Cheryl is driving us in a battered gray Porsche, in her typically reckless, fast and life-endangering way which, to be candid, most Gothamites have in common.

I have spent the entire ride practicing, at her demand, to create small blasts or orbs of kryptonite energy, then commanding them to fizzle out into the void.

Our minds are not fused anymore, thankfully, and I need to hone the skill I gained if I intend to master it by myself. Since I only borrowed Foul Play's powers to learn how to control my kryptonite energy, I could lose my knowledge over time. The solution to this is to not let it remain idle and to develop my understanding with my own mental abilities.

The vigilante has transported us to the outskirts of town, in a region occupied exclusively by enormous private properties, the majority of them funded by illegally acquired money.

Our "target", as she lovingly referred to him, is David Merc. The fast fashion mogul, according to Cheryl's sources, is not only immoral in this sense. He is one of the city's most prolific suppliers of drugs. The clothing manufacturer does not produce them, but he moves 20% of Gotham's illicit substances by sneaking the products in his shipments of clothing. His storage facilities, where his drugs originate from, are infamously guarded and enshrouded in nearly pious secrecy.

The gangster swerves off the road and parks the car next to a tree, in a rough field  at the bottom of a hill and its winding street.

/Tomorrow, he has a meeting with a very big criminal, a really important and dangerous person, and he is supposed to sell them the coordinates for one of his main warehouses. Our objectives are quite uncomplicated, perfect for your first job. We need to prevent David from establishing contact with anybody, find the USB drive with the information on it, figure out the encryption and destroy that place ourselves before anyone else gets to it./

/So... We are interfering with a huge drug transaction, because..?/

We exit the automobile, allowing me to review our surroundings nervously to completion.

/To give 'em a taste of defeat and throw a wrench in their plans. All of this will also put the notorious bastard I've mentioned in a great deal of trouble. They were heavily counting on this business proposal to pay some unsettled expenses./

/And you're not going to tell me who we're going after?/ My question aims to tempt her.

Foul Play merely begins walking toward a tall chain-link cage, planted around a small plain cabin. It is the sole companion of the lone tree we are leaving behind, adjacent to the Porsche, as I follow her.

I personally do not feel as though being a hindrance to wealthy gangsters or crime bosses it the most straightforward way of bringing my aid to the innocent people of Gotham City. Regardless, I cannot deny that this could potentially help a victim of these organizations somewhere, somehow... Or doom them. I cannot predict the future, unfortunately. Unfortunately. I laugh inwardly.

As much as I would rather be defending helpless citizens on the street and encouraging them to pursue an honest living, I know I have to follow Cheryl's guidance. I want to learn her ways and I can only hope that our actions will be as impactful as she portrays them.

I listen to the soft squashing of the unmaintained grass underneath the soles of these new boots I wear. Thankfully, the thick soles are flat as can be and the overall shoe is comfortable. They may be covered with a thin layer of golden synthetic leather, but they are reminiscent of my working boots. On the other hand, my accomplice is sporting high heels on hers. At least, her ankle height model likely provides more flexibility than a knee-high or thigh-high alternative would, combined with precarious heels.

The sudden electrical failure of the streetlights that border the entire neighborhood grabs my attention, and I rapidly notice that every single house has also been robbed of any electricity. This, I am shamelessly assuming, because I truly am able to see only the first two domiciles atop the slope.

Aren't those people rich enough to pay for generators?

/You really think I can't shut down a puny generator?/ The Bull's girlfriend taunts me, ceasing her trajectory and pirouetting around to face me.

/How did you disable every electric current like that? You didn't even go in there!/

I motion at the bland shed and its apparently pointless fencing, startled and impressed.

/I can control electronics, remember? Any technology that exists in three dimensions, actually./

I gloss over her casual mention of technology that exists in another number of dimensions than our normal three, not because of a lack of curiosity, but to save time.

/You still haven't given me an answer./

Again, she starts advancing in another direction instead of answering my plea for knowledge. I jog after her, heading for the sidewalk to presumably ascend the hill. The mask shows me my surroundings in night vision, strangely transmitted in shades of blue, so I am not affected by the crippling darkness.

/I don't like to name names./ the young woman simpers, jokingly trying to fend me off.

/You love to name names./

/You love when I name names./

I roll my eyes, unseen. /Please, Foul Play, you want to tell me./

/Alright... He's selling his warehouse to The Penguin./ She shares her information, playfully exasperated.

I gasp to encourage her into believing the reveal had an effect, which it sort of did.

Six minutes later, we stop walking in front of 339 Coast Lane. Ironically, there are no coasts in sight, unless I am counting the brim of David Merc's gigantic pool, which is visible from the facade of his residence. The house is predictably larger than my apartment complex, which is on the smaller side, to be fair. The building has a design that is so outlandishly modern it appears unpractical and dystopian. Not every single element of a house needs to defy gravity, be shaped like either a bean or a triangle, stand at non-intuitive angles or be a combination of the above. Especially not when a pompous waste of materials such as this was erected with dirty money. If every beam of my home rested on a crime, I wouldn't choose to dispose them into a frail structure.

The modern wooden gate, wooden planks stacked inside a metal frame, slides silently to let us into the property, maneuvered by Cheryl's telekinesis.

As we tread up the path of hexagonal stones, my friend instructs me, /David's a paranoid coward. He'll do as we say, but I'm sure the power outage freaked him out. Watch out for his bodyguards, they'll be on high alert./ She adds, pleased and almost for her own benefit, /Although, that'd be great practice for Esperanza.../

Merely strolling up to it is all she needs to do for the front door to swing wide open, unless the rolling and jabbing of her hips activated it... Or just her steps.

I tear my eyes away from her midsection, heat coursing in my cheeks. My embarrassment is amplified by the reminder that she can read my mind, and my face feels hotter still, confined behind the metallic mask.

I glance at the back of her waist as we enter the pitch darkness of the enormous lobby. It is insane to remember how, when we met two months ago, I was certain Cheryl would perish from her injuries. But, of course, she did not. And I got to look into her unnerving green eyes again, a lot more than I had anticipated.

I sense my focus drifting from the point between her shoulder blades, down her spine, hitching itself to her waist, her hips, her...

I whirl my head to the right, deftly biting into my tongue. Stop it, stop it, stop it... 

Stop. It.

Cursing the useless, infatuated and sexually stimulated area of my brain, I follow my companion up a flight of dangerous stairs. Rationally, my adrenaline is pumping harder right now and causing diverse spikes of hormones and chemical reactions. This jolt of attraction towards Foul Play is a reasonable case of misplaced excitement, just that.

I timely trip in the down curved steps, carved with wider centers and thinner randomly shaped endings. With a low grunt, I cling onto the top of the slippery glass panel railing, wondering how such an inefficient design was approved by cognizant beings.

My palm squeaks five centimeters down, yet I somehow manage to recover my balance and pull my right foot out of the void between the two guilty steps.

/Forget bodyguards, all he needs is this death trap of a staircase.../ I jokingly comment. /I can't believe you're climbing this in heels./

Which she would not be needing to do if I were not here...

/Don't worry, teleportation is overrated. Ain't nothing wrong with doing things the old-fashioned way./

/If you're about to say that going up a staircase never killed anyone, I'm pretty sure these have./

I stumble next to the vigilante, scouring the three corridors that are offered to us.

Her laughter to my remark is still echoing in my head, as she states, /Third floor, on the right. He's in his office, and there were five henchmen watching the door./

Were? Simultaneously, I hear five objects thudding against the floor above us, through the plaster ceiling. I spin to look at Cheryl, discovering that the eyes of her mask are emitting a lively glow, casting a green coloring over the prim white teeth of her fake metallic smile.

I contrive to keep my inquisitiveness in check until we reach the aforementioned room. Five people in dark clothes are sprawled on the neat wooden tiled floor, unconscious.

/How did you..?/

/Just an easy brain blast, I'll teach you later if you'd like. Now, I need you to focus./ Her answer is light-hearted in intonation, yet clearly an order.

Foul Play whisks her right arm away from her body, and the aberrantly wide double doors of David Merc's study blow out of their hinges, crashing on the ground without killing or wounding anyone. The home office beyond them is at least the size of my apartment.

A piggish man, unsurprisingly caucasian and advanced in age, stares at us in bewilderment... Aiming a gun at us with trembling hands.

Before he can utter any variation of nonsense he has planned, an invisible force yanks the pistol out of his thick clumsy fingers and tosses it onto a bizarrely shaped piece of furniture that I assume is a couch, on the far right side of the room. The man yelps and pathetically crouches behind his desk, with its bottom made of glass. Concurrently, Cheryl's voice cheerfully crawls inside of the four walls.

"Hey, David!"