A/N: Well, hello there! This idea has been in my mind for an extremely long time, and I finally mustered up enough courage to put it up.

As always, reviews are extremely appreciated! I hope you all enjoy this little story of mine :D

Disclaimer: I don't own the Arkham series. That should be pretty obvious.
Rating: The story as a whole is T for cursing, violence, etc. Nothing too major.

An inconspicuous young woman entered the art museum alone, her hands tucked safely into her beige trench-coat that was littered with dirt patches and tears. She stood horribly out of place in comparison to the posh goers of the museum, all celebrating the new arrival of a rather famous author's creation. The lone guard in the building nodded her in with hardly another thought.

She slipped into the crowd easily, maneuvering through the upper-class population of Gotham until she reached her destination. There was the painting, surrounded by people looking at it.

And she hated it.

Oh, how dull it was! It was called "Gray Festivities," and festive it was not. Gray, all gray; different hues of the color practically splattered onto the canvas. From an artistic viewpoint, it was unique and quite creative. However, from her viewpoint, one full of color, she despised it. It seemed to suck all of her imagination away from just looking at it.

Her light green eyes scanned the crowd, pinpointing her associates amongst the people. All of them were staring back at her, awaiting orders. She averted her attention back to the painting and have a firm nod.

Then, pandemonium.

The man closest to the fire alarm smashed the glass and pulled the alarm, causing a blaring siren to screech throughout the entirety of the museum. Sprinklers from above turned on, drizzling everyone and everything. People began to shuffle out frantically, both men and women alike using purses and sleeves to shelter their hair from the water.

The woman did not leave, however, though no one noticed it. A couple of her men approached her, stepping over the red velvet rope to take down the painting. They moved towards the back door, ready to put the canvas in the old can for transportation.

She stepped over the rope too, producing two aerosol cans from her pockets, one full of red spray paint and the other blue. Shaking the cans, she then sledged her calling card onto the wall.

The woman turned and began to hurry out the back door, a smirk on her face from a job well done.

Firemen and police would be seeing her message soon; a solid blue heart and "From, the Painter" written in both colors.

A tentative knock on her door pulled her out of her stupor of work. Calling out a light "come in," the door opened to reveal one of her thugs standing there.

He glanced around the room, as he had never been in there before. It was her art room, her studio, where she kept all of her work. Her underlings weren't exactly allowed in there; it was off limits, but she never explicitly stated that going in there would mean dire consequences.

With good reason, too. The room was filled with her work, beautiful pieces of art that were so realistic, one could mistake them for photographs. It would be horrible if an unknowing thug knocked an easel over, or spilled her paint. The entire top floor belonged to her, seeing as she was the boss and all. It contained the studio, an office, and her bedroom. The bottom floor was designed for the thugs that needed shelter and for paint production.

"Is everything alright?" the saccharide voice of his boss said, pulling his gaze back to her.

The thug cleared his throat, stepping into the room more. "Uh, miss? You got cover page."

Her eyebrow cocked. "I thought I told you all to call me Eve."

The thug nodded, his greasy brown hair swaying with the movement. "Uh, right, mi- Eve. Sorry. I was workin' for Penguin 'fore you. He insisted on 'chivalry' and all that."

A scoff bubbled from her lips before she could stop it. Cobblepot, chivalrous? His English accent and proper attire had never fooled her. He treated his men like scum, as most mob bosses did.

Well, not her.

She wasn't sure if she could even count herself as a mob boss, but she liked to think she could; she certainly had enough men to qualify. However, it was the way she treated said men that made her think otherwise. She took it upon herself to give them shelter if they didn't have any. They all referred to her on a first-name basis. Her initiation wasn't too difficult, she thought. Yet, she instilled the fear needed in running a large amount of thugs with ever looming threats that she executed from time to time. Her fair treatment often brought thugs from other bosses to her, along with valuable information.

"Well, what's this about, us being on the front cover?" He handed her a copy of the "Gotham Gazette," where the title said: "FAMOUS PAINTING STOLEN: New Artwork In Museum of Art Stolen by the Painter."

Eve skimmed through the article, not seeing anything note-worthy. It wrote about the crime scene itself and the GCPD's desperation to get the painting the back - and her behind bars. So dull it was that she handed it back to the thug, only to glimpse at another article and directly snatch it back. She began to pace while reading the story with vigor:

"This latest robbery marks the tenth crime fashioned in the same manner, with a calling card left from the Painter at the scene. Could it be that this criminal - who is reported to be female - possibly be another Rogue?

"As other Rogues - master criminals that are highly wanted by the GCPD - use deadly tactics to execute their crimes, it is reported that the Painter also has an arsenal of acidic paint that is deadly to the touch. It was not used to harm people in her latest scheme, but the knowledge of its existence is dangerous enough.

"If anyone has any information on this Rogue, please contact the GCPD immediately."

Eve glanced up, a prideful grin spreading across her face. "They're calling me a Rogue now?" She chuckled. "I guess I've moved on up in the world."

The thug smirked. "Well, ya do have over a hundred men at your side, and enough of ya's paint to drown half of Gotham. That's enough to make anyone dangerous."

"...What's your name?"

"Uh, Ryan Daniels."

She squinted playfully. "I like you, Ryan."

Eve strolled down the practically empty street, a lighthearted expression on her face. Despite being sidetracked by the news of becoming a Rogue, she managed to finish her work and her thugs had taken it back to the museum for her. People had already noticed its return, beginning to say that the Painter "desecrated" 'Gray Festivities', but she liked to think that she improved it. She made it exponentially better, and certainly more colorful. Not an ounce of gray on the painting anymore; now it was truly festive.

Not even the fact that a few passersby had just… passed didn't seem to recognize her, anyway. Not many people did. The only feature GCPD and security managed to catch on camera was her hair - her black coffee hair that was always swaying around near her shoulder blades; something quite common in Gotham. Of course, they managed to see her overcoats, but through the homeless system, she always could switch her current coat for another one.

Besides, the homeless were her friends. She had been living with them for a time, anyway.

Her good mood had made her even more aware of her surroundings. Eve's gaze caught sight of a bright green light shining from in a valley. She warily stepped towards the light, a hand poised over her aerosol can of her acidic paint. Eyes tight, she stepped around the corner of the alley to see what it was.

She certainly wasn't expecting a statue of a green question mark.

That's all it was, really. The question mark glowed a neon green hue, and the base was all black. A curious thing; something she had never seen before. Granted, she had heard of a criminal that used question marks and riddles as means of his heists, but never really delved into trying to find information on other criminals.

The only ones she knew off the top of her head were the big ones, the ones that could cause her trouble. Cobblepot, Joker, Two-Face, Black Mask; that was it, really. All with mass amounts of manpower that could thwart anything she tried to do. All with thugs, and all with thugs that had switched over to her. Anyone besides those bosses - and their right-hand men (women in Joker and Cobblepot's cases), she never really cared to find out about. Of course, she could if she wanted to; it never appealed to her, though.

The brief notion of her lack of knowledge on other Rogues had slightly unnerved her. Perhaps she should start looking into them.

Eve blinked, focusing on the statue once more. It was clearly visible, that much was certain; the only problem was that it was tucked away behind and in-between a vent and some piping, just out of reach for most. That wasn't going to deter her, however. Eve knelt down onto the ground and stuck her hand in the opening, her long middle finger just grazing the top of the statue. It was cool to the touch despite its neon components, she noted. The sculpture wobbled, and another brush of her fingers managed to make it topple down into her hand. She maneuvered it through the opening and was eventually able to view it up close.

She like the design quite a lot. It was unique, bright, and colorful. With a satisfied grin, she stuffed it into her large handbag, intent on putting it up in her studio.