I Have No Idea What Im Doing Full Disclosure - Tumblr Posts
An apology springs to Anne’s lips, a protest—she’d misunderstood, thought this was based on someone come to even the score for the unconscious man she’d split open—but it dies almost as quickly as Mary continues. Right. This isn’t a place of people on their right minds, on the one hand serially threatened with extinction merely for existing in a way some fanatic or another thought abhorrent and on the other never seeing actual justice due to a meddling egomaniac playing vigilante. All while calling a prison a hospital—or worse, nice versa
They don’t just carry guns in Gotham. They look for reasons to use them.
Jack would be pissed she’d given away the game this easy. So Anne tilts her head back with another swig, thinking it over, pretending to drink. (It’s very convincing; it’d needed to be, once upon a time.) The only tell is that the level never really lowers after all the sloshing, a fact she guards by leaning on the bottle and using it to help prop up her arm, the other wrapped around her in front of it.
“‘Fraid I misunderstood the question, but now I’m curious. The way I hear, he lets very few in personally. Who’s he to you, then, that he lets ye in?”
Anne considers the question with more seriousness than perhaps is deserved: it’s a clear come-on, and even though she doesn’t rise to the bait, she’s still feeling dangerous.
“It’d be none of my fuckin business if ye was, frankly,” Anne answers honestly, shrugging, and adds, “but aye. Prob’ly hers.”
Anne fingers the broken half-glass on the table and considers it before nodding, as if having made a decision. “Aye. Tint cunt like ye, might bleed out—and then I got a corpse t’deal with. So. Glass t’her face, knee t’the big fucker’s nose—this is assuming I get on the table, mind—maybe a boot t’yers.” Not the girl, one of the dodgier looking bastards with her; he clearly doesn’t appreciate being called on, like she gives a rat’s ass. “Don’t fancy my chances if ye’ve got knives, but it’d take a real mad bastard t’start shooting in here. Everyone here’s got a fucking gun and more lint in their heads than sense.”
She’s made a good show of hiding it, but Anne hadn’t been expecting that voice out of that body: the big eyes, the cutesy curls, the fact that she all but needed a high chair at the goddamned table—but she had a voice as rough and hard as a fucking brick, if not worse. Anne feels a bit dazed by it, like it’d hit her in the back of the head and left her stunned. Gotham really does take ‘em fucking young—here sits some mobster’s brat, to guess from her company, but instead of spoilt she sounds days away from taking to chain smoking.
Anne shrugs again, unbothered and probably starting to feel the effects of the last few drinks. “Why, whose face would ye recommend? And don’t say mine—‘cording to ye, I’m the one using the glass.”