Chapter 1:
A Cold Reception (pt. 2)
The night was colder, harsher, and more brutal when Thorne returned home. His skin chilled under winter's frigid punishment. The wind's breeze, more intense since Thorne left the Iceberg Lounge, lacked reassurance. His home had become the last and only place where he still felt a sense of satisfaction, the only piece of worth from an otherwise unsavory existence. The halls were still the same, painted with cherished memories and the grim sense of a forgotten success. It's pictures mocked him when he passed their blank, yet crude glares. Like a painting or photo, he too felt trapped forever in time, a cage he painted with his own brush, brittle, and no longer effective.
His wound, still fresh, swelled in the warmth of his palm. A faint circle of purple and black cartilage surrounded it's peeling dry skin. The blood had hardened and was chipping like dry paint. He passed the TV on his way to the bathroom and it turned it on for background noise. A Gotham City News broadcast was on its home station and Thorne decided to leave it there. He watched the news every night but wasn't a fan of what it had to say, like most Americans. His viewing was only meant for Vikki Vale.
Vikki Vale was the new late-night lead anchor, recently being promoted for an on-location field reporter thanks in part to her several award winning stories involving Gotham's ever growing crime and stories drawn from myths of Gotham's ominous, vigilante Batman. Vale's straight, glowing blond hair was cut to end at the tip of her chin. Her small, lushous red lips echoed her in-fatuous blue eyes. Thorne envisioned her soft, tight, warm thighs, her sexually charged ambitions performed in a raw fury, and the perfect body she kept hidden under her attractive professional outfits. She fulfilled Thorne's late night desires, and on more than one occasion, substitution. Obsession wasn't healthy, but Thorne wasn't on a diet. He was only a man acting out his fantasies.
Off-air, Vale was known for her high-profile, highly publicized relationship with Gotham's wealthy, bonofide prince, Bruce Wayne. Wayne had it all, the looks, the fame, the fortune, and even the most beautiful woman in all of Gotham. The very thought put a sour taste in Thorne's dry, cotton mouth.
Sitting beside Vale was her co-anchor, Jack Ryder. Ryder ran a successful radio show outside of his GCN commitment. It was controversial yet extremely popular with the millions who tuned in. All of Gotham admired Ryder's aggressiveness and relentless persistence drove him to uncover the truths of what he sought to exploit. The rough, rugged demeanor of his strong jawline, perfectly combed jet black hair captured his organic, unmatched persona. His money and influence made him a dangerous man in Gotham, which is why he's maintained a strong following with the general public.
The current headline was focused on Arkham Asylum and it's primary psychologist Dr. Jonathan Crane. Crane had been receiving media attention and praise for his distinguishing treatment of patients under his care and for his strategy of focusing on the treatment and removal of fear. His performances had earned him a success rate of 80%, the highest rating of a single psychologist at Arkham since it's opening. Vikki Vale began the report.
"Mayor Nolan is said to be honoring Dr. Crane later this week with a special congratulatory ceremony thanking him for his award winning practices."
Thorne snorted at the remark and opened the bathroom mirror for ointment and bandages to address his wound. He held his hand under the faucet, his hand trembling under it's soothing stream of warm water. It's pressure stung at first, but calmed upon application. After cleansing the wound he wrapped a protective cloth around his hand. The warm fabric barely numbed the pain. Thorne took a bottle of pain pills from the shelf and swallowed them without the assistance of water. He turned the faucet off and stared hard in the mirror. His reflection was unrecognizable. It was the first time he'd seen himself in days. His hair was greasy and disheveled, the five o'clock shadow had now grown into uneven patches across his face, his nose was bloody and bruised, and his brown eyes were a pale white bathing in a red sting above a line of thick fatigue. His plump, wrinkled cheeks hung tender and swollen against his creased chin.
Thorne left the bathroom to get a cold beer from the refrigerator. He downed a quarter of it in one sip. Alcohol was the only cure for his sorrows. It's cold, bittersweet flavor soothed his grief as he coped with his new life as a slum. His life used to mean more than a worthless excuse for existence. When he lost it all the night his Comedy Club was burned, he reached out to an unknown hand, and for the first time, there was no clear indication what would follow. Oswald Cobblepot's unnatural embrace was the hand that saved him from a certain demise. He wasn't known for such hospitality. Thorne believed it wasn't so much condolence as it was pity. The only thing that pulled Cobblepot's hand like a puppet string was the fact of Thorne's misfortune. Thorne didn't try too hard to hide his melancholy, he just wanted to survive. By keeping Cobblepot out of the public spotlight and maintaining his image as a simple businessman, Thorne was promised his old life. Cobblepot's true intentions were falsified under the belief he was nothing more than an ordinary citizen. There was nothing ordinary about Oswald Cobblepot. His intentions weren't pure, but were his own. And he was promised Gotham would know them before too long.
Jack Ryder's deep voice transcended Vale's sweet, angelic tone and pulled him from his narration. The camera had switched to his face, with a city no doubt hungry for what he had to say. Thorne shrugged it off and continued drinking. "In other Arkham related news, inmate Arnold Wesker has reportedly broken out of the facility early yesterday afternoon. No word yet on how Wesker managed to escape but sources close say this wasn't his first attempt."
Thorne's bottle of alcohol stopped horizontal with the walls. He slowly lowered his head and addressed the broadcast. Grabbing the remote from the coffee table, he increased the volume. He let Ryder continue his address.
"Wesker's primary physician, Dr. Crane, has not yet commented on this story but is expected to address the matter before his congratulatory ceremony given to him by the mayor." Ryder turned to Vale with a smirk of hilarity on his face. "The irony isn't lost on me Vikki." She smiled at his joke while Thorne turned off the TV before he could hear her response.
A drink from the bottle couldn't sooth him, and normally that's all it took. He hid in his past and now its darkest aspect had returned to haunt his present. His fears were cemented and in the concrete poison they breathed. If he had a choice, if life was even remotely fair, he'd pick to die under Cobblepot's grasp than those of another madman. Thorne and Wesker had an unnatural past, one he didn't care too much to dwell on. Forgetting that memory was another part of Cobblepot's promise. He'd managed to keep it up 'til now, but life has a way of delivering the unexpected at your doorstep.
A distant voice called Thorne's name, faintly from the shadows. "Good evening Mr. Thorne, I believe you remember my name."
Thorne did, of course. The sound of that voice never left his memory. Thorne chose not to respond. Instead, another glass full of alcohol was the only response he knew how to give.
"Of course you do. How could you forget?" The voice was closer, yet still remote. "You ruined my life. And I know you think I ruined yours, but the fact is there is much we both must apologize for."
Thorne kept drinking, and the distance slowly refused to fade. Thorne believed his heart was going to burst through his rib cage and keep beating blood after it fell to the floor. His wound started stinging from the build up of sweat under the cloth that covered his hand. But there was nothing he could do but let it corrode him like an infectious disease on a hot summer's day. Thorne emptied his bottle and stumbled to the refrigerator for another, not finding one. Shit he thought to himself, trying to hide the fear that came over his face.
"Please now Mr. Throne, don't make me beg."
Thorne swallowed hard before his response, and wasn't sure of his delivery. "As far as I'm concerned, you're the only one who needs to apologize."
"You're mistaken Mr. Thorne, I only want to see this all the way through. See what you couldn't see. What's been in front of you all along."
Thorne reached for the lamp and turned it on. The man stood in the narrow, faintly lit hallway, darkness surrounding him, a handgun gripped in his right hand, aimed at Thorne. Thorne's eyes were fixed on the piercing barrel of the handgun. Nothing but brief flashes of disgust fell between Thorne's narrow, yet slightly exaggerated eyes as he realized everything he had was now on the edge of being lost. Sweat warmed his cheeks, saliva formed in the lump of his throat, and his cold, desperate look turned sour. Mercy was a lifetime away. Prayers wouldn't change the coldness of the devil's reality. His body fell stiff. Guilt-stricken, and hollow, blackness fell around him. All that was heard was an echo of a fatal gunshot.
