Jazz is a damn good psychologist, but being liminal, she can feel the curses layered in Gotham trying to drive her mad. Oh, well, time to fight the aggression out in a fight club...is that Nightwing?
Hello, I had this saved in my drafts for a long time and got inspired today. I finished this in one afternoon, so there will be mistakes. I tried to focus on atmosphere this time, and hopefully it came out well.
Jazz dodged the punch coming her way.
The underground arena she was in smelled of cheap beer, stale cigarette smoke, and blood. A spotlight bathed the arena and its fighters. The cage surrounding the arena was brown and rusty with age, giving the audience the illusion of safety. The audience was a faceless blur. The spectators sat in dark seats, the only way the rich and those who sought the thrill of illegal fights could protect themselves. Not that it kept Jazz from seeing the people seated and watching her fight for her life. It was loud, even louder with her supernatural hearing. The bloodthirsty crowd of spectators made bets and yelled for raw violence, even death.Â
The air was thick, making it hard to breathe. Not that the two fighters circling each other noticed. Sweat slid down her face. She hoped none would fall into her eyes. The sting would be counterproductive to her efforts.
She went low and swept her feet toward her opponent. The tall, muscular man roared as he went down from Jazzâs sweep. He didnât stay down.
With speed that belied his size, he quickly got up and came straight for Jazz. She didnât panic; instead, she pivoted left and delivered a swift punch to his solar plexus, knocking him off balance and leaving him gasping. She knew from experience that his diaphragm was spasming and locking up.
She didnât hesitate. As soon as he fell, she kicked him on the chin. Two teeth flew out of his mouth, looking like tic-tacs.
âKill him! Kill him! Kill him!â
Jazz ignored the chanting crowd. She wasnât here to take lives, just to blow off some steam. Though to be fair, trying to fight the violence in her was just as hard as fighting against her opponent. Still, she refused to take a life.
Jazz stared at the man, watching his twitches, making sure he wouldnât get back up. She stayed tense and battle-ready.
After thirty seconds, the ârefereeâ came up and took Jazzâs wrist, bringing her arm up.
âWe have a winner! Give it up for the Red Queen!â
Jazz heard a mixture of applause from those who had bet on her and boos from those who had lost their money or were pissed she hadnât finished off her opponent.
Instead, she smiled; her teeth were stained red with blood.
Harleen Quinzel still hadnât said anything. The ticking of the clock sounded loud. Dr. Jasmine Fenton, psychologist at Arkham, fought the urge to tap her pen against the notepad. It wouldnât be good to do so and could be perceived as impatience.
She didnât want her patient to think she was being hurried to answer the question.
A few more minutes passed in silence. Jazz closed her notepad and put it down.
âLetâs leave it here. I think weâve made progress today.â
Harleen nodded. âYes, thanks, doc.â
âDr. Quinzel, is there anything you would like to say before I end our session?â
Harleen smiled. Dr. Fenton was the only doctor who actually respected her patients and used their titles. It was appreciated by those who werenât too far gone.
âNo, doc, everything is fine. I want to get better and leave soon, but I recognize society isnât going to accept me with open arms anytime soon.â
âWell, youâre trying, and I see that. Donât think about what society would say; keep working on yourself. Not for anyone else but for your own growth and fulfillment.â
âThanks, doc. Iâll think about the question some more.â Harleen said.
âThatâs all I ask.â
Jazz smiled. She got up and knocked on the door. Two security guards entered to escort Harleen away, and left with grim expressions.
Jazz sighed as soon as she was alone. She ignored the voices penetrating her thoughts and turned on her computer to put the notes she had taken on Harleen. She got so lost in doing her job that she didnât notice black smoke rising from the floor until she felt it choke her.
She gasped but didnât panic.
Jazz could feel the madness rising up, trying to overwhelm her. The curses that had been layered in Gotham were more prominent in Arkham, making it easier to lose oneself to madness. Sucked to be the curses, Jazz wasnât a typical person. She had fought ghosts before; what were little insignificant spells?
She closed her eyes and imagined a force field around her. With a shriek, the black smoke disappeared.
âNice try, but you wonât get to me that easily.â
She sighed again. The lingering sensations of aggression and madness penetrated her office. Well, after that little interaction, a visit to her favorite fight club seemed to be in order.
âWant to make big bucks?â
Jazz looked up to see Mr. Jefferson come up to her. He was a short, rotund, bolding man. Once upon a time, he couldâve had muscles and been considered stout. Now, with his big belly swaying in front of him, he would be considered someone who let themselves go.
Jazz ignored the man and tied her shoelaces. He gave off smarmy vibes, and she did not want to associate with him.
âCâmon, Red Queen, Iâm here to make you rich.â
âMr. Jefferson, I have never once taken money from these matches. What makes you think today will be different?â
He smiled and took out a cigar. He cut the end piece and lit it up. The smoke rose up into the air, getting trapped in the yellow and brown ceiling of the locker room. She vaguely wondered if the discoloration was water damage or from nicotine. Maybe both.
âListen. A very important fighter will be put in the arena today. We want you to fight him and dispose of him, permanently.â
âI refuse. I have never taken a life. Iâm not going to start just because youâre on a power trip. Besides, when I signed up, I specifically said I wasnât going to kill. Ask one of the other fighters to do it if youâre that desperate.â
âCanât. Youâre our best fighter. You have the best chance of beating this guy.â
Jazz closed her locker with more force than necessary and shoulder bumped the man. That set him off.
âListen, missy, you best do what I say and donât even dare to go against what I want. I rule you. I started ruling you the moment you entered my club to fight. I can make your life a living hell; even make it so you no longer have one. Now, I was offering you money as a courtesy. Youâre going to fight this man, kill him, and now you lose the money. Do this or else.â
âOr else what?â she asked in a low tone. She let her aura permeate the locker room. Mr. Jefferson started sweating bullets; his expression turned fearful. She could see his Adamâs apple trembling. Jazz smiled with a little too many teeth.
Was it an illusion, or did they seem sharper and longer than normal teeth?
Mr. Jefferson gulped. He said nothing else and left. He could come up with another plan.
Jazz watched as the short, fat man scurried away. She had a bad feeling. Should she leave?
The aggression simmering under her skin said no, urging her to stay. Besides, she could deal with whatever was thrown at her.
Nightwing was thrown at her feet.
She drew back from the costumed vigilante. What the hell?
She looked into the crowd and saw Mr. Jefferson light up another cigar. He had ignored her.
âWe have a special treat today,â the announcer said, âTonight and tonight only, our very own Red Queen and Nightwing will fight to the death.â
Jazz could feel the crowdâs usual bloodlust ricochet up tenfold as soon as the announcer said that.
Mr. Jefferson smiled. The Red Queen had been a pain in his ass. Not at first; at first, she was making them money. Now, though, he was losing customers during her fights. They found it boring that their best fighter refused to take her opponentsâ lives. She had to either start killing or be let go one way or another.
Things were made harder now that the bats had found out about his fight club. They had been lucky enough to capture Nightwing. Now, he would either die by the Red Queenâs hand, or he could kill them both if she refused to do so. A win-win.
His smirk grew as he watched money trade hands. He was about to get richer.
Nightwing had been careless. He groaned as he got up. He saw two red-haired women in a fighting stanceâno, it was just his double vision. There was only one woman. Well, that made things a little easier.
He went to get his escrima sticks, only to find they were gone.
Well, he didnât need them to kick ass, anyway.
The spotlight shone on both of them. Now, Nightwing had grown up in a circus; he was a showman by nature and knew how to work a crowd. This one wasnât here to see clowns and acrobats.
They were here to see blood spill. To see death.
Nightwing gritted his teeth. He would have to fight the woman and find a way to prolong the fight and wait for his family to find him.
They knew what he was investigating and knew his general location, so he had no doubts they would find him. Besides, he patted his chest and felt a small circle, his GPS tracker was still on him.
A whistle sounded. The bloodthirsty atmosphere reached a crescendo, and the woman went straight for him.
He dodged the first kick but couldn't stop her punch to his face. He moved his jaw and ignored the pain.
They were in close quarters, throwing punches left and right. Neither of them seemed to be able to get the upper hand. At one point, they ended up grappling with each other. He yelped at the feel of teeth digging into his arm. She squirmed out of the hold and put her hands around his waist before lifting him clean off the floor and throwing him over her head. How did this tiny woman have so much strength?
She had to be meta, either that, or she was on some serious steroids.
While he was down, she picked him up again by his costumeâs shirt and whispered in his ear.
âIâll take the fall this time, punch and kick to your heartâs content. I imagine your associates are on their way soon.â
Before he could process that, she punched him square in the jaw.
That was taking the fall?
Blood spilled from his mouth. She was bouncing, with a boxer's stance. Hadnât she just been using a karate stance? Well, it seemed she knew mixed martial arts.
She telegraphed her next move.
She went into the air to kick him. Nightwing caught her foot and sent her flying away from him. He felt a little bad when he heard a crack. Her nose was crooked when she got up. Her eyes were shining with fervor, and her smile was feral.
Fuck, he had done it now.
âKill! Kill! Kill!â chanted the crowd.
The glass ceiling above them shattered. A big dark figure came down on them. The crowd all screamed, this time in fear, and started running. The woman he had been fighting relaxed and raised her hands in surrender.
Batman didnât waste time. He started punching and kicking his way through the crowd. A smaller, lithe figure behind him would handcuff any fallen spectator.
From outside, Nightwing could hear sirens. Even if they escaped Batman, the audience would be captured by police officers.
âGlad to see that your people came in a timely manner.â Then she turned her back on them and punched the rusty cage. The bars gave out under her. She got out and ran through the crowd, trying to find a way to escape.
âShe escaped,â Tim said while giving him an ice pack for his face.
Tim shrugged and said, âSheâs good.â
They had made it back to the Batcave. Bruce hadnât said anything on the way home. Dick didnât know whether his silence was for the best.
He had demanded that Dick hand over his footage and had observed the fight.
âShe has an unorthodox way of fighting,â Tim said as he watched the footage.
âSheâs clearly holding back,â Bruce commented.
âIt didnât feel like it when she was beating me to a pulp.â
âHn, imagine how much worse it wouldâve been if she had been fighting at full capacity.â
Dick ignored Bruce and put the ice pack against his ribs. When had she even gotten him there?
âAnyway, can we find her?â Tim asked.
âHmm, I asked Oracle to do a face recognition on her. Weâll find her soon enough.â
Dick said nothing and iced his throbbing jaw. He wouldnât admit it out loud, but watching her fight on the screen did things to him. Well, Batman was his mentor; he was bound to have picked up more than just fighting lessons from him.
âIâve been waiting for you,â Jazz said as she walked into her living room. âYou couldnât have waited for a day that hadnât been busy?â
There had almost been a breakout today. Thankfully, it had been stopped by the security guards, and only Calendarman had broken out. Everyone else had either been gassed into submission or hadnât tried to escape.
âDr. Fenton. A respected psychologist with two doctorates under her and a rising star in Arkham. You have patients such as Pamela Isley, Harleen Quinzel, and Jonathan Crane. It seems you are making progress with them.â
âTheyâre Dr. Isley, Quinzel, and Crane. If they put the time to get a doctorate, the least you can do is use their titles.â
âWhy were you in the fight club?â
She shrugged and went into the kitchen.
He ignored her question and went into the small kitchen. She didnât cower at his hulking figure. She continued preparing her tea. He observed her.
She was short and lithe. Her muscles werenât pronounced, and dressed in her cardigan and slacks, she didnât look like a usual thug.
âYou helped Nightwing.â
âYeah, they wanted me to kill him.â
âYou didnât. As a matter of fact, you never killed or took the money offered. Why was that?â
The kettle whistled. She took it off the stove and finished making her tea. She didnât drink right away; she let it steep.
âDo you believe in curses, Mr. Batman?â
Batman said nothing at the sudden non-sequitur.
She hummed and stared at her tea.
âGotham is an old city. It has seen violence. That violence has fed into curses laid at its foundations, and those curses have caused the violence experienced here. They feed each other in a vicious cycle.â
 Batman said nothing, letting the silence get to her. She didnât even squirm but looked him straight in the eyes.
âI have a unique ability. I can feel those curses and fight the urge to go mad. However, it leaves feelings of aggression. I figured a fight club would be a good way to let go of those aggressions.â
âFat good that did, I ended up having to go against Gothamâs vigilantes.â
âYou fought so you wouldnât go crazy. You expect me to believe that?â
âBelieve what you will. Now, are you here to arrest me or what?â
âIf you no longer have the fight club, how will you get rid of theseâŠaggressions?â
âIâll just have to find a new one.â
âYouâre putting yourself at risk. Isnât there any other way to let it out?â
She turned and smiled at him.
âWell, there is one way.â
Jazz laughed as she jumped through the roofs. Behind her, she could hear light footsteps.
She had made a deal with Batman.
If they could find time to spar or chase her through Gotham so she could let loose, then she would no longer have to go to fight clubs.
Nightwing had volunteered to be the victim with aplomb.
She jumped from the roof she was at to the ground and hid behind an alley. She giggled as Nightwing passed over her.
She had found a way to let loose without having to go to shady establishments. And if something developed between her and Nightwing, well, he was a handsome man.Â
