You're something beautiful, a contradiction
I wanna play the game,
I want the friction.
Time is Running Out; Muse

#.08

I lay in bed for a few more hours, sobbing and laughing alternately. Just when I'd be convinced that I was completely doomed and hopeless, the hilarity of it all would seize me, and I'd laugh until my lungs ached. At the point where I thought my chest would burst from laughing so hard, I would begin weeping again. Sometimes, frequently, I couldn't be so sure whether I was laughing or crying.

Eventually, I exhausted myself, and just lay there, feeling paralyzed: tears were still streaming across my temples, and I'd give an empty giggle or two at times, but other than that I just fought to breathe. My throat felt too tight and dry. I attempted to get out of bed at long last—promptly screaming as my feet were placed firmly on the floor, and I stood. Fire licked my knees inside the muscles, feeling like glass had been ground into the meat there. Unable to bear my own weight, I fell forward on, what else, my knees. I bit my tongue to keep from screaming again, and tasted blood.

It wasn't just my knees either—though later when I inspected them, the flesh around them was beaten a sore black and blue, which later turned into a yellow-green band of old bruises beginning around each thigh and spread to about my mid-calves. My feet had also suffered from the walk home, which I assumed was how I got back to my apartment. Calluses or no, there was dried blood caked around my heels and between my toes, and a good deal of it had also soaked into my bed-sheets. My ankles were enflamed for a few days afterward, red and swollen.

My fingers splayed on the wood floor as I pushed myself up. Loosing my balance, I tripped again, but clutched a wall in time to catch myself. Determined, I put one foot in front of the other, feeling like a toddler. Swaying, my knees threatening to buckle, I held myself up by sheer willpower. Sweat broke out at my brow, but I held on. I took baby steps to the living room, always using tables, other furniture, or the walls to support myself, trying to ignore the fact that my feet where puffed out about twice the amount they should have been, and were covered in grime and blood.

The pain did not lessen, but after twenty or so minutes of crawling along at this snail's pace, the muscles in my legs began to unwind and stretch. This made controlling my limbs easier, and my balance was making a slow return—but the knives in my shins were still churning and twisting. I pulled open the fridge door, and leaned in.

"Fuck," I grumbled. There was no alcohol at all. I should have known. I tried not to drink at home, after seeing alcohol claim my father. Instead I pulled out the container of tea I had made the other day. I poured myself a glass, and stuck it in the microwave. When that was finished, I carried (at times the hot tea would lap up over the rim of the glass, and searing liquid would fall on my hands, which I considered the universe's way of kicking me while I was already down) the glass, and made it to the couch. Turning on my television, on the screen last night's charity party was being covered. I watched for a short while, long enough to be sure that there was nothing on a woman falling out of a window, or anything of that sort.

Then the reporter took a more serious tone.

"In other news, there is still no lead on the whereabouts of the escapee from Arkham Asylum—the infamous mass murderer who calls himself the 'Joker'." A clip flashed to Jim Gordon, the Commissioner of police, waving away reporters. More extremely hot tea burned my hand—which was when I realized that I shaking, badly. I changed the channel. No matter how many times I pushed the channel button, it seemed that there was nothing on the TV except for reports of rape and murder. On the non-news channels, actors were pretending to be rapists and murderers.

"Someone's fucking with me," I said out loud, and turned off the TV. Leaning back, my head rested on the armrest of the couch. The material of it was sort of itchy, and I thought about how cheap I was. I had enough money to be living in a good apartment, with beautiful furniture and all—instead I went for the low cost stuff. The fuzz of the second-rate couch rubbed my arms, and I decided that it didn't really matter—possessions weren't so important. I did however, have a very expensive computer with high-speed Internet and digital cable on my TV. Those were things I didn't feel obliged to skimp on. As soon as my eyes slid shut (I was so very, very tired) I heard the television hum, and come back to life.

"Oh you son of a bitch, don't do this to me." I opened one eye—more violence on the screen. Reaching for the remote, I shut it off. But then I was sitting up very fast, spilling more tea. I turned the channel back on. Turning the channels very leisurely but purposefully now, I let myself absorb what I was seeing.

Murder.

Rape.

Child molesters.

Wife beaters.

Drugs.

More drugs.

Mob bosses.

Murder.

Drugs.

Rape.

And then, at the end, an old clip of Gordon being questioned about finding and arresting the Batman. "We will find him, and we will bring him to justice. Vigilantes, despite whatever their intentions may be. We will not let Gotham be run by the costumed-" The TV buzzed, and shut off. I released my finger from the power button, and let the remote drop to the floor.

"How convenient." I knew at that point, without a doubt, I was being used. And I would have imagined myself being upset, or at least angered by this, but instead I was… excited. For the first time since my teenage years, I was truly intrigued at the idea of something. The first thing I did was rush to my room, and pull out some large boxes under my bed—more shambling and hobbling than anything. The pain in my knees was superceded, all but forgotten in my sudden knowledge or purpose. I half dragged, half pushed the cardboard boxes into my living room.

Filled with journals, binders, and other personal writings and references, they weighed about forty pounds each. After they were in a satisfactory place, I went over to my bookshelf (which was fairly impressive—books were one of the few things that I bought very much of) and selected a few titles. Each one was on psychic protection, defense, and more importantly, offense. Some of them were in better condition than others, but all of them had very obviously been poured through and analyzed bit by bit, read and reread. I also went back for a couple on subliminal suggestion.

Opening the cabinets at the bottom of the bookshelf, I took out another few binders, full of newspaper clippings, articles printed off the Internet, and photocopied pages of books. Finally, I settled on the couch, surrounded by boxes and piles of my own work and experiences, along with authors that I had found particularly helpful over the years. My knees throbbed away.

Sitting down and feeling my legs press into the old, battered couch, I had the overwhelming gut feeling of not knowing where, or how to start. I was lost, and with every passing second I forgot where I had intended to go. Did I really think any of this was possible—did I really believe that Batman exists?

Miserably I answered with a yes.

But even if he did, why did I think that I could emulate him, or at least his work? What means did I have to become a vigilante? And then I thought about the years after Daniel had left me, and it had been unknown to me at the time, but he left me for this place. I thought about how I had signed up for every martial arts course I could find. I worked myself into the ground between college, studying psychic influence, and martial arts. In all honesty, I had become a machine. I had to, to survive myself, to survive the world.

At the same time that I learned how to break an adult man's neck, I learned how to be just as efficient in executing a term paper—getting to the point, with a perfect, resounding connection. When I began to truly exercise power in mind control (and trust me, you either believe it exists or you're a victim of it), I had found my weapon in dominating both matches and debates. Everything was intertwined with the next—each separate story merged, parted, merged again. That's the only way I survived: by making everything depend on the other, by throwing out spider-webs between my developing and mastered skills, and walking them like tightropes, far, far above the ground.

And when I learned the right places to break a person's body, I mastered the ability to manipulate them, crush them, mentally.

Daniel left me for Gotham so I got crazy into martial arts and the occult. I found Daniel in Gotham, and within that week also found the Batcave. Now I was getting little hints every time I turned the corner or watched TV.

Yeah, here in good old Gotham, I could nail all my coincidences with one bullet: they all politely stood in line, one after another.

Somehow, amazingly, I didn't just survive—success-wise, goal-wise, I positively flourished. I suppose it's because I didn't sleep very much, and all my waking hours were focused on one of those three subjects (that being, writing, martial arts, and manipulation). There was the brief glimpse of a possible social life, but then circumstances of like tore that away too.

I knew what weapons I had here, now.

I was going to do what Daniel ha discovered a decade ago. Somehow, it seemed like everything came back to Gotham. Gotham was the reason I had sold my soul to the occult, to akido, karate, ju-jitsu, kung-fu... Gotham stole Daniel away from me, held him, and was giving him back now that she needed me. Did she need me? Was that the point of this? And if so—for what? Had she finally tired of Batman's policy on not killing those that clearly did not deserve to live—whom then just laid in wait for a few years, like crocodiles in still water, until they could rear their ugly heads again?

I didn't, couldn't find it in me, to resent Gotham then (which I'm sure is the way She planned). I didn't feel that I had any reason to live, and then there was Gotham, reeking of filth, begging to be purged. She was giving me something to do with my broken life, and instead of blaming her for dropping it like porcelain on gravel in the first place, I was grateful.

Where to start now?

-The beginning.

Feeling wondrously filled with purpose, I sorted through my journals, finding the first one.

I'm going all out. I'm a star burning up, brightest before I fall. I'm burning myself up. There is so much happening at once. I'm going to be starting my first martial arts class tonight—I've signed up for so many that I'm not even sure what style it is.

Hours passed—I must have written at least four pages almost everyday. The sun had set. It was so dark that I had started to have trouble reading because I hadn't moved far enough to even turn on the light all day. I came upon an entry several months, maybe a year after the first.

I guess its only fair to explain why I'm doing this—why I'm taking everything that I see as too human in myself, and tearing it out. Sometimes I feel like I'm pulling out the spine of a fish—where all the ribs and other bones are torn out just by ripping out the backbone.

Except when I'm doing this, I'm the fish.

Sometimes I feel like someone has reached in and pulled out my backbone, and I know, I just know that I'll never be able to stand again.

But then I know the cure. I know how to make myself get up in the mornings. I make myself hard, and cold. I make myself into titanium. Everything is concrete, and I tell myself I'll never have a soft emotion.

You don't need a backbone if you settle for a hard enough exoskeleton.

I remake myself out stone, at least three or four times a week.

Maybe I'll go into the police force.

It was very dark now, and I felt something ticking behind my chest, like an imp tapping his finger against my ribs and sternum—wanting out. The creature half spread its wings, and shifted around, anxious for something. I rose for the first time in hours, and then went to the window. It was big, almost ceiling to floor, and there was a ledge that had been transformed into a miniature flowerbed. The outcropping extended about two feet, and beyond that was a twelve story drop.

The pads of my fingers lightly pressed on the windowpane, and my breath fogged the glass. The imp was squirming, pushing my organs out of the way. I needed to be out there. I needed to be out of safety. I needed to plunge into that darkness and feel it washing over me. The devil inside agreed.

"Can't play tonight though," I mumbled. "Haven't got a costume, or supplies." Which raised the question—what would my costume be? What about a cute little stage name? Most importantly, where would I get supplies? How would I design them? Where would I get the technology? I didn't even think about the condition of my body (specifically the lower portion). It was as if none of it existed—there was no feeling, and no pain.

The imp whispered in one ear; Gotham whispered in the other, and both with the same answer.

Steal it.

An image flashed in my mind of Daniel's apartment—his bedroom. The attention of it swerved to the closet.

But how do I get in?

It came to me in a second, and I didn't bother questioning whatever force placed the solution there.

You'll need help.

Indeed.

- - -

My stomach was clenched, wrought with anticipation, as I made my way down the nastiest, most hostile street in the upper-east section of Gotham, not exactly sure who it was I was looking for. I felt alone in my head now—there were no demons clawing at my insides for the time being; the previous one having been placated knowing that I was listening.

I don't know why I choose to come here, but in saying that, I don't think I had much of a choice at all. This place was about as far from my home as I was from Daniel's. Except this area was more or less east from my home, and Daniel was positioned southwest of it.

I was dressed nice enough to not look like a prostitute, but my skirt could easily be seen as marking me for prey. I kept my head down, watched the concrete as I walked, seemingly with direction, but unfocused. The only thing that might have thrown off attackers were the sunglasses I had chosen to wear.

I made sure that I kept along the same side of the street if I saw any possibly threatening characters. It didn't take long before I had the attention of three men, each looking tough, wiry, and in their prime (though a lean and mangy prime it was). When I was sure they were following, I turned down an alley. The only thing really down it was a few back doors, overflowing dumpsters, and loose newspapers. The thin sheets of gray paper blew and rustled, sticking to the sides of buildings in some places. If the hungry hyena-bred men behind me had been any less dim, they might have asked themselves why a lone woman would walk down an alley, a deserted alley. But, they were already tasting blood and fear and control—so easily drawn in because I was making it easy on them.

I let them take hold of me, and make a scene out of it. Every time one of them moved, I saw five different ways to destroy him, and had to remain passive. Instead I screamed and clawed like a cornered cat, but I never struck out. At least, never with any amount of force, just a few feeble shoves and punches. One ripped my purse away, busied himself with that. Another was fumbling with the zipper of his pants, but was having trouble keeping his hand cupped against my mouth. I could have snapped his wrist and snagged his crouch with the teeth of the zipper both in one beat.

The third man was the only one that had me slightly worried. He wasn't a particularly tall guy, or exceptionally well-built, but the malevolence in his eyes would have made me sick to my stomach if I wasn't so acutely aware of my ability to smash his face into the concrete. His blonde hair was shaved very close to his head, and the scars below his right eye told me that he'd had the shit beaten out of him before—possibly against these brick buildings. Then he had a gun beside my temple, and so focused on letting them win I realized that the situation had taken a big step from in-control to spiraling away from it.

I hadn't accounted for guns.

Why the fuck hadn't I even thought about that?

You're such a fucking amateur.

And then number two had his cock out, and all I could do was grit my teeth and think about how bad this was getting. I tried to remind myself what I had been looking for, who it was that I thought I had been looking for. Then I made sure to tell myself once more: I didn't know. I only came because of a hunch.

I came because I thought the goddamn city had told me to.

How was that for a plan?

Well, I'd rather die than-

But then there was a shadow moving very fast, and I had time to throw myself to the ground before the gunshot. In the process of doing this, I grabbed number two by the collar, and pulled him forward. My ears rang as Mr. Gun fired where my head had been a second before. Blood splashed down over me.

In pulling Number Two forward, what I instinctively knew was going to happen, did. His buddy, Mr. Gun, blew off half of his head. The body of a man, younger than me, fell down, jerking and twitching as his brain tried desperately to contact its other half. I blinked behind my glasses. A rush of something like horror came over me, and then a dead, dead cold. So the guy who was intent on raping me was dead. So I had purposefully pulled him into the line of fire, knowing what would happen.

So what?

And then I heard gurgling and spluttering behind me, and the sound of something wet dripping down onto paper. Quickly standing and backing away, I saw the crossbow bolt that had neatly lodged itself in Mr. Gun's throat. His mean little blue eyes clouded, as he tried very hard to lift his arms—he too fell over, but it was obvious that he was going to take a bit longer to die than the unfortunate Number Two. Trying to draw in gulps of air, he was only drinking his own blood. And when he began to cough violently, I knew that he was drowning. In his own blood.

I stood there. Dead cold.

Number Three had taken the hint, and was half-stumbling, half-running away. The shadow dropped down beside me, and I turned—a good deal of blood on my clothes.

"So, why does a young woman in Gotham walk down the street alone at night, and then knowing she is being followed, make her way into an empty alley?" Her voice was smooth and strong. This woman stood easily nine inches over my head, and probably had at least thirty pounds on me. Her outfit was black and purple, and I saw her holding the crossbow at her side. For the life of me, I couldn't remember her name, knowing that I knew it once.

"To make friends." I could see the motion of her eyebrows raising behind the mask.

"Is that so. Well then, I think you'll be disappointed. If you came looking for one of the Ba-" Her voice was so incredibly loathsome that I had to laugh. When I did laugh, she stopped speaking—indignant, but at the same time, unable to walk away.

"I came here looking for you. I was wondering if you were interested in an… ally, of sorts." That sounded awfully weak, even to my ears. But I had a bargaining chip that I knew she wouldn't be able to refuse. Her shoulders tensed up, and she leaned forward, lips curling back in anger. She must not have liked the idea of being led here, and not being one step ahead of the game. Too bad.

"Look, I don't kno-" Sirens began to wail in the distance. The woman paused, and charged right on. "I don't know who you think you are, but I'm not-" They were louder now, and her little speech was faltering. Still, she tried to continue, but with less gusto. "I'm not exactly known around Gotham for playing nice, so if you don't want me to-" They were too near to pass off now. "Come on," she growled, and took a line of cable out of her belt. The piece at the end shot out, arching impossibly high, and catching against the rooftop of a building. The line yanked forward, and she grabbed me by the arm—probably pleased to feel like she had power over the situation.

In a moment we were up and over the roof, and moving west—crossing from rooftop to rooftop with what struck me as surprising ease: it was as if you could get anywhere in this area of Gotham, just from traveling over the rooftops, which more often than not overlapped each other. We had been moving for a decent period of time before the woman ahead of me halted suddenly, and spun around to glare at me.

"So, what is it that you think you're getting from me?"

"Not much, actually. Some support. Most importantly, a bit of training." I nodded my head towards her belt. "Learning to use a jumpline would be nice. Some tips."

"I work alone, but you know, Batman seems to be hiring every other week, so maybe you should look around for him." A particularly smug smiled came to her lips. "But I don't think he'd like to take you in, after that stunt you pulled back there—getting that guy sho-"

"I know who Batman is, so I don't need any of this 'they won't pick me for their team' bullshit from you, thanks." She was stopped cold hearing that. It was clear that she wasn't certain whether to believe me or not. Either way, she realized how bold of a thing it was to say.

"What that supposed to mean? That you know who Batman is?"

"It means what I said." She blinked, and after a moment I added, "Not that I came here to tell you, and not that I will ever tell you." Her dark eyes narrowed; it was clear that she disliked not having the upper hand. The fact that she had chosen to believe me that I knew Batman's identity didn't help.

"So tell me, why should I help you, if you aren't going to tell me? What incentive would I have to train you, and whatever else it is you want?" Long dark tendrils of her hair wrapped around her shoulders, billowing with the light, city-stink breeze. I smiled, and centered my weight. With or without psychic training, I knew how to pitch a deal.

"Because I have two things you want." Behind my sunglasses I saw her loosen up, prepared to hear what I had to offer. Good. "First, you're alone. You want companionship." She tensed again, and I raised an eyebrow. Opening her mouth, I cut her off before she could rebut. "Please, we're both adults. This is a tough area and everybody needs a friend once in a while. You like it that you don't depend on anyone–which I don't blame you for. It's respectable." The woman in front of me preened a bit, somewhat satiated that someone she didn't know existed admired her work. "But if there is no need to be alone, and a competent, capable ally presents him—or in this case—herself, why continue a with a solo flight? After all, Batman has numerous allies, which expand his control of this city. Gotham isn't run just by Her favorite son, but rather by his use of allies, more often than not. Of course, state-or-the-art technology doesn't exactly hinder the cause either. Don't you agree?"

"So, you want to be an ally. Well, I guess I could use my own sidekick, my own Rob-"

"Never a sidekick. I'm not going to follow you around to pick locks for you. I'm offering an alliance. Think about what that means."

We stood there, facing each other off, both more similar than we knew. After a frozen moment of watching each other impassively try to stare down the other, I swear I saw the faintest twinge of a smile hooking the corner of her mouth. She had seen the resemblance.

"There was another thing?"

"Yes. The second term—you train me, give me some room to run, be there to bounce ideas off of, and you get equipment."

"What kind of equipment?" But I could see the ambition shining in her eyes—hoping and simultaneously telling herself not to hope. I drew on the moment of power for a second, feeling that I had all the suspense built inside me as an executioner with an axe. Though I don't suppose they experienced such giddy glee from their work.

"The kind that comes out of the Batcave."

Knowing that I wasn't lying, she threw back her hair over her shoulder, and laughed. It wasn't a very free laugh—tied down at the corners with the weight of vindictive triumph. Holding out a gloved hand, she bared her teeth in a fierce grin.

I met her shake.

"Welcome to the Gotham vigilante ring, …" She paused, waiting for me to fill in my name for her: a stage name, a name that I could use to fight by, and eventually, to kill by.

"Erinye." It came out easily through my lips, and rung true. I hadn't given any thought to the name (other than admitting that I needed one), so I was almost surprised to not find myself stuttering around for one.

"Nice to meet you. I'm the Huntress."