A Life in DC
Chapter 3 - P1
The weeks that followed settled over him like damp rot. Gotham welcomed him back with its familiar, joyless embrace: day after day of low, unbroken cloud the color of wet concrete, rain that never quite stopped, only varied between sullen drizzle and sudden, spiteful downpours. The streets stayed glossy and black, reflecting the city's perpetual half-light in fractured smears. Inside the patrol car the world narrowed to the patient, hypnotic thump-thump of the wipers and the engine's resigned drone. Oliviero Oronzo sat in his uniform, the scratchy wool still a suffocating second skin. He had become a ghost again—another blue silhouette sliding through the same gray routines, body present, mind elsewhere.
Each morning blurred into the next, a slow drip of small, wretched human dramas. A noise complaint that ended with a drunken husband weeping over a dog that had run away months ago. A shouting match between two vendors clawing for the same corner on Crime Alley, their rage more exhausted than explosive. A skinny teenager caught prying off a hubcap, bravado collapsing into panicked tears the moment the cuffs clicked shut. No grinning psychotics, no grinning gas, no ice sculptures of shattered men. Just the patient, grinding erosion of ordinary lives—one petty theft, one domestic squabble, one broken promise at a time.
Back in the cruiser, he completed the reports with the mechanical rhythm of someone who had long ago memorized the shape of every box. The damp air made the ink feather at the edges; words like "suspect," "apprehended," "property recovered" looked thin and fraudulent on the page. He was only paperwork now, cataloguing the rust as it spread.
Lunch was a cold, greasy meatball sub from a deli that probably had more health code violations than a morgue. He ate it in the driver's seat of his parked car, staring out at the rain-streaked street, watching the city's miserable populace hurry by under umbrellas. The sub tasted like cardboard and regret, but it was fuel. He was halfway through it, chewing mechanically, when the radio crackled to life, slicing through the fog of his thoughts.
The radio crackled, a burst of static that was a familiar, almost comforting sound in the patrol car's gloom. It was the prelude to another Tuesday, another call about a domestic disturbance or a stolen wallet. Vieri took another bite of his cold, greasy sub, the taste of stale marinara and processed meat a dull, familiar punishment. He was just starting to zone out, his eyes unfocused as he watched a rat scurry along the edge of a overflowing dumpster, when the dispatcher's voice cut through the static, sharp and laced with an urgency that was anything but routine.
"All units, all units. We have a 10-90 in progress at the 'Gilded Cage' gentlemen's club on 5th and Kane."
Vieri's chewing slowed, the half-chewed ball of bread and meat suddenly feeling like ash in his mouth. A 10-90. Riot. In Gotham, that could mean anything from a drunken brawl at a sports bar to a full-blown gang war. But the location… the Gilded Cage. That wasn't a dive bar. That was high-end sleaze, a place where politicians and mobsters rubbed shoulders, a place with serious security and a serious investment in staying off the radar. Something was wrong.
The dispatcher's voice continued, the calm professionalism straining, like a rope about to snap.
"Repeat, the establishment is under siege. Multiple armed female assailants."
Vieri put the rest of his sub down on the wax paper, his appetite completely gone. Female assailants. That could mean anything. A jilted lover with a pistol. A gang initiation. But it was the next words that made the cold, greasy food in his stomach turn to ice.
"Reports indicate the Queens of Crime are on-site. Requesting immediate backup."
The Queens of Crime.
The name hung in the air of the damp car, a poisonous cloud that choked the very atmosphere. Vieri's entire body went rigid. This wasn't small-time. This was freak business. This was something else entirely. This was a whole different level of Gotham's madness, a tier of chaos usually reserved for the likes of Joker or Penguin. This was the kind of call that got ambulances sent in multiples, that got cops sent to the hospital or the morgue. This was the kind of call that made widows and orphans.
He could picture it now, the scene unfolding in his mind's eye with horrifying clarity. The Gilded Cage, with its velvet drapes and gaudy gold trim, now a warzone. The terrified screams of patrons and dancers, the staccato pop of gunfire, the shattering of expensive liquor bottles. He knew Selina was in there, a blur of black leather and cracking whips, a phantom of grace and lethality. But she wasn't the one that made the cold dread creep up his spine. It was the other two. Harley Quinn, the unpredictable, giggling engine of pure chaos, her bat a whirlwind of manic destruction. And Ivy. Poison Ivy, with her hypnotic voice and pheromonal cloud that could turn a SWAT team into a lovesick mob. Ivy was the real nightmare. You could shoot a woman with a bat. You couldn't shoot a living nightmare that bloomed from the floorboards, that filled the air with a sweetness that made you want to tear off your own skin and offer it to her. She was the kind of monster that made you beg for a simple bullet.
They weren't just criminals. They were forces of nature, walking, talking disasters wrapped in the seductive, terrifying forms of women. They didn't just break the law; they mocked it, they perverted it, they tore it to shreds for their own amusement. Facing them wasn't police work; it was suicide. He could already feel the phantom ache of his bones, the chilling premonition of his skull caving in under the sickening *crack* of a baseball bat, or the horrifying, wet finality of being dragged screaming into a giant, Venus flytrap-like maw. He was just a man with a gun and a badge. What the hell was his gun going to do against a woman who could make plants eat people? He took a deliberate, slow bite of his sub. He could already taste the disappointment. He could feel the phantom ache in his muscles, the lingering memory of a night that felt a world away from this damp, miserable reality. Let them handle it. Let the bright-eyed heroes and the grizzled veterans earn their pensions. He just wanted to finish his shitty lunch in peace.
He kept eating, pointedly ignoring the radio as it squawked with more frantic updates. He was just about to take another bite when a set of flashing blue and red lights painted the interior of his car. A patrol car, identical to his own, screeched to a halt beside him, spraying his window with grimy rainwater. The passenger side window rolled down, revealing a fresh, eager face framed by a perfectly regulation-fit cap.
"Hey, Oronzo! You gonna let the girls have all the fun?" the cop yelled over the rain. It was Kingsley Glass. Vieri recognized him instantly. Same academy class. A guy who still believed in the oath, who still thought he could make a difference. His eyes were bright with the thrill of it, the prospect of real action.
Vieri glanced at the driver. Wiktor Owen. The other half of the duo. Wiktor had the same look, a hungry, hopeful intensity that Vieri had long since burned out of himself. They were good cops, solid guys, but they were still playing for a team that Vieri knew was rigged to lose.
"Finish your sandwich, grandpa!" Kingsley shouted with a grin. "We'll save you some of the action!"
Wiktor just gave him a sharp, determined nod from behind the wheel, a silent promise of camaraderie that Vieri felt like a physical blow. Then, with a squeal of tires and a spray of dirty water, they were gone, speeding towards the flashing lights in the distance.
Vieri sat there for a moment, the half-eaten sub feeling like lead in his stomach. He looked at the greasy wax paper, then at the distant strobes of red and blue painting the low-hanging clouds. He could finish his lunch. He could write another ticket. He could be a ghost.
But the image of their hopeful, stupid faces wouldn't leave him. They were running towards the fire because they still believed they could put it out. And him? He was just sitting in the rain, letting it burn.
With a sigh that felt like it came from the soles of his boots, Vieri crammed the rest of the sub into his mouth, chewed twice, and swallowed. He balled up the wax paper, threw it onto the passenger seat, and slammed the car into drive. The engine roared to life, a reluctant beast answering a master's call. He flicked on his own lights and siren, the wail a mournful cry in the Gotham rain, and pulled out into traffic, driving after them. Towards the fire.
The Gilded Cage was already a circus by the time he arrived. The street was a chaotic tapestry of flashing blue and red lights, reflecting off the rain-slicked asphalt in dizzying, strobing patterns. Patrol cars were angled haphazardly, forming a makeshift perimeter. A SWAT van was parked sideways, its rear doors agape, a grim portal to the chaos within. Officers were taking cover behind their car doors, rifles aimed at the club's ornate, shattered entrance. It was a scene of controlled panic, a fragile dam holding back a tidal wave of madness.
Vieri parked his car a block back, the siren dying with a pathetic whimper. He grabbed his riot helmet from the passenger seat, the cold plastic a familiar weight, and checked his sidearm. It felt like a pebble. He jogged towards the command post, a makeshift table set up behind the open door of a captain's sedan. A lieutenant with a face like a roadmap of bad decisions was barking orders into a radio.
"Oronzo! Where the hell have you been?" the lieutenant yelled, not even looking at him. "Bravo and Charlie teams are already inside. We've lost comms with them both. You're with Delta. You're going in to find them, find out what the hell is happening. You're not there to be a hero, you hear me? You're eyes and ears. Find the entry point, establish a fallback, and report back. Do not engage unless you have to."
Vieri just nodded, his face a mask of grim resignation. He was paired with two other uniforms, a pair of wide-eyed rookies who looked like they'd rather be anywhere else. They moved as a three-man stack, a textbook approach that felt absurdly flimsy against the horror that awaited them. The entrance to the Gilded Cage was a wreck of splintered wood and shattered glass. The air that billowed out was thick and cloying, a sickly-sweet scent of expensive perfume, spilled liquor, and something else... something earthy, green, and fundamentally wrong.
They stepped inside, and the world descended into a nightmare.
The main floor was a tableau of silent, screaming terror. Bodies littered the plush carpet, but not in the way Vieri was used to. There were no gunshot wounds, no pools of blood. Instead, cops and civilians alike were wrapped in thick, ropy green vines, their limbs pinned at unnatural angles. Their faces were contorted in silent agony, mouths open in screams that wouldn't come. The vines pulsed with a faint, bioluminescent light, and as Vieri watched in horror, he saw one of the constricted vines tighten around a cop's chest. The man's eyes bulged, his face turning a mottled purple as the plant slowly, methodically, squeezed the life from him. They weren't dead yet, but they were dying. It was a garden of slow, creeping death.
"Jesus Christ," one of the rookies whispered, his voice trembling.
"Stay tight," Vieri commanded, his voice low and steady, a rock in a river of fear. They moved deeper, their boots crunching on broken glass. The sound of a struggle echoed from the main stage. They crept towards it, weapons raised. On stage, two members of the SWAT team were locked in a desperate, bizarre struggle. They weren't fighting the Queens; they were fighting each other. Their movements were jerky, unnatural, their eyes glazed over with a vacant, pinkish haze. It was like watching two marionettes with their strings tangled, each trying to kill the other for no reason.
"Ivy's got them," Vieri muttered. "Pheromones. Don't breathe any deeper than you have to."
As if on cue, a high-pitched, gleeful giggle echoed from above. "Ooh! More puppets for the show!"
Vieri looked up. Harley Quinn, clad in her jester's outfit, was perched on a lighting rig like a demented gargoyle. She swung down on a thick electrical cable, landing in a cright behind the two rookies with a soft *thump*. They didn't even have time to turn.
There were two sickening, wet *thwacks*. The sound of a wooden bat connecting with a human skull. Both cops dropped without a sound, their helmets offering no protection against the sheer, brutal force. They were down, maybe dead, maybe not. It didn't matter. They were out of the fight.
Vieri spun around, his own baton already in his hand, the metal extending with a sharp *snikt*. Harley was on him in an instant, a whirlwind of manic energy. Her bat was a blur, swinging for his head. He ducked under it, the air whistling past his ear. He countered with a jab of his baton towards her ribs, but she twisted with an inhuman agility, her movements a chaotic dance of violence. She was fast, impossibly fast, but she was all offense, no defense. She relied on her speed and unpredictability, a whirlwind of wild swings and giggling attacks.
Vieri was the opposite. He was a wall. He didn't swing wildly. He blocked, he parried, he waited. Every time she overcommitted, he was there, his baton a sharp, painful sting against her arms, her legs, her side. He was frustrating her. He was weathering her storm, and she didn't like it. Her giggles turned to snarls of frustration.
"Stand still, you big meanie!" she shrieked, lunging at him.
He sidestepped, tripping her with a well-placed foot. She went down in a heap, but was back up in a second, her eyes burning with a manic fury. She was strong, but she was sloppy. He was wearing her down, methodically, patiently. He saw an opening, a wide, telegraphed swing, and he moved in to disarm her, to end this.
And then his leg was caught.
It wasn't a trip. It was a capture. A thick, green vine, as thick as his arm, shot out from a crack in the floorboards and wrapped around his ankle with the speed of a striking snake. He stumbled, his balance thrown. Before he could react, more vines erupted from the floor, snaking around his other leg, his waist, his arms. They coiled over his body, pulling him taut, lifting him a few inches off the ground. He struggled, his muscles straining, but it was like fighting a steel cable. He was immobilized.
"Thanks, Red!" Harley chirped, skipping over to him, her bat resting on her shoulder. "Told ya I could handle him."
But Ivy's voice, a low, melodic purr, echoed from the shadows of the stage, laced with confusion. "That's... odd."
Harley stopped, tilting her head. "What's odd, Pammy? He's all wrapped up like a present."
"The plants..." Ivy's voice was a whisper of intrigue. "They're not... crushing him. They're just holding him. They recognize his biology, but they aren't classifying him as a threat. They're... confused."
Vieri felt it too. The grip of the vines was firm, unyielding, but it wasn't the bone-crushing constriction he'd seen on the other cops. It was just... holding him. It was a bizarre, terrifying moment of stillness in the heart of the storm.
"Bring him to me, Harley," Ivy commanded, her voice now sharp with scientific curiosity. "I want to see what makes this one so different."
Harley shrugged, grabbed the vine wrapped around his chest, and started dragging him deeper into the club, towards the shadows from which Ivy's voice emanated. Vieri was a prisoner, a captive specimen, being dragged into the belly of the beast, his bizarre immunity making him not a savior, but a prize.
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