Gotham was really spectacular at night. Of course, you had to be looking in the right places, but locals always knew how. The rich and elite of the city could cast away the darker, grungier parts with a bat of a thick eyelash and a clink of a champagne glass. Most people surmised that was why the Narrows and various other slums in the city got as bad as they did. There was such a gap between the rich and the poor that the underbelly of the city was constantly overlooked. And with neglect, evil festers effortlessly.

Nonetheless, no person could deny Gotham's cleaner areas were a sight to behold just after seven. When the silk cloth of night eased over the skyscrapers and the lights turned on. Flashes of light, pounding music from the clubs, sleek Mercedes purring down the streets, extravagant galas making the floors of the prestigious hotels glitter -like a city from the movies. So crisp and perfect it couldn't possibly exist. Where the rich were all beautiful and the clothes impeccable.

That image of Gotham was only viewable by those drunk off luxury and fame, seated in the plush silk and sparkle of ignorance. Example A: Zatanna Zatara. Quite literally propped up on her elbows, tangled in the silk sheets of her king sized bed. Empty tonight, as she had told herself she needed some one on one time. The tour schedule had been grueling the last month and she'd barely had time to think for herself, don't even mention pamper herself.

She was painting her nails a deep red, but even the borderline inappropriate shade wasn't improving her mood. Even just a day away from the adoring public and social interactions in general had her down in the dumps. She'd convinced herself she'd needed tonight for herself and -damn it. She couldn't even enjoy it. Had she become a sociopath or something? She went ravenous when she couldn't feed on the public. The young sorceress huffed and blew on her nails a bit, capping the bottle of the paint a little absently, and got up.

If there was one thing Zatanna knew how to do, it was how to get herself out of a funk. And if there was one thing she knew how to do better, it was to party. Twenty minutes later she was staring herself down in her long mirror adjacent to her previously depressing bed. Violet blue eyes went up and down her figure, making sure everything was in check and her recent slump in morale hadn't had any repercussions when concerning the best set of legs in Gotham.

Her new Versace dress was hot, hot, hot. It was black but cut dangerous low at her ample, white chest and had an invitingly obscene slit up the side to leg one tempting leg breathe freely. Her upper body looked like an artists elegant swipe of ink and with a deep inhale her clavicles broadened and little white shoulders softened. Her waist tapered in and let the full extravagance of the gown spill out from there. Maybe a little too dressy to go out to a club? As if the public didn't already know her as overzealous. It was practically her middle name.

And her face didn't deny any of it. Her skin was smooth and like moonlight and made what might have been a sharp, angular face soft and supple. Her lips were dramatic and apple red, her eyes like a modern day Elizabeth Taylor's. She'd somewhat managed to fashion her thick mane of black hair into a french twist and drew some attention to the curve of her neck with some heavy pearl earrings. All in all, a pretty successful last minute ensemble.

And with that, the mistress of magic herself was out on the town, soaking up Gotham's glitter -and certainly not gold- and hitting every club downtown. A pretty girly drink here, smiling for the paparazzi as she enjoyed playing with the collar of some expensive looking man probably three years younger than her. A hard shot of whiskey there so she got the gall enough to dance in her flowy dress at another club. Finally, if she found a date on her rounds, she'd take him to a lovely restaurant on the water -the best that money could buy. The paparazzi would try and sneak a table and Zatanna would just gobble it all up, smiling that crest-toothpaste smile and laughing like she didn't care who heard.

She was the epitome of a young starlet, beautiful, rich and so deeply, deeply unhappy that it was almost microscopic to the public. Sitting there tonight with her newest pick from a bar two blocks over, she pretended to be interested and enthralled by him. His eyes were a boyish blue and the tousled mop of blonde hair over his head endeared her to him, but she didn't feel anything. No burning fire, no butterflies -she'd convinced herself falling in love was no longer for her. She'd tried so many times before that the idea of love became dull.

But she sipped her wine thoughtfully, not as tipsy as she'd hoped to be after her bar hopping, and kept on a smile for whatever cameras might be pointed her way and signed a few autographs of patrons passing her table. She listened to the blabber of the young college graduate across from her and tried to tell herself that this was the life. And there was nothing better than it. Superheroine by day, starlet and celebrity by night. She could bury her problems under Diane von Furstenburg and Chteau Margaux wine.

Zatanna lifted her violet eyes around the restaurant where the rest of the elite stationed themselves. The boy across from her was still prattling off his impressive, but to her boring, list of achievements since graduating. She nodded when appropriate but her attention was suddenly captivated by movement at the door to the outdoor balcony. There was a scuttle of people, even more paparazzi then when she'd enter. A flare of competition and jealousy naturally made her straighten in her seat a bit.

Then, a familiar face finally broke through the crowd. Handsome jaw, Romanesque nose, steely blue eyes that held so much weight she'd always been surprised the ground just didn't crack open under the man, Bruce Wayne was unmistakable. The pang of jealousy and competition deflated effortlessly and was replaced with a sharp note of pain that resonated in her chest. There once was a time that she could wave him over and kiss him on the cheek, enjoy his company, the smell of Ivory soap on his warm skin. But that wouldn't happen now, and maybe not ever again. She'd betrayed him, how could she expect anything more?

Still, she attempted to smile at him, catch his eye. A blonde pin-up looking girl hung on his arm and complimented his Adonis-like features. Zatanna suddenly felt naked in her Versace dress and a little outdone with her baby-faced date. Bruce's eyes made his way around the room for a table. He saw her, she was sure of it. But he brushed her off cooly like she didn't exist. Zatanna visibly cringed and turned back to her drink and her date. Bruce could really make a girl feel like shit -it wasn't enough to just ignore her apologetic calls and invitations. He had to look right through her, like she didn't exist, like she'd never existed. She was dead to him.

Zatanna pouted into her wine glass and signaled the waiter over for a refill. Her date fidgeted a little anxiously at the alcohol the tiny woman across from him could apparently take in and visibly paled once her glass was refilled and she nearly downed the whole glass. She looked at him apologetically and urged him to continue his story. But she couldn't help but slide her gaze over to the recently seated handsome, hulking figure a few tables over.

Suddenly, she was back at the Watchtower, leaning over him in his hardened mask and wiping his memories of a certain incident -taboo to speak of now- clear from his brilliant head. She'd stripped him of his memory, and in that stripped him of his trust in her, and their friendship. There wasn't a day, a night or a second she didn't regret it. Her father would have been ashamed of her. Everyone was ashamed of her. She was ashamed of herself. And she wanted so badly to make it up to Bruce. But there were always actions and words that one could never take back.

Sighing gingerly, Zatanna bit her lip and looked up at her date. "Honey, I'm sorry, I'm not feeling well," she lied effortlessly, "Would you mind taking me home?" Right back where she'd started. She'd left her damn bed to stop feeling sorry for herself, and now she was headed straight back even more worse for the wear. Tonight was definitely a Ben & Jerry's night.