Look now upon what remains of the once-powerful Falcone Empire: a shitty, back-alley drug dealer, fucked up on his own product, snoring on the floor of his one-bed apartment in the Narrows, too wasted to collect rent money. Kitrina nudged him with her foot and he groaned slightly. She sighed. Mario Falcone, her uncle, was at one time a powerful and feared man in Gotham, well-known as The Roman's chief enforcer, 6'5" and 4' wide, all muscle underneath an expensive suit, brutality wrapped in fancy silks and cashmere. Now he was a loser, terrorizing tenants for inflated rent payments in a backwater apartment block in the bad end of the Narrows, which was one big bad end already. It was all that remained of Carmine's legacy after the year of the Long Halloween, a year that saw the end of the mob era in Gotham, and the birth of a new, crazier, somehow even-more-violent era. Carmine had been killed. Her father, Alberto, had been locked up to rot in Arkham. And her aunt, Sofia, fled to Bludhaven, dropping off the face of the Earth in the process. This building was all Mario had been able to secure of the Falcone assets as the mafia disintegrated beneath the cops and the Bat.

Kitrina nudged Mario again, this time harder, and with the pointy end of her shoe. He woke with a start, growling and cradling his ribs. Drool leaked from the corner of his mouth.
"Not dead then, dear uncle." She spat at him, walking toward the door of the apartment.
"Shut the fuck up, brat." He spat back, picking himself up off the floor. "Do that again and you're gonna lose that leg."
"If you break my leg, who are you gonna send knocking on doors?"
"I pass 50 dropheads going to grab the fuckin' mail who could do what I ask better than you - and without that shitty sense of entitlement you're clingin' on to."
"You ain't stepped out this door in two weeks - fuck you know about grabbin' the mail?" Kitrina replied, pulling on shoes and taking her coat from off the back of the door.
"Fuck you, bitch. You're an ungrateful lil' stray." He lumbered to the kitchen, clumsily seizing a glass from the cupboard and filling it with water from the tap before draining it dry and filling it again, sipping slowly. "Where d'ya think you're goin?"

To his credit, Mario was on the money with the stray comment. Born the illegitimate daughter to the un-favourite son, Alberto Falcone didn't pass for much of a father, even before his turn to maniacal homicide as the so-called 'Holiday Killer'. Her mother, a woman who Kitrina knew was named 'Anna de Luca' but knew very little else, had been...'disappeared', at some point before getting the opportunity to offer Kitrina a passable upbringing. Passed around various nannies and au pairs, and neglected by everyone except Carmine, who doted on her the way only a devoted Italian grandfather could, she grew up unwanted and very aware of it. When Carmine was shot, and Alberto incarcerated, any goodwill remaining for her was summarily severed, and now she remained homed only by virtue of child benefit payments and a lie about her age. And because Mario could send her out on drug drops and rent collections while he dozed on the sofa (or the floor), drunk and doped up.

"To my job, Uncle Mario, if you even know what a job is."
"What fuckin' job you got? Pushin' favours?" He jabbed, sneering at her nastily. Kitrina just flipped the bird.
"Wayne Enterprises, if you must know. That outreach shit Wayne preaches on the billboards. Entry-level jobs guaranteed! If you keep a clean record..."
Mario launched forward from the kitchen, outrage streaked across his face.
"Wayne?! They're going to figure out we're frauding the fucking benefits you stupid cow!" He shouted, incensed. Kitrina recoiled just from the wave of body odour and the stink of his breath.
"No they're not," she said, forcefully enough to stop Mario in his tracks and make him retreat back to the sofa, "because I gave them faked papers. To Waynetech I'm 'Holly Robinson', and Holly hasn't got the fucking name 'Falcone' that might raise a few fuckin' eyebrows."
"Whatever." Mario said, in a tone that Kitrina had come to recognise was the closest thing he would ever get to praise.
She didn't say anything else; the conversation had already gone on long enough before Mario had even opened his mouth in the first place, and she didn't care to spend any extra effort - mentally or physically - entertaining his abuse. She left, crossing her fingers as she trotted down the stairs, hoping that he'd die before she got back.

---

Kitrina's job at Wayne Enterprises was stable, (proportionally) well-paid, offered numerous benefits, came with flexible working patterns, and provided welcoming, no-questions, judgement-free access to life coaching, healthcare support tools, and educational materials.

It was also mind-numbingly boring. For most of her shift, Kitrina moved numbers from one spreadsheet into another spreadsheet; occasionally, she got to look at the numbers and assess if there were any kind of significant pattern or grouping; and on her most exciting days, she might even be allowed to theorize - a word that here meant 'guess at, but in a way that used appropriate corporate buzzwords' - what the numbers meant.
Money going in all kinds of directions except into my pocket, is what they meant, she thought to herself bitterly. But she wasn't here for entertainment, nor was she here for the generous benefits package. She wasn't even here to gawk at big Bruce himself, when he sauntered in smelling of expensive cologne and cheap breakfast on his weekly PR puff, with bags under his eyes and a stare-through-you gaze no multi-billionaire city prince should rightfully sport. She was here for a score, something to put her back on the up-and-up - something to finally earn that piece of the empire she'd been denied by her idiot family (rest in piece, nonno) and the freaks on the street.

To that end she had initially tried to get around firewalls and passwords and other techy cybersec blockades she didn't really understand, digging for dirt to blackmail with; ideally a board member, someone who could bolster her paycheck and reduce her hours and, eventually, be buried (figuratively or literally, she didn't really mind) in pursuit of grander plans. Hell, maybe even Wayne himself - she wouldn't mind taking one of his 50-something rooms at the manor - and she was sure that butler could fix some mean cocktails. She knew it had been an ambitious goal - Wayne Enterprises were notoriously cagey about their data and it was well-known that they were, perhaps, one of the most serious corporations in America on the fronts of cyber-security - but brash arrogance had convinced her that surely it wasn't as hard as all that, and a suitable amount of clicking around would eventually yield some manner of result.

Well, far-in-excess of a suitable amount of clicking around had yielded flat nothing, except for a quizzical eyebrow from her pod lead when she'd asked a distinctly non-relevant question. Some lipstick and an extra-tight blouse had been needed the next day to smooth that particular bump over - and that, in turn, had opened the avenue to a different direction of assault, one Kitrina had heard be labelled 'social engineering' in her compliance courses during initiation, but that she preferred to think of as 'harmless flirting'.

Well, harmless to her, at least. Perhaps not-so-harmless to her pod lead's marriage.

"Hollywood!" He said, sidling up to her desk wearing a shirt with one-too-many buttons undone and cologne with one-too-many dabs done up. An irritating pet-name he'd developed for her, born from a witless remark about how '[she's] so gorgeous [she] should be in movies', but a necessary evil. She smiled, all teeth, nothing in the eyes.

"Hiya Tom!" She replied, schmoozing a bit, subtly leaning toward him in a way that wasn't outwardly noticeable, but gave the unconscious impression of gravitation. He sneaked a look down her blouse that he thought she didn't notice. She did. She pretended not to. It was all part of the game - and who did he think purposefully left the top button undone? "Board keepin' you busy, sweetheart?"

Tom nodded thoughtfully, in a way that he thought made him look noble. Of course he didn't answer to the board; he didn't answer to anyone who answered to the board; he didn't even answer to anybody who answered to those that answered to the board. But it made him feel good that 'Holly' thought he did, that she thought he could be that important. His dad never thought he'd be important. His wife never called him 'sweetheart'.

"As ever, Hollywood, as ever - you know what it's like." Kitrina's turn to nod. She didn't know what it was like. Neither did Tom. "But a bit of leeway, since we're nearing the end of peak, you know? Through the worst of it, and all that."

"For sure, Tommy. I seen how hard you been working. Keeping the team together single-handedly." She smiled, meeting his gaze. He broke eye contact first, because he was ashamed of his extra-marital fantasies, but not ashamed enough that he didn't steal a second glance at Kitrina's chest.

"Well, thank you for saying so, Holly. It's nice to know someone appreciates my hard work when they see it." Tom stood up, wheeling his chair back to his desk and he talked, and then returning to lean beside Holly's station, looming over her. "Anyway, what I wanted to say was I noticed how hard you've been working-" Kitrina stifled a laugh, masking it as a humbled clearing-of-the-throat, "and I thought I might show you how much I appreciate you - maybe by taking you out to dinner? Tonight? After work? Chez Vouz?"

Holly smiled, this time in a sympathetic manner that immediately deflated Tom. There was a sense of relief between them - they both knew Tom couldn't afford Chez Vouz - but ultimately this rejection had been Holly's endgame from the start. In an act of peace-making, she stood and hugged Tom, carefully swiping his Tech Lead privilege-level ID as she did so.
"Oh Tom, that's very kind of you - and I'd love to spend a bit more time outside of work getting to know you - but tonight's not great. I gotta work late, and then my gran-mama needs me home. Rain-check me - drinks next weekend maybe?"

Tom put on his best brave smile and nodded, but didn't say anything else before slinking away, walking awkwardly to hide his semi-chub.

---

The rest of the working day passed by mercifully quickly; numbers were crunched, figures were punched, and Kitrina shadowed a few meetings, sitting quietly in the corner scanning faces, body language, seeing who was looking back. Eventually, the clock rolled around to 5PM, and screens started switching off and laptops went into bags and Kitrina started her performance, dutifully opening several worksheets and a database and noting down specific figures. A few differently-coloured pens, some circling, a couple lines drawn connecting this number to that - whatever she was working on looked important, and no one wanted to question her lest they get lasso'd by a plea for help. Tom, for his part, did check in, but it was less to see if Kitrina needed help and more to see if that dinner offer had any better success as an invite to the bar. No, it didn't, and oh by the way have you seen my access pass? No, she hadn't, and she was sure it would turn up. Never mind, eh? Monday's problem. Polite chuckle. Tom left.

And then the floor was empty. A soft whir came from around the corner where the Friday janitor was buffing the floors, but he didn't take the Friday janitor job for its social benefits, so he and Kitrina both understood to leave the other alone. She wasn't spending long here anyway; she waved coyly to the janitor as she passed, heading toward the toilets - but then doubled back on herself, ducking toward the elevator, riding it down to the lowest level.

Waynetech Research & Development.

Practically a blacksite.

She better find something down here, or she was royally screwed.

With a soft, completely non-ominous ding, the lift came to a gentle halt, and the doors in front of her slid open without fanfare. Stretched out beyond the elevator shaft lay Waynetech R&D, and for all that Kitrina was aware of what kind of research was done down here, the department existed without any kind of aplomb or grandeur. It was just...sterile. White tile and fluorescent lighting, lots of glass walls and computer stations. The lift opened into a pseudo-lobby, the only ways out of which were either back up the elevator, or through a large set of sliding doors that required specific access to open. Access that Kitrina really hoped Tom had, or she really would have to take that rain-check visit to the bar.

The moment of truth was very much anti-climactic; rather than any grand entrance or klaxons blaring, she simply swiped Tom's ID card over the reader on the wall, which flashed a green light and beeped a very soft beep, and then the sliding doors gently parted, letting Kitrina pass through them before gently sliding shut once more. She was almost disappointed; grand larceny, she felt, should happen with more fanfare.

Instead, she stepped deeper into the room, releasing a breath she hadn't realized she was holding. It was quiet, and the warehouse-like space stretched away in front of her, concrete pillars dotting the landscape, interspersed with workbenches, computer desks, and occasional racks of steel shelving, with drawers that Kitrina supposed were electromagnetically sealed. The odd filing cabinet was the final touch, dist accumulating atop their flat surfaces and in the grooves, indicating a long-passed migration to digital-only records, which was Kitrina's first planned port of call. She chose a desk at random, pocketing Tom's ID and checking the time. She needed to be quick, and clean, and quiet. In and out.

The computer whirred to life as she wiggled the mouse, the on-standby monitor lighting up quickly. Locked, obviously, she had anticipated this, but that's what the irrelevant, eyebrow-raising question that started the whole shebang came into play; she typed "SYSADMIN OVERRIDE" into the user field on the login screen, and suppressed a smug giggle when she hit enter and a small reader-drive, with the perfect, finger-shaped print-scanner, popped out of the front of the PC unit.

Kitrina rummaged in her bag and retrieved a latex glove, some moisturizing spray, and a well-prepared sellotape print sample she'd collected while dutifully tidying up the mugs left scattered after an inter-departmental standup meeting with key members of the board, that she'd had to dress up extra nice and play extra coy for, in order to extract the login overrides of the Lead Research Strategy Administrator. Thanks, Marty. I hope your resume is up to snuff.

The computer booted a sparse, minimal database display, and Kit suddenly found herself bored just from glancing at the blinking, matrix-green, ASCII-esque format. There were project labels and codename listed one after the other, with nothing to distinguish what each was or what it pertained to or even who was involved; just a long list of context-less words, each provided with a date, some initials, and a status indicator. She scrolled mindlessly for a couple minutes, the database whirring past glazed eyes; she began to envision what a legitimate data-entry career at Wayne Enterprises might look like, and how long she might last until the inevitable suicide, when suddenly a break in the monotony drew her attention. Project KASHA; initials redacted. Date redacted. Status redacted. She scrolled down until the project was highlighted, and hit enter. Rather than specs, a description, or even a simple 'access denied' alert, she instead got what seemed to be some manner of personal note.

Received request for closure of this project. All records and specs have been purged from database as instructed, but I am leaving this addendum for posterity and audit purposes.

Personal note: [REDACTED] said black ops contract for this one fell through when I asked. But that doesn't explain why Mr. [REDACTED] came down here personally to discontinue it. It was requested all project-related work be destroyed, but we made some accomplishments here. Final prototype has been secured and locked up in 34F-A. It'll never see the light of day, but that doesn't mean we can't be proud of what we can achieve down here. A shame to erase all evidence.

Okay, you got me curious, Kit thought, and closed the note and the database down before switching off the computer and running through racking in search of 34F-A. Whatever Project KASHA was, it seemed like it was exactly what she'd been looking for - something meaty, something that implicated the company, and most serendipitous of all, something that appeared to involve old Brucey-boy himself. She almost skipped along the rows, skimming her fingers across labeled shelves and locked drawers until finally, she found herself at 34F-A, and staring at an unassuming steel drawer, with a single keyhole to the side of the handle. 'Secured', huh? Must have different definitions...she mused, as a single bobby pin and some deft finger-work picked the lock pin-by-pin, until she elicited an oh-so-satisfying *click*, and the drawer pulled smoothly open to reveal an unremarkable, black, heavy-set attache case.

The moment felt somewhat anticlimactic. She had no better leads, and no real time to scrounge one up regardless, so here it was: practical but boring, the briefcase forbidden by God. Or Bruce Wayne at least, and in Gotham there wasn't much of a difference. She grasped the handle firmly in one hand and lifted, expecting resistance - some kind of fancy magnetic lock, or wire-bolt security. There was none; the case simply came out of the drawer.

And then the klaxons went off.