy would have laughed at the thought of picking anything over money. Yet, here she was, picking the lesser reward because of…

Revy didn’t even know.

“Those fucking clowns. Why hasn’t anyone whacked that freak yet?” Ted muttered to himself, standing a tad too close to her. Revy’s nose twitched as she smelled rot coming from the guy’s mouth. Call it a sixth sense, but she knew when someone was rotten through and through.

It should be a familiar smell to her, especially considering how rotten she was on the inside, but Revy never grew used to the smell. Which… was why she was sticking with 7th Heaven. Tifa had blood on her hands. She was a killer. But she smelled like sunshine, rainbows, and roses. Vergil was a drug dealer, ruthless killer, and a schemer but he didn’t smell rotten either. They balanced the rot with good deeds and smiles…

And Revy was so sick of the stench of rotting meat.

“Alright. Alright, they want to hit us? We show those whackjobs why we’re the worst of the worst in this city. We’re going to Amusement Mile and we’re burning the thing to the fucking ground.”

Revy smiled at the declaration.

Vergil was right on the money with his reaction. And with those words, the Blackgaters would be no more by nightfall.