Chapter Text
Have you ever suffered through a lecture so painfully dry or a religious sermon so dreadfully monotonous that you genuinely wish you could just silently pass out on your seat despite knowing how terrible it would probably look for your reputation and social standing?
Well, to put it bluntly, that is exactly where I am right now.
And before you might ask, no. It never actually gets any easier for me. You would think that after centuries of enduring countless high society galas, royal banquets and diplomatic summits where pretentious dignitaries speak for hours without actually saying anything, I would have effectively built up an immunity by now to this stuff. But no, my tolerance somehow remained the same as it was several hundred years ago.
Much to my chagrin, it is pretty much taking every ounce of my willpower to mask my underlying disdain for the insufferable bunch that I'm unfortunately stuck with right now.
"Oh, good heavens! Look at the impeccable geometric balance in this beautiful portrait!"
I resisted the urge to roll my eyes as a brunette woman in her late forties suddenly gushed with exaggerated enthusiasm, their high-pitched voice grating against my ears like nails on a chalkboard as she dramatically stepped forward from her small clique of shallow socialites.
The woman has an expensive-looking mink coat draped on her shoulders, despite it being a fairly warm evening at the museum. In one perfectly manicured hand, she held a delicate silk fan decorated with golden floral designs which she theatrically extended towards one of the portraits displayed on the exhibit like some kind of esteemed art critic.
"The composition, it's absolutely divine!" The wealthy brunette practically squealed, fanning herself with a melodromatic flair while admiring a rather plain-looking Baroque era work that I personally found completely unremarkable compared to the actual art I saw during said period. "Just look at how the artist has captured the very essence of aristocratic grace! The way the gaze of the noblewoman in this portrait seems to pierce right through me! So regal! So poised! So elegant! It's like the soul of the subject itself has been immortalized into this fantastic painting!"
Around me, several other affluent attendees responded to the critique by mindlessly nodding along in agreement, clearly pretending to care because it was socially expected of them by each other.
It had only been a couple of decades since my last visit to Gotham's Museum of History. Judging by what I saw just now, nothing much seemed to have changed. At least not in a way that really mattered.
The place still oozed the same suffocating aura of opulence and pretentious grandeur that I remembered. The marble floors were polished to an obnoxious shine, there is excessive gilded detailing on every decorative archway as far as I can see and the ceiling still sports expensive chandeliers that probably cost more than some people's yearly incomes. Basically everything in this place screamed old money arrogance and excessive abundance meant more to intimidate rather than impress. While I can certainly understand the dopamine hit someone would get from demonstrating their wealth, even I find this exorbitant display of wasteful greed a bit too much for my tastes.
It irritated me that I'm stuck here hanging out with these aristocratic twits rather than doing something productive with my time like hunting down Finé or making Savage's life completely miserable. Despite my own extravagant wealth, I honestly prefer wearing a lab coat compared to this sleek cocktail dress I'm garbed in right now.
The only reason why I even bothered to accept the invitation I received was because the person who sent it was an old friend of mine, someone who I first met several centuries ago. If it had been anyone else, I would've immediately laughed them out of town if they dared to ask me to attend something as dull as an opening for a fancy art exhibit.
Still… he's definitely going to owe me a massive favor after tonight.
Just as I was deeply lost in my thoughts, mentally counting down the minutes until this dreadfully awful event ended, I suddenly heard a familiar voice speak right beside me.
"Ah, Miss Sforza! What a pleasant surprise to see you here."
Turning my head slightly, I found Harvey Dent standing there with that trademark charming smile of his, the kind that could disarm even the most hardened critics or politicians. He looked sharp as ever in an impeccably tailored suit that allowed him to blend in with the elite aesthetic of the crowd tonight.
Without missing a beat, he offered his hand to me for a polite shake which I graciously accepted while giving him one of my own measured smiles in return.
"Mr. Dent, it's a pleasure to see you here tonight as well." I smoothly replied after I gently withdrew my hand with practiced grace. "I must admit, I didn't expect to run into you at an event like this."
Dent chuckled softly at that, his voice sounding warm and genuine despite the superficiality of the event around us.
"Well, my campaign managers still insisted on me attending every high profile function they can arrange these days." He casually admitted while adjusting his cufflinks slightly. "While the donations I received from the Trismegistus Alliance did help significantly for our funding efforts, I do not wish to rely solely on a single financial backer."
His tone remained calm and measured as always. There was no arrogance, only practicality wrapped up neatly beneath a handsome face.
"Please don't take this personally. While I truly appreciate the aid you sent, I'm not some reckless gambler who intentionally leaves things to chance." Dent continued. "Even if the polls are showing me leading the race by 80%, that still means there's a remaining 20% chance where things could go terribly wrong for me. So why take unnecessary risks when networking with more alternative donors can only serve to benefit me?"
The irony of what he just said wasn't lost on me. This version of Harvey Dent, one who's calm and composed, was a far cry from the infamous Two-Face I knew of from my past self's memories. The latter was always portrayed as an unstable madman who literally gambled every decision he does on a coinflip while this person in front of me prefers to carefully manage his risks rather than surrender control to luck's unpredictable whims.
"I guess that means you're the frontrunner for Gotham's mayoral race now." I playfully remarked as I crossed my arms together. "Quite a huge turnaround don't you think? Just months ago, you were the designated underdog while Hamilton Hill and Sebastien Hady were both leading comfortably in the polls with expectations that it would be either one of them taking the crown."
My lips curved into a smirk as I recalled the recent development my private sources informed me about the mayoral race.
"And now all of a sudden, I heard through the grapevine how those two rats are now allegedly scrambling behind closed doors, desperately resorting to deploying every dirty trick imaginable in the hopes they find something that actually sticks on you."
Dent chuckled lightly at my crude description, clearly amused by how accurately I summarized his campaign's meteoric rise on the political stage.
"Well, all I can say is... if it weren't for your support and the Trismegistus Alliance's influence, I wouldn't have stood even half a chance against Hill or Hady right now." He gave me a sincere look of gratitude before continuing. "You've truly earned my thanks for backing me up so decisively. Because of you, fixing this city might actually become possible."
"It's my pleasure." I said with a light, almost casual wave of my hand, though deep down, I did appreciate it nonetheless.
But then the ever present strategist in me couldn't help but throw in some practical advice as well.
"Though, speaking as an advisor who cares about your success and safety, I'd strongly suggest you start investing in some extra security soon. Men like Hill and Hady? They're cornered animals now. It is basically common knowledge that desperate men do desperate things when they realize their power is slipping away from their fingers. If you'd like, I could personally introduce you to several top-tier security firms who could provide discreet protection without drawing too much attention. If you are worried about the price, the Trismegistus Alliance is more than willing to shoulder the costs for you."
Dent's expression shifted instantly as his easygoing smile faded into something more serious. The politician in him knew exactly what I meant. Desperation bred danger and he was well aware of how low his competition could sink to when their backs were against the wall. He nodded slowly as he processed the weight of what I was saying.
"You're right." He admitted after a brief pause. "I hadn't really considered it yet because I didn't want to come off as paranoid or suspicious but... you do bring up a good point. If they're already panicking now, who knows what they'll do once the election gets closer. My gut tells me those two certainly aren't the type to go down quietly."
He exhaled sharply through his nose before giving me a grateful smile.
"I'd actually appreciate introductions to those firms you mentioned. Discreet ones preferably, not those flashy ones with bodyguards wearing dark sunglasses indoors." A dry chuckle escaped him as he thought of the humorous image. "And as for the funding, please don't overdo it on my behalf, Miss Sforza. I can handle my own security budget now thanks mostly to your earlier donations."
After a beat of silence, Dent's expression subtly shifted, his charming smile replacing itself with something more observant. He tilted his head just slightly, the way someone does when they're genuinely trying to read another person's mood.
"But enough about me." He smoothly said before he steadily steered the topic away from himself and his campaign. "What brings you here tonight, Miss Sforza? You... honestly looked less than thrilled when I walked up earlier."
I exhaled quietly, the sigh carrying more exasperation than actual frustration.
"It's not you," I calmly clarified. "An acquaintance of mine was supposed to meet me here tonight but they're running late."
My tone was neutral to show Dent that I'm not annoyed at him specifically. Nevertheless, that doesn't change how displeased I felt about being stuck here waiting for someone who wasn't even punctual enough to show up on time at their own suggested meeting place.
Much to my chagrin, Dent's lips curled into an amused smirk at my clear irritation and he couldn't resist the opportunity to tease me a little.
"Well, that certainly wasn't very gentlemanly of them. Making a lady wait? Unforgivable."
I shot him an unimpressed look in response and immediately tried to correct his assumption before it could spiral into anything more ridiculous.
"He's not a date." I firmly insisted. "They're just an old friend. Nothing more, nothing less."
The teasing remark from Dent barely had time to settle in before another voice, smooth, playful and distinctly French, suddenly cuts into the conversation from behind me.
"Really, Ma Chère? And here I thought we had something special going on between us."
I turned my head sharply toward the source of that voice. Standing there was a tall man with long dark hair neatly styled back. His sharp black suit screamed expensive tailor work, the kind only someone with the same level of wealth as me could afford. He wore an easygoing yet charming smile as he looked at me, one hand casually tucked into his pocket while the other lifted slightly in greeting.
It only took me a second to recognize the annoying idiot standing in front of me.
"Gilles," I flatly said, my tone laced with dry exasperation. "You certainly took your sweet time getting here."
There was no real anger in my voice, just mild irritation mixed with a faint hint of disappointment. Back during our early days in the Hundred Years' War, Gilles had a notorious habit of showing up late hours behind schedule, mostly because he consistently overslept after drinking too much wine at feasts or stayed up all night gambling with his fellow knights until dawn broke. Predictably, this left his squire and overexhausted servants scrambling to wake him up just so he could attend training drills in the morning on time and avoid getting furiously yelled at by our frustrated allies.
But recently, within the past several hundred years, the man had been putting up some serious effort to improve his punctuality by showing up on time as often as he can. He still occasionally makes mistakes every once in a while but at least it wasn't as frequent as it used to be back when I first met him.
Still, the fact that he showed up late tonight after all these centuries of improvement irritated me more than it probably should have. And that stupidly calm smile plastered on his face? Oh, that definitely isn't helping him win any favors from me.
Was this how Jeanne felt each time this lazy bloke woke up late for her strategic meetings? No wonder she became so aggressively hotheaded with how often Gilles spiked her stress levels.
Dent's gaze darted between me and Gilles with obvious amusement like he was watching some ridiculous romantic comedy unfold right in front of him. The corner of his mouth twitched upward just slightly as if he was trying (and failing) to suppress a smirk.
"Are you truly certain there's nothing going on between you two?" He pointedly asked, his voice dripping with playful sarcasm.
I let out an exasperated sigh, pinching the bridge of my nose slightly as I could feel the last remnants of my patience rapidly evaporating by the second. Between Gilles' behaviour and Dent's relentless teasing, I felt like an overexhausted babysitter dealing with two overgrown children. Not even Sania, Katerina and Anya together managed to give me this much stress in under a single minute.
Meanwhile, Gilles himself didn't even seem remotely fazed by Dent's teasing or my visible irritation. He just laughed like this whole misunderstanding was the funniest thing he'd heard all night.
Thankfully, he eventually pulled himself together enough to act somewhat civilized. With an effortless grace that came naturally to him due to his aristocratic upbringing, Gilles straightened his posture and wiped away an imaginary tear from the corner of his eye before turning fully towards Dent with a charming smile still plastered on his face.
"Ah, mon ami, forgive me for such rude manners upon arriving." He smoothly said in that rich French accent of his as he extendend a friendly hand in greeting. "I'm Gilles de Montmorency-Laval, a very old friend of hers."
Dent took the offer without hesitation, shaking Gilles' hand firmly while he put on a practiced smile of his own.
"I'm Harvey Dent." He introduced himself. "A pleasure."
"Likewise." Gilles replied back before he shifted his attention back to me.
"My deepest apologies, Ma Chère." He began with an exaggerated bow of his head. "I promise you, I did made every effort to arrive early tonight. I swear on both the Holy Maid's name and my family's honor!"
He ran a hand through his hair, a nervous habit he picked up several centuries ago, before he continued with his explanation.
"But these American streets... Mon Dieu! They are completely incomprehensible and are an absolute nightmare to navigate through compared to European road systems! Back home in France or Italy, everything is neatly organized. We have clear signs everywhere and logical intersections. Here? Nope! Half the roads don't even have proper names and there were three different one-way signs on the same block! It's pure chaos out there!"
"To be fair, you're driving in Gotham." Dent suddenly chimed in with a wry chuckle, though his tone sounded almost apologetic as if he is feeling embarrassed about his city's endemic problems. "Our roads are technically worse than most cities across the entire country thanks to systemic corruption and decades of neglect. Half of my constituents complain about potholes that could swallow small cars whole or GPS directions leading them into dead ends because the maps haven't been updated since the 80's."
Gilles listened to Dent's explanation with an expression of growing disbelief and mild horror as he tried to process the sheer absurdity of Gotham's infrastructure problems
"Mon Dieu." He muttered under his breath while pinching the bridge of his nose. "And people say the traffic in Paris is bad? At least our streets make sense!"
After a brief pause where Gilles casually glanced around the exhibit hall, he suddenly shifted his gaze back to me and flashed me an easygoing smile.
"Ma Chère," He smoothly began. "would you mind terribly if we spoke privately for a little while? There are some... important matters I wish to discuss with you."
His tone wasn't urgent or demanding, just respectfully requesting my presence alone without making it sound too suspicious in front of Dent.
"Of course." I nodded in response before shifting my attention back to Dent. "Mr. Dent, would you mind excusing us for just a moment? Gilles and I have some important things to catch up on."
Much to my relief, Dent didn't look offended or bothered. If anything, he seemed completely understanding. He simply gave me another warm smile in return before stepping back slightly and lifting his hands as if surrendering the space between us. He wasn't the kind of man who overstayed his welcome unnecessarily.
"Not at all!" Dent graciously replied. "Please, enjoy your chat. I'll be mingling around anyway."
He gave me one last pleasant nod before turning away and blending right back into the extravagant crowd nearby.
Once Dent had politely stepped away, Gilles gently guided me away from the crowded center of the exhibit, weaving through clusters of chattering elites with effortless ease. Both of us walked with a calm and steady confidence to avoid drawing too much attention to ourselves.
The museum had been packed when I first arrived, but now most of the attendees are either too distracted criticizing the mediocre art pieces in the exhibit or are too busy sucking up to one another to spare notice to their surroundings. This made it easy for Gilles to lead us towards a quiet corner tucked away behind one of the grand pillars.
However, the moment we arrived, I felt myself stiffen almost imperceptibly upon seeing it.
Standing prominently in the center of this secluded space was a beautifully crafted marble sculpture depicting Jeanne d'Arc, the legendary Maid of France herself, dressed in full battle regalia and with a sword raised high in the air as if she's bravely leading her troops into a fierce battle.
Noticing how silent I became, Gilles quietly glanced at my face, subtly reading the hidden conflicted emotions on my expression, before he followed my gaze to the statue.
"She's beautiful isn't she?" He quietly remarked, his voice losing all its playfulness as he replaced it with a thoughtful, nostalgic tone. "The craftsmanship is beyond exquisite and the details in her armor alone must have taken months to perfect..."
All of a sudden, something shifts in Gilles' expression as I observe a subtle frown tugging at the corner of his lips.
"...though it's sadly inaccurate in some ways."
He didn't need to say it out loud cause I already knew exactly what he meant the second my eyes took in the statue's appearance.
First off, the statue was depicted with a long, flowing braid that reaches all the way down to her ankles. The real Jeanne kept her hair short for both personal and utility reasons.
Second, the statue's hair was carved from a much lighter stone that looks almost like a golden blonde under the hue of the light. The Jeanne I knew had hair as dark as the night.
And lastly, that small mole just beneath her right eye. Jeanne didn't possess a beauty mark on her face whatsoever.
In short, the statue doesn't look like Jeanne at all.
Instead, the sculpture looks almost exactly like me.
And much to my immense displeasure, I knew exactly why that is.