Warnings: drugs, smoking, drinking, swearing
I'm sorry that this is late. I still do plan on updating every Friday or Saturday. Also, this is gonna go kinda fast since I'm trying to hop right into the good stuff that came from the original The Ugliest Trait
Word count: about 2430
Chapter 2: A Night To Remember part 2/3
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"Ugh, traffic is terrible," your mother groaned as she was forced to listen to all of the profanities and horn honking just beyond the car's windows. Her fingers tightened and twitched around the steering wheel when she thought about all this trouble she had to go to just to retrieve your father. "Mommy is definitely going to kick your daddy's ass! Yes she is!" she sung bittersweetly to you, though you couldn't even see her face.
You were strapped into your carrier facing the backseat since any other way would be a threat to your wellbeing. You hadn't even heard what she had been saying to you since you were far too busy watching a silhouette in the shape of a hand reach out for your little foot. The shadowy limb failed to do so as you grabbed your feet and made an attempt to fit your toes in your mouth. Instead of trying again, it clawed at the leather seat and allowed a thick black substance to ooze from the newly made opening.
Completely oblivious to the horrific scene occurring just behind her, your mother honked the horn at a silver 1998 Porsche Boxster with tinted windows. The luxury vehicle only honked back, the driver clearly believed that they were in the right. She snarled some nasty words and sped up to cut around another car, just to end up side by side with whatever rich asshole drive the Porsche. She rolled down the window and screamed profanities at the silver car until the light turned green.
~
"There is nothing more melodious to my ears than a woman's screams." Bruce's voice was flat and just dripping with sarcasm. Alfred chuckled from his spot in the Porsche's driver's seat and watched with amusement as the woman flipped them off one last time before driving off at the speed of light. His smile faltered just a bit when he saw her Baby On Board sticker just in the back window. "Unfit parent," he criticized scornfully.
Bruce planted his cheek on his balled up fist as he stared at her car's license plate. "Could call her in later," he said in an indistinct manner.
"I'm sure she's just had a bad day-- though she really shouldn't be driving like that with a child in the vehicle."
"Mm," Bruce hummed, nodding his head for no specific reason. His eyes wandered back out of the dark window to see the streetlights go by in a blur. It was already around 9 o'clock, long after the time that Alfred told the guests to arrive to one of the biggest clubs in the city: Charolette's. It was often booked for galas, balls, huge quinceañeras, sweet sixteen parties, etc. And it was all run by a widow and her teenage daughter.
"Hey, Alfred?"
"Yes?"
"Don't you feel like tonight is going to be big?"
The older man puffed his chest out with a bit of pride. "I sure hope so. I've spent plenty of time preparing this since it was obvious you didn't care about your birthday this year..." He gave Bruce a pointed look. "And the last, and the year before that."
Bruce shook his head, shifting in his seat to get comfortable again. "No, no, I mean... things have been sailing a bit too smoothly. I just, have a gut feeling that things will crash and burn; And it's going to be one hell of a crash."
Alfred didn't want to admit it, but he felt the same way. Everything was a little too subtle, and calm, and going their way for it to be another day in Gotham. In the pit of his stomach, he felt like a change was going to happen that night, and it wasn't going to be something small. Instead of vocalizing his thoughts, Alfred frowned deeply and kept a piece of his mind to himself.
No more words were exchanged between the two, as there was nothing else to be said. Bruce tilted his head back against the seat and rested his eyes as he listened to the somewhat soothing sound of friction between the road and the car's four tires.
~
"Ay, ay!"
Your father cursed beneath his breath after pulling up to the old mattress warehouse at the docks. Bonfires littered the area, along with whores and thugs that stood in large groups either gambling, exchanging greatly exaggerated experiences in the past week, or passing around a blunt. Your dad didn't want to be here, not anymore, but he had to or else you and your mother's lives would be on the line. He stepped out of the car and began to approach the tall man that stood just outside of the warehouse.
"Marcel," he hollered back, grasping the tattered shoebox that he kept hidden.
"F/N! My boy, I haven't seen ya in a minute," the dark skinned male greeted as he met your father halfway. "How's M/N and Y/N?"
"Um, they're--"
"Cool, cool!" Roughly patting his back, he forced him to start heading inside. Marcel draped an arm around his shoulders and gave a nod to one of the women loitering along the building. She nodded in return and pushed herself off of the wall, strutting away with determination in her eyes.
On the inside, there was nothing but clouds of marijuana and Newports amongst stoned people of all ages from teens to aged adults. There was a couple of dirtied mattresses against the walls, some even on the ground with half dressed women slumped upon them. Some plastic chairs were flipped and missing legs here and there. Tables were filled with shady looking men as they played dominoes, slamming the pieces on the surface. But what really stood out was the man blinged out to the max, surrounded by armed women that passed a colorful glass pipe.
He sat perched on a platform that came from when the second floor used to exist, hanging above all of activities, his legs dangling with the latest Jordan's on his feet. His pale skin was littered with tattoos of sayings in mostly Chinese and random scriptures from Bible. He had dark eyes that were hidden by the NY baseball cap and low cut curly hair. This man watched Marcel and your father walk right up to the center of the warehouse and look up at him expectantly.
He loomed over them silently for what seemed like forever before smiling a yellow toothy grin. "I'm glad you could make it, F/N," he called out through laughter. "I was thinkin' I was gonna have to pull up to your crib, fam. Put a hole your girl, ya know?"
Your father didn't acknowledge his words, and set the shoebox on the dirty floor. "Look, Jamal," he sighed a bit shakily. "I got all of it in the box. I don't want to be apart of this anymore, man."
Jamal rolled his eyes and held his hand up. A red haired woman no older than 23 removed the cigarette from between her cherry red lips and gave it over to him. He quickly brought it to his mouth and sucked on it a couple of times, just to exhale smoke through his nostrils. When he was done, he threw it down without even caring where it landed. "So you just leaving us like that?"
"Just like that. I've done everything you asked, I've been loyal to... this, and I'm tired."
"Oh, you tired?"
"I am."
"You tired, boss?"
"Hell yeah, man. M/N is tired of it, too. She knows what I'm doing and has been getting on me about it. We have a little girl we need to take care off, Jamal. I don't want her exposed to this lifestyle."
Jamal let out another hearty laugh and nearly fell off of the high platform. The women standing behind him in short shorts and tight skirts giggled along with him, only hyping him to laugh more. Your father looked over at Marcel who looked like he was concentrating for some reason. "Did I say something funny?" he whispered, breaking him from his trance. Marcel blinked and shook his head. "Nah man. He's just tripping."
"Let me get this straight--" Jamal forced himself to calm down. "You tryna leave the gang cause you all soft and shit for your family?" He got a nod in response and looked down at Marcel, his right hand man, who was awfully quiet. "Mark, you hear this lil' bitch?" he asked rhetorically, pointing a slender finger down at your father. Marcel laughed uncomfortably, "Yeah, I hear him."
"You sure? Cause it look like you got a lot on your mental."
"Yeah, nah. I, I'm good."
"Anyway!" Jamal clapped his hands together and rubbed them in slow motion, deviously eyeing your father as the wheels turned in his head. "Since you want to leave and shit, I need one last thing from you," he offered, pulling himself to stand up on the platform and make his way towards the spiralling rusty stairs that lead back to the first floor. He wasn't even halfway down when Marcel turned his head around and searched the warehouse for something, someone even. Your father was about to question him, only to have Jamal start talking again.
"You're gonna go through with the task that I called you here for. I don't know why in the blue fuck it took you hours to get here, but I'ma just assume you was getting it on with your girl at home-- 'cause then I'd totally understand." He stopped right in front of your father and Marcel, his head low enough for his hat to conceal his face. "I need you to gut someone."
"What, so I can get arrested? I just said I have a family, Jamal."
"Say less. You'll be killing the mole."
"Mole? What mole?"
"Marcel, would you like to explain who the mole is to this jackass?" Jamal asked bittersweetly, clapping the man's shoulder rather harshly. Marcel nearly stopped breathing as a look of faux confusion crossed his face. "Man, what are you talking about? Who are you talking about?"
"Quit chattin'," Jamal growled through clenched teeth as he suddenly pulled out a small handgun from his back pocket. He pressed the barrel against Marcel's forehead and patted his cheek with his freehand. "Go ahead. Tell F/N about the recorder taped to your chest and the fuzz whisperin' in ya ear."
~
Bruce smiled painfully as yet another woman waltzed up to him with a kittenish look, hoping to wish him a happy birthday in his bed. He tried pretending not to see her as he brought his empty glass of champagne to his mouth and pretended to drink the rest of its contents in one gulp. He avoided eye contact as he hurriedly made his way over to the table of various drinks and fancy foods that he didn't particularly crave. The woman frowned and tried maneuvering through the obstacles of other guests, but eventually gave up as he ended up getting pulled away by a young woman with curly black hair that was pulled into two buns on either side of her head. She wore a pink hot pink ball gown that had a short train trailing behind her on the floor and plenty of diamonds-- she would have been the belle of the ball if it weren't a birthday celebration.
The billionaire barely blinked before he found himself in the darkest corner of the room with a familiar face in front of him. "You're here," she said with a raised brow. Bruce rolled his eyes and leaned against the pillar beside them. "This is my party, Maryjane. I believe that was my line since you are supposed to be in Italy," he said in response. He crossed his arms and prepared for a lengthy conversation with the popular ballerina that always came to play when they met up. He was forced to keep an eye on the woman as the Dark Knight (before one of her recitals in Gotham's theatre while she was on world tour) when she received death and kidnapping threats from several anonymous people that turned out to be a warning from a couple of Joker's goons. It turned out that the Clown Prince of Crime planned on wiping out everyone in the theatre without escaping Arkham. After that whole fiasco, Maryjane somehow pieced together who the Batman was when she saw Bruce turned up missing from his seat when he appeared, then came back once the Bat vanished. They kept in touch from time to time, maintaining a friendship of sorts even though Bruce claimed it was solely for the purpose of making sure she didn't tell anyone his secret.
"No, I mean you're here and not out there," she rephrased quietly. Her dark brown eyes met his with a look of worry in them and she suddenly felt her brown skin crawling. Her short nails gently scratched at her bare arms before Bruce carefully grabbed her wrists. "Why do you say that?" he asked, murmuring below the music and soft chattering. Maryjane wormed her hands from his grasp and brushed a loose curl from her forehead as she looked over her shoulder. She quickly turned back towards him and pulled him down to her height. He nearly stumbled, but maintained his composure as she leaned in close to his ear.
"At the docks, something is going to happen tonight and the police won't be any help. Please," she whispered pleadingly. "Please, you have to be there."
Bruce pulled her away by the waist, "You need to tell me what's going on. How do you know any of this?"
Maryjane slapped his hands away and sped walked towards the exit as fast as her heels would allow her, ignoring his calls. Bruce watched as she slipped past the bouncer and almost fell down the stairs trying to hurry away from the place. He was surprised she didn't leave behind a glass slipper for him to find, honestly. Bruce shook his head and searched the club for Alfred and possibly whomever Maryjane was looking out for so he could get some answers before he had to leave.