4. Dithering

The day dragged by incredibly, maddening slow. Before, Jeremiah had a moment to look forward to; now, there was nothing. He was again in his workshop staring at the machine, prodding it occasionally without any work being done. Jeremiah found work almost impossible without a set due date for Bruce's return. He found himself pondering the meaning of "a few days." Was it tomorrow or the next day or the day after that? Reaching out would appear desperate, especially if he had absolutely no work done. He figured Bruce would call eventually, but the anticipation made him anxious. What if he never came back? What would happen to their friendship?

The next day came, or he assumed it did. Despite the clock that adorned his wall, time seemed stagnant since he couldn't see the sun rise or set. No matter what time it was, his body always had a way of sleeping at the weirdest times. He fell asleep for some time and awoke to find Ecco peering over him. He snapped awake and Ecco took several steps back apologetically. He sat straight in his chair. He had a small bedroom (about only big enough to have a small bed and nightstand in it), but it often went neglected as his chair served as a much more convenient substitute.

Jeremiah rubbed his face, not realizing his glasses were still on. He sighed and pulled out a handkerchief to get the fingerprints off of them. Ecco slid breakfast in front of him, it was something she'd made—the eggs had traces of eggshells and the bacon was slightly burnt. Jeremiah looked up appreciatively, Ecco beamed brightly at him. Despite how she acted around others, she was often very, very different in his sole presence: much softer.

Jeremiah had told Bruce the truth in a way, his feelings toward Ecco were complicated. In one way, he very much appreciated her and could not do daily tasks without her. On the other hand, little things about her drove him up the wall. She doted on him constantly, which he wouldn't mind scarcely, but, when she was his only constant companion, it particularly annoyed him. He was well aware of her romantic inclinations towards him despite what he implied to Bruce; she wasn't necessarily good at hiding them when they were alone despite his aloof actions. While these feelings were beneficial, and in some way mutual, he couldn't help but purposely distance himself from her. Being solely dependent on someone who had strong feelings for him could lead to—in his worst paranoid nightmare—a Misery-esk situation or—if their relationship soured because of romance—her abandoning him. He needed her services more than he needed her. He wasn't sure he loved Ecco—he wasn't sure he had ever experienced something like love—but he did appreciate and hold a fondness for her.

While Jeremiah ate, Ecco found her way over to the generator. If anyone knew the schematics of Jeremiah's devices as equally as he did, it was Ecco. He doubted she understood half of what he did—she'd admitted to as much—but she had seen his projects enough times to know when he'd made an improvement. She seemed to frown as she went over scanning for new additions from her last visit. She didn't say anything.

"Is something the matter?" Jeremiah asked pointedly, almost anticipating her answer.

"No," Ecco answered quickly. "It's just that, you were making such progress earlier, more than I've ever seen you make on a project. Now, you've seemed to slow. Did the inspiration wear off?"

Jeremiah shifted into a shrug, "It seems. . . pointless right now. I won't be meeting a deadline anytime soon: my mind has become muddled and distracted. It seems I'm concerned more about when my muse will return rather than getting the work done."

"Muse?" Ecco asked. Jeremiah realized he had used the term many times in his own mind, but he'd never expressed it verbally.

"Bruce is my muse," Jeremiah said simply.

Ecco seemed confused for a moment, "He inspires your work?" Ecco's voice had a hint of jealousy in it.

"Of course," Jeremiah insisted. "A muse could be anything honestly, but Bruce understands me in a way that helps me focus on what needs to be done. I want to impress him. So, taking my time seems appropriate. Now I don't know when he'll return, and he told me to rest. I'm grateful for that, but I want to do good by him." He stopped. "I guess, I'm just a little concerned with how to proceed."

"You've never talked about needing a muse before," Ecco replied, still fixated on the "muse" part. "Have you always had one?"

Jeremiah shifted, and his demeanor became darker, "Before, my muse was Jerome, or, more accurately, the fear of Jerome. He motivated me to do everything." Ecco seemed uncomfortable, she knew how Jeremiah became angry whenever he talked about Jerome. "Taking contracts was just to keep funds flowing into the construction of this place. Even, the battery was initially designed so I wouldn't have to pay for extensive electrical bills. Everything might as well have had a Jerome label slapped on it." Jeremiah shook his head. "But it's important to have a muse. You remember when I thought Jerome was dead the first time, how lost I was."

Ecco nodded solemnly. The news of Jerome's death at the gala had brought Jeremiah immediate joy, a joy that was followed by an alcohol fueled depression. The depression finally culminated in weeks of studying the footage of Jerome invading the police station and holding the gala hostage. Despite everything, Jeremiah had become convinced that Jerome wasn't dead. Everything was too easy, Jerome wouldn't die that easily. Jeremiah scoured the footage, and, after Jerome's killer had been revealed to be a criminal cultist, Jeremiah pursued the idea of a retractable knife being used to murder Jerome. The leads went nowhere; but the fact that he was unable to view, or even find, the body after the Arkham incident only fueled this fascination. Ecco found herself talking Jeremiah out of his obsession time and time again.

Then, the night of Jerome's resurrection came. Ecco had retired to her apartment when the news hit and went to find Jeremiah. Jeremiah locked down the entire complex. Ecco was locked on the outside; Jeremiah convinced she was acting under duress. He wouldn't let her in. For a week after, Jeremiah remained locked inside, surviving off of leftover food. Only due to partial starvation and a newspaper declaring Jerome's incarceration did he finally believe her. She'd helped him through the aftermath, acting as a pseudo psychiatrist as she listened to his paranoid rants and assured him that their defenses would be ready for anything Jerome could throw at them.

Jeremiah figured that's where Ecco's feelings had become less one-sided. Jeremiah doubted anyone else would have waited outside the door for several hours each day trying to convince him to open the door.

"I'm glad my muse has been replaced," Jeremiah muttered. "I cannot lose my muse, or I'll lose myself."

"Perhaps you need a different muse," Ecco suggested.

Jeremiah understood her implication; the hope was plain in her eyes. He felt irritated at the suggestion. As if she could be Bruce, as if she could possibly be his best friend, as if she could understand him like Bruce did, how absolutely absurd!

"No, Bruce is my muse. He's the only one who can be," he said it forcefully more than he meant to—no, he meant the anger in his voice. Ecco should have known better than to suggest something so asinine. She could be so oblivious at times.

Ecco did what she usually did; she dipped her head and lowered her eyes, "I'm sorry."

Jeremiah sighed as she looked pitiful, "It's fine."

The conversation seemed to awkwardly end there. Ecco didn't seem keen on saying anything else. Jeremiah turned his attention back to breakfast. As he ate, he noticed something from his morning routine was missing.

"Did they not have the newspaper today?" Jeremiah asked as his only portal into the real world was nowhere to be seen.

"Oh," Ecco said quickly. "Yes, let me get it."

She pulled the paper out of her bag. She placed it on the desk. Immediately, Jeremiah noticed something wrong. The front page was missing, leading directly to the black and white stock figures as an inadequate front. A quick thumbing through the paper showed another page missing precariously. It wasn't incidental.

"There are missing pages," Jeremiah stated, offering Ecco a chance to explain.

"Oh," Ecco shifted uncomfortably. "Seems like a misprint. I'll make sure that tomorrow's paper is complete."

Jeremiah stared at her for a second before cocking his head to the side. "I never thought I'd ever hear you lie to me, Ecco," Jeremiah jabbed, annoyed. Ecco turned ghostly white at the accusation, only assuring Jeremiah's suspicion. He let venom intentionally into his voice. "Whiteout would have been less conspicuous, if you were so intent on deceiving me. Do you have it?"

Like a child caught hiding a report card, Ecco reached back into her bag and pulled out the folded pages of newspaper, "I just didn't want you to worry."

Jeremiah grabbed it from her roughly, crumpling it in the process. He unfolded it and read the front page, nothing in the headlines, but in the corner was a start to an article titled: Jerome Valeska Lookalike: Who is He? The article, written by a Valerie Vale, might have well have been labeled a hit piece. It described the events with Jerome, Jeremiah's sudden appearance, and went into an interview with a policeman who'd seen Jeremiah being interviewed by Gordon after Jerome invaded his home. The article noted that Detective Gordon had refused to comment; similarly, Haly's Circus, and Saint Ignatius refused questioning as well. Jeremiah was glad that they had proved reliable in their discretion. Later, the article went into speculation on the whole endeavor, jokingly including wild claims such as that Jeremiah was a clone of Jerome (the absurdity of which Jeremiah could only chuckle at).

It ended on a catch-all note: "Despite the anonymity of this illusive figure, this reporter remains cautious. Could Gotham's Valeska related problems be over, or is this a prelude to a second reign? The only answer could be from the doppelgänger man himself. I implore this man to reach out and quell the worries of the people of Gotham. Only then, can Gotham's future be certain."

Jeremiah laughed as he read the last words. Ecco perked up and smiled as her fears were washed away. She chuckled alongside him.

"It's quite ridiculous," Ecco said.

"Ecco, you think too little of me," Jeremiah chided suddenly as the laughter disappeared in an instant. "If Ms. Vale wishes to propagate such nonsense in search of a scoop, let her. It's not going to change anything."

"Yes, I'm sorry," Ecco said again as Jeremiah stood.

"I'd better get to my work," Jeremiah muttered.

Jeremiah turned to the machine and went over the diagram. Ecco busied herself cleaning up after him, packing up the containers.

The incident didn't sit well with Jeremiah, if Ecco was so intent on maintaining the status quo that she would go to the lengths to hide information from him, then she was a liability. He needed her not to distrust him in any way. Jeremiah pondered for a moment whether or not she would allow herself to be critical of him. He felt like she was critical inside her head. She just never expressed it. That worried him.

"Ecco, what do you think is wrong with me?" He asked quickly. It wasn't a genius tactic, but it was jarring enough to unsettle her.

"What?" Ecco turned suddenly to look at him with concern.

"I've been feeling strangely, lately," Jeremiah said plainly. "So, what am I doing wrong?"

Ecco looked shocked, "Nothing, you're doing nothing wrong."

"You're lying again," Jeremiah muttered, biting back anger under a façade of calm. She thought something was wrong. She distrusted him. He saw it in her eyes. "Surely there is something wrong with me; I'm human after all."

"I would never want to criticize you."

"Criticize away," Jeremiah insisted softly. He had gotten angry with her twice already and wanted to reassure her that it wouldn't happen again—even though he could not promise that he wouldn't. He wanted to see how she took to criticizing him.

Ecco paused, taking a breath, weighting her words, "I don't believe you are living up to your potential. As much as I believe that you are a brilliant man, I also believe that these confines are stifling your abilities."

"So, you think I should go above ground," Jeremiah nodded. It was a simple suggestion. He almost sighed with relief.

"Yes," Ecco nodded. "If not for your work, then for yourself."

"Would you stay with me?" Jeremiah asked. Her face flushed; he pressed on acting like he didn't notice: "As my most trusted employee, my only employee, I would like to keep you on."

"Of course," Ecco said without hesitation.

"Good, then I'll consider it," Jeremiah figured that was all the constructive criticism he was going to get from her.

Ecco hesitated for a moment, "Might I say something else?"

Jeremiah nodded acceptingly, "Do not hold back."

"You are inspired, I can tell," Ecco said quickly. "I've known you long enough to see that. It's in your eyes. So, why aren't you working?"

Jeremiah bit his lip. Damn. For as ignorant as she seemed sometimes, others she hit right on the mark. She just knew him too well. He couldn't decide if it was an advantage or a hinderance.

"If I finish, Bruce won't have any reason to visit anymore," he realized how much he sounded like a child. He hated the pitiful look she gave him as he told her something that he'd been mulling over for a while. "Best to postpone until I have another idea that will keep his interest." Jeremiah hesitated and echoed a previous point. "I cannot lose my muse again."

Ecco looked at him with understanding, "The Wayne boy doesn't seem the type to abandon people. I am sure your relationship will survive beyond the project. If I am wrong and he does leave, then it is his loss for not realizing your intellect. Besides, either way, you will always have me at your side." Realizing the time, she quickly excused herself. "I'd better get going. I've been tracking a group of Jerome's cultists back to their base of operation. I need to know if they know anything about your location."

"I'll keep the door bolted then," Jeremiah said as a pang of worry crossed his face. These excursions were stressful but necessary to insure his safety, even if he felt like they were prodding a sleeping tiger.

Ecco nodded and turned towards the door.

"Ecco," Jeremiah called, looking up from his work. She looked back, "Be careful."

Ecco grinned broadly, before exiting. With just two words, he'd repaired their relationship. Jeremiah couldn't stay mad at her; she was loyal to a fault. He'd just prefer her not doubt him, even if she did it only in her mind. Maybe it was better that she never criticized him. Yes, he preferred an unquestioning Ecco to the shrewd one. The fear of her doubting him now disturbed Jeremiah.

He went over to his desk chair to watch her leave. As he observed Ecco exit the complex, he activated the lock. She nodded towards the camera in goodbye and disappeared towards her motorcycle. As she left, Jeremiah felt a twitch in his hand. The tick reminded him of his fears, and he stood from the desk. He walked over to one of the many drawers and produced a key from his pocket. He unlocked it and pulled open the drawer. An assortment of hand guns lay there, polished, unused. He picked up a revolver. It felt heavy in his hand. It was preloaded, the safety on. Just in case someone was to break in while Ecco was gone.

Suddenly, he got the urge to aim it. He mock pointed it around the room. Despite his collection, he'd never fired a gun before. He never left the complex and the walls of his maze were prone to ricochet. Despite this, he was confident that it would defend him. Just point and shoot. Simple. As he pretended to aim around the room, he suddenly came face to face with his reflection. It was a mid-waist up mirror and removable if he needed extra space for blueprints, but now it stared back at him since he forgot to put it away the previous night. His red ruffled hair stood out against his light blue undershirt, but not as much as the silver gleaming gun. For a moment, Jeremiah felt a surge of power. He posed suddenly, simulating the gun's kickback. He smirked. He looked kind of intimidating. The thought amused him.

But he was not threatening enough. No one feared being shot by someone in glasses. Jeremiah took off his glasses and placed them on the desk. He returned to the now slightly blurry figure in the mirror. He could make out the fuzzy features in his face. Yes: no glasses—much better. He pretended the gun kicked back again, striking another pose as he did. He noticed the more flippantly he held the gun the more intimidating. The less he seemed to care, the more frightening he became. He ended up posing like the posters at a shooting range, the gun held slightly at the side while he stared himself down in the mirror. What was he, seven?

Jeremiah found himself smile a little. The figure in the mirror copied, spreading the small smile. He searched the mirror for a moment, noting a strange feeling from the mirror. Suddenly, the mirror's smile spread wider, slowly but surely. The figure inclined his head, creating a small shadow over his eyes. Jeremiah felt suddenly distant, like he was having a dream. The figure shifted again, the smile becoming broader. Suddenly, laughter sprang from the figure as the gun became more taught in the figure's hand, clicking off the safety.

Jerome pointed the gun at Jeremiah.

Jeremiah panicked.

He squeezed the trigger.

A deafening BANG! rang out, then the sound of breaking glass, and a PING! and CRACK! A rush of air whistled by his ear and both of them rang furiously. Jeremiah ducked and covered his ears in futility. He sat there for several moments his heart beating out of his chest. He didn't hear it ricochet again and stumbled to his feet.

The mirror was shattered. Pieces of glass littered the floor and part of his clothing from the mirror's explosion. The frame was split right open. The concrete behind it now had a bullet hole in it, but the bullet was nowhere to be seen. He twisted around, sure it whizzed by her ear. He found it embedded in a wooden table leg. He tried to pull it out but was surprised when it was still boiling hot. Suddenly, he remembered the gun in his hand. He glared at it, feeling betrayed. He felt the need to fling it, to get it away from him, but stopped out of fear it would fire again. He slid the safety back on and gently placed the gun on the table.

He glanced around, for a second, just a second, he could have sworn that Jerome was in the room. He wasn't though. Was he? He was gone. How did he know? Dead. He'd been dead before. For good this time.

Jeremiah sighed and grabbed his glasses off of the table, "I better get the broom."


Thank you so much for your reviews!

Someone asked about updates: I will attempt, at bare minimum, to post monthly, at best possibly even bi-weekly. Still, I don't have a specific update date set because my workload fluctuates constantly and sometimes I have periods of creative drought. I also tend to write out of order depending on when inspiration for each part hits me. This means that it'll be a little easier going forward, but at the same time, I don't want to skip over important interactions to just get to the next plot point. Hopefully, that makes sense. Ultimately, if I'm out for a long time, I'll update the previous chapter to tell you where I am in the writing process and when I think I'll upload next.

Thank you for reading!