Chapter X- Prayer for the Paranoid
It was dark and dingy. Tall tenements—little more than cardboard boxes stacked on top of each other—towered until they scraped the bruised night sky. Flanked by the pier on the east and docks on the west, it was the Narrows. Sin splayed in every corner, and dank bay air rolled over Ava in nauseating waves. Gagging, she alternated between covering her nose with her sleeve and looking over her shoulder.
So this is why the cabbie was so scared. When Ava told the portly driver her destination, he looked at her like she was insane. He even double checked to make sure that he'd heard correctly. But Ava simply nodded and insisted that she wanted to go the Narrows, having no idea what she was asking for. All she knew was that people had been killed in that area, and there was some connection between that and the bank robberies a few weeks ago—it was enough to go on tonight.
She'd dressed smartly, wearing all black and ordinary trainers that wouldn't draw any undue attention. The taxi had dropped her off at the corner of S 156th and Pacific Place.
Wherever that is. Surveying her surroundings, the dim streetlights shone on the dark alleys and scantily clad women dotted every corner. The possibilities were endless, and though she left to get away from Harvey, she wished for the specific location of the murders.
Ava had no idea where to begin, so she set off towards a bar with a few hooded figures clustered around the front door. Truth be told, she wasn't nearly as nervous as she anticipated. The Narrows weren't much different from Harem Cove back home, the only difference being the foul water of Gotham Bay. But it was still a place to be careful, especially because she had only a folded viper knife in her left pocket. Sure, some considered it extreme, but she took no chances—things could get ugly fast, no matter what city or area you were in.
Making sure her footsteps were as quiet as possible, Ava neared the bar and ducked behind one of the walls, praying they wouldn't see her. Acutely aware that she couldn't waltz up to them and ask for directions to the nearest clown-faced criminal, she flicked the button on her voice recorder and listened in on a conversation three of them were having. Someone's gotta know this guy.
She poked her head out to get a good look at them.
"They still in there?" asked one. He was dressed in a black sweatshirt with the hood up and tattered jeans. Big surprise there. What did catch her attention was the long black bag he was holding. She thought it was a garbage bag at first, but looked closer and saw it had a zipper. Ruling out the initial possibility, she was left with only one more: a body bag.
"Yeah. It's a bloodbath in there," replied the other, who donned the same outfit. "Boss is still waiting for them to finish up. Takin' way too long if you ask me. Don't take that long to kill a man."
The first guy laughed, truly tickled. "What'd he give 'em?" Ava slid the recorder's volume higher, now intensely curious as to whom this boss could be.
"Broken pool sticks." She shuddered.
"That's more than my first time. He gave me nothin' and pit me against four bastards twice as large."
"Brutal."
"Whatever gets the job done, right? With a new crew, we can—"
The arrival of a third man stopped the goon's sentence. Dressed like the other two, only his face, or lack of one, was unique. Under the streetlight, Ava could make out the clownish features on his face and strained her eyes against the darkness. When he stepped into the bar's dingy light, she got a clear look—it was a mask. With a paper white face, blue rimmed eyes and scratched yellow circles on the cheeks, it was unmistakable.
A clown! Ava clapped a hand over her mouth to stifle a gasp and slid her phone from her pocket. Steadying her hand as best she could, she lifted it and snapped a photo with the phone camera, praying they wouldn't notice. Harvey was right. The import this would have on her story was enough to make her cry out, so she pushed it to the back of her mind and focused on remaining hidden.
This is gold.
"Boss wants you inside now. It's time to clean up." The masked thug snorted at the bunched body bag. "You're gonna need three more of those."
"Who won?" piped one of the men; Ava wasn't sure which.
Won? What the hell could they possibly win that requires broken pool sticks? A puff of cold air left her mouth, and she shivered.
"The one I bet on," snickered the masked man. "You owe me twenty bucks."
"Damn it! I really thought he was gonna die! What, with the way he was crying and all. "
All three thugs laughed and went inside. Confident that this was what she needed, Ava inched away from her wall and moved in on the bar. It was quiet on this block, and if she could sneak against one of the building's darker walls, they wouldn't see her. It's worth a shot. She hurried, feet slapping the pavement with a soft scuff. Panting in equal parts fear and excitement, she crossed the street and closed the distance.
The Alibi, she thought, reading the faded sign and making a mental note. How fitting.
Now shrouded in darkness, Ava allowed herself to relax. She didn't dare make a sound as the first man dragged an oblong body bag from the rusted doors. Taking another picture, she crouched and waited for the other two, but she'd never see them. As if to spite her luck, her phone gave a short buzz of warning before bursting into its intemperate ringtone.
"Can I wake you up? Is it late enough, is it late enough?" screeched the device, Ava's ringtone for Pam echoing through the alleys.
"Shit!" cursed Ava, fumbling for her cell. Slamming the silent button, she checked to see if the goon had heard it—he had. More than that, he was looking around for the source of the noise.
"Hello? Who the hell's out there?" Ava assessed him—a tad taller than her with a scrawny build and fear in his face—she could take him if necessary. He pulled a switchblade from his pocket and she let out a silent breath—he didn't have a gun. Still, fear surged in her chest as he neared her hiding spot, now calling for his buddies and his boss.
Ava weighed her options. Either she could try and fight him off and keep investigating or she could run and get the hell out. She knew how to fight, but dancing with death wasn't something she was willing to risk. With a flash she made up her mind and took off, stuffing her phone and recorder into her pocket. She bolted, now hearing the footsteps of men behind her.
"Get back here!" roared one; she recognized the voice of the masked man. Heart pounding, she pushed further into the dark side street, praying it'd let her out somewhere safe. Shrieking, she stumbled on the uneven asphalt and heard a thud as her wallet fell from her jacket.
Damn it! Quickly, she stooped and clutched it back to her, swearing as some of her cards fell out. She'd managed to put some distance between herself and the group, but they'd split up and she could hear a leader giving directions.
"You two, go down there. We'll cover the rest and find the dumb bastard!" The two were hurrying down her street and Ava rushed to pick everything up. The footsteps were getting closer, and she could see one of the guys point in her direction.
"Hey, there he is!" Ava's eyes widened and she ran doubly fast, narrowly dodging the garbage dumpsters and ducking the lowered fire escapes. She looked ahead to the end of the alley and pushed harder—there was a semi-lit street on the other side. The men were on her heels, shouting and screaming for her to halt.
The hell I will!
Stopping for nothing, she ignored the rising pain in her chest and skidded out of the alley onto the lit street. Glancing behind her, she saw no sign of them and allowed herself a slight smile—there was a train station just ahead. Sprinting, she shoved her hands into her pockets, bounded down the entrance stairs, and hopped aboard the University Row train that was pulling into the station. Sitting down on one of the bright orange seats, she gave a mixed cry of relief and shock.
Ava slid into the seat, exhausted limbs melting on the hard surface. Eyeing an older woman, the only other person on the train, she explained herself with two words and a weak smile.
"Rough night."
Gazing out the window, she was happy to put the Narrows behind her. The scene outside was gradually returning to what she knew; Wayne Tower stood watch in the distance. Before she could truly put her mind at ease, Ava's phone rang again, forcing an irritated growl from her throat.
This better be good… she thought, glaring at Pam's name on the screen.
"Mel, what could you possibly—"
"Hello, is this Ava Madden?" The voice on the other end of the phone was definitely not Pam's. It was sweet, but held an authority that gave her pause.
"Who's asking?" Once, a guy had gotten her number from the Sun and called her for five days straight about running a story on his pet shop. She finally agreed to visit and found a store filled not with cats and dogs, but with something much scarier—hairy spiders. There were hundreds of glass cages housing all sorts of the eight-legged freaks. After she ran screaming from the shop, contacted her boss, and changed her number, Ava resolved to never again give her name out by telephone.
"This is Doctor Landry Taylor of Gotham General Hospital. Are you the roommate of Miss Pamela Isley?"
Ava's heart dropped and her mouth went dry. "Y-yes. What's wrong? Did something happen to her?"
"Your friend's been poisoned. She's stable, but we need you to come to the hospital as soon as possible."
She couldn't even say anything; no words came. Poisoned—eight letters that made no sense. The word bounced around in her head, but she couldn't comprehend it. Questions came next, one after the other, all incomplete. "Who would—why would—how—"
"Miss Madden, I know you have a lot of questions, but I can't answer them over the phone. I trust you know the hospital's address?"
"What do you mean you 'can't answer'? My best friend's in the hospital and you barely tell me anything about what's wrong with her!" shouted Ava, tears threatening her eyes. She didn't even want to think about what could've happened to Pam.
"Ava," answered Doctor Taylor patiently. "I understand you're frustrated. But the law keeps me from disclosing her condition over the phone; getting angry with me won't cure her. Now, the hospital's on 50th and Wesson, just outside the old University. Come right away, and call 735-828-4589—that's my direct line. I'm truly sorry you had to find out like this, but her condition's…unique."
Ava gave her a weak 'thank you' and hung up before the doctor could finish. Head razed of all thoughts, she sat dumbstruck on the train, wishing the damn thing would move faster. She considered calling Harvey, but decided against it. The only thing she could think to do was pace.
So she did.
Walking the length of the train car, she tried to steady her nerves, but the word wouldn't leave her alone.
Poisoned.
"Did you catch him?" It was clear from the frightened looks and slight trembling in the men before him that they hadn't. Still, he quizzed them—it was fun watching them squirm; none of the six men answered. He rolled his eyes and tapped his foot, hand shoved deep in his pockets. His favorite knife nestled in his palm and he casually flicked the handle and waved it in front of them. The scanty moonlight glinted off the blade and the men took a step back as he neared them with it.
"Can't you hear?" laughed Joker, the nasal whine an octave too high. He tilted his face, black paint hiding his eyes. With a scarlet, scarred-over smile, he bared an uncanny resemblance to a demon and he could smell the stench of fear as it rolled off the grown men in front of him. "ANSWER ME!"
His hands twitched and a collective gasp rang out as they stood like scolded children before a strict father. Honestly? He just wanted an answer, but no, they had to make it difficult. Crane can't work fast enough… After that, they'd be mad past the point of return.
"No one? Maybe you know?" he asked, pointing his knife at the skinniest one of the bunch—it was the tryout winner. The idiot was shaking in his shoes with a vice grip on the body bag in his hand. He shook his head desperately, as if that would make things better. Joker seized him by the neck and cradled the back of his head with his free hand, his purple leather gloves stroking his hair mockingly.
"God no, please! I didn't see nothin', I swear!"
"God?" cooed Joker, dull side of the knife caressing the goon's cheek. "God can't help you here." He forced the terrified henchman's mouth open and rested the blade against his tongue. Screams of protest followed, and Joker shushed him, seizing the thug's chin in his fingers. "But since you can't give me what I need, looks like you won't need this anymore."
"Don't!" exclaimed one of the men from the crowd. Joker raised a brow and saw Grumpy, frowning mask and all. The man was a schizophrenic—he'd shot ten men at his office because the 'voice of God' told him to. One of his most loyal followers, Joker knew his one weakness—hemophobia. Of all things, the man was afraid of blood, and he'd trade anything to avoid the sight. "I-it wasn't a he. Me and Dopey found a card in the alley we chased her in. She was long gone when we got to her."
Isn't that fun? He couldn't imagine any woman that'd dare come near the bar, besides the hookers. But he'd warned them off after he carved a smile into one of the girls. Who'd possibly be stupid enough?
"What'd you find?" Joker ground out, maintaining a firm hold on thug's head. Grumpy hesitated, and he rolled his eyes. "Don't keep me waiting."
The goon hurriedly brought a card from his pocket and held it out to his boss. Joker snatched it and silently read it over.
Ava Madden
Journalist, Blud Sun
735-521-6342
His brow furrowed at first; then he laughed. It was a quiet chuckle, but quickly morphed into a jagged, high-pitched cackle that deafened the thug and made the other guys wince. "Again?" he mused, staring at the text. "This is one special girl."
She wants to play hide and seek?
Not only did she have the audacity to publish a story about him, but then tracked him down? Something didn't smell right, and it wasn't the bodies on the sidewalk. There was no way she could've gotten his location without help—no average reporter could. GCPD prided themselves on keeping the reporters out, so he had to work harder to cause chaos that the vultures would hear about—a gang takeover in the Narrows didn't rank as one of them. So how does she know?
He filed the thought away, right next to the 'plans' he had for his new gang. The panicked whimpers of the man in his clutches jerked his attention back to the present. The fool was slobbering now, his mud brown eyes watering in terror. Joker looked at the slimy trail of drool on his leather glove and frowned.
"Aw," he whined, the dark anger in his voice all too evident. "These were new gloves!"
He's too weak.
Grumpy, sensing what would come next, decided to beg for the matchstick in Joker's clutches.
"Boss, he clearly don't know—"
One look from Joker quieted him. Silent and malicious, he growled so dangerously it made the goon cower.
"I'll deal with you later," called the demon over his shoulder. "But for now, I think we'll get to know our newest member. What's your name?"
The knife was still pressed against the man's tongue, but he tried to answer. "T-Tywer."
"Tyler? I like that name. What's your favorite word, Tyler?" Joker bared his teeth in a false smile and breathed hot on the gangster's face; he pressed the blade harder against his mouth. "Come now, don't be shy!"
"Money."
Of course it is, thought Joker. He has the IQ of a shotgun slug. It was a shame really. He cast a glance at all the thugs; they were all in it for the money, so much so that it was all they could think of. There was no chaos for chaos' sake, and it turn, Gotham had become a predictable place, filled with idiots who thought crime was only a vehicle for profit. There was a principle behind it all, one he intended to teach them, beginning with this cowardly idiot.
"Good choice! Would you like to spell that for the class?" When he hitched, Joker brought the heel of his leather oxford down on the man's shoe.
"M-o-n—"
"That's enough!" He laughed, digging his knife into Tyler's fleshy tongue and holding his head still. The thug thrashed, and Grumpy cried out as bright red blood splattered across Joker's white-painted face. Carving efficiently, he ignored the cries of the man, his steady hand successful in its attempt. Within thirty seconds, Tyler's tongue was severed from his mouth, leaving him with a gory stump and bloodied teeth.
The other men gazed in horror; Grumpy vomited on the sidewalk. He shoved Tyler—severed tongue and all—back to the crowd, who recoiled in shock. Joker shook out his limp half-green hair and stalked toward them, muttering to himself.
"This isn't for the money. We're performers for all of Gotham." He walked through the parted crowd toward a van, the tail of his purple trench coat trying to keep up. Waving emphatically, he made a point to shove a man who'd gotten in his way and kick him in the ribs. "They've gotten so bored with these gangs—'the bad guys kill people and sell drugs for more money'. Now, they think they understand. But they don't—they can't. Not until they feel true fear; the stuff that'll make 'em hide in their closets and check under their beds. "
"Boss, where are—"
BANG! BANG! BANG! Without warning, Joker whipped around and shot Grumpy thrice—twice in the chest and once through the head.
"Told ya!" he laughed, tucking the gun into its holster. He rarely used the 9mm, but he didn't have time for knives right now—there was work to be done and knowing him, he'd get too caught up in torturing the sorry bastard. Lower, he ordered: "Someone get him cleaned up and put in a bag."
A driver hurried ahead of Joker, scurrying to make it to the oversized van before he did. The driver, one he'd worked with before, knew exactly where to go and after the other men and corpses were loaded into the trunk, sped off to the offices of Doctor Jonathan Crane. Only broken yelps of pain from Tyler broke his concentration, and Joker watched the Gotham night from his window.
It's all part of the plan.
A thicket of trees stretched as far as Pam's eyes could see, tops so thick that couldn't see the sunlight; every sort of leaf, vine and flower adorned the vast expanse. Vibrant petals clung to every surface and the languid, dulcet scent of fresh buds lingered in the air. Unsure, she questioned her own senses and reached out to touch a hibiscus nested in the fork of an elegant willow. She gasped as the flower transformed into a flitting hummingbird, green and pink and impossibly fast.
The whole thing looked like a page out of Pam's childhood dreams—a garden as far as the eye could see.
Though delighted with the space, something drew her to the eked path that was strewn with a carpet of multicolored blooms. Curious, she wandered down the road clad in only her hospital gown, bare feet twining with the high green grass.
'What time is it?' She didn't know. There was no sense of night or day, only a chorus of faint whispers.
"Pamela." She whipped around, searching for the source of the voice—there was nothing. Stumbling, Pam continued down the road which appeared endless under the verdant leaves. It was odd. Though she had absolutely no idea where she was, she wasn't afraid. The space felt familiar, almost inviting.
The trees kept shifting, forming a fork in the road at one moment and guiding her left at the next. After what felt like an eternity of meandering, she heard the voice again.
"Join us," it rasped, the trees and flowers leading her to a lit clearing just ahead. Pam hesitated, but couldn't stop; the vines and trees blocked the path behind her, leaving her no other direction but forward. "We've been waiting for you." Something akin to a fire in her bones impelled her to run toward the open space, a desperate yearning flaring in her heart. Sprinting, she finally rushed through the clearing and shrieked in relief as she left the suffocating forest.
"H-hello?" whispered Pam, eyes searching wildly around the lush garden for a sign of someone, anyone. "Where are you?"
"Here," hissed the voice again. She turned in the sound's direction—there was nothing but an old gnarled tree.
"Over here." With a short yelp, she looked again for a person—a bed of wild tulips and poppies swayed in the gentle wind.
"WHERE?" Pam screamed, suddenly terrified. There was no one in sight, and the soft breeze quickly switched to cold gusts that whipped her legs and arms. Instead of answering again, leaves and vines churned a violent vortex that deafened a scared Pam. They slowly took shape, the brown branches assembling into a crude skeleton, with short sticks for fingers and long boughs for bones. Leaves of all shapes acted as skin, bound by flaxen reeds.
Petals and long green grasses acted as hair and the being vaguely took the shape of a human with a red rose mouth and blue iris eyes. Pam yelled in fear and backed up, tripping over her own feet and landing in the grass. The plant-woman walked toward her, its ephemeral, haunting voice raking every coal of fear in Pam's chest and setting them ablaze.
"W-who are you?" demanded Pam, rooted to the spot.
"Tsk tsk," tutted the creature, cornering the frightened doctor against a looming oak. "I am you, Pamela—everything you were meant to be. I am the trees that give you shade in summer; I am the flowers you grow in your home. I am water, I am sun—I am Nature."
Pam shook her head in disbelief. 'Nature?' It couldn't be. This was a dream, and she could just close her eyes, click her ruby slippers and—
"Take my hand. You cannot run from me, Pamela." The plant-woman offered Pam its spiny fingers and its face twisted in something resembling a smile. Pam's face contorted in fear and she shook her head, willing the dream to end.
"No! You're not real! I'm hallucinating, I'm ill, I'm—"
"Enough!" bellowed the being, barely controlled. "You can't escape who you are. Do you really think you're human, with all your friends and studies and fancy papers? No. You are a member of my family, Pamela. How dare you refuse your mother's love?"
Pam screamed again, and pushed past the sweeping arms of the creature, bursting into a dead sprint as she ran through the forest away from the plant-woman. The forest fought tooth and nail to restrain her, the vines and flowers trying to ensnare her; she barely endured scratches from the thorny thicket of trees. The light at forest's end was dimming, but Pam pressed on, determined to leave this nightmare behind.
Panting, chest on fire, she pushed through the closing window and into the shrinking light on the other side.
I hate hospitals, thought Ava, wringing her hands and eating a spoon of hours-old cherry jello. The ammonized, overly sterile scent of the hospital assaulted her nose, the acrid air burning her lungs. It was four thirty in the morning, and she looked almost as haggard as she felt. Hazel eyes glazed with exhaustion, skin pale with worry, she was a dreadful sight. In the course of a night, she'd been reduced from a master of her fate to a shaken little girl.
For the last few hours, she had waited anxiously by Pam's hospital bed; there was deathly silence in the room, eased only by the constant beeping of her vital machines. Pam's breathing fell evenly, and she looked almost peaceful, red hair spread in a messy halo above her head. Ava had called Doctor Taylor's direct line, but she hadn't shown yet—only a few nurses came in to check her blood pressure and record it.
Damn doctors. No one had even come to fully tell her what was wrong. All she knew was that Pam had been poisoned. The latter stirred, her eyes twitching beneath their lids and her hands grabbing fast to the sheets. Strangled whimpers escaped her mouth and Ava rushed to Pam's side—it was the first noise she'd heard out of Pam since she arrived.
"Mel," called Ava desperately shaking her limp arm. "Mel can you hear me? Wake up, wake up it's Ava!"
Pam answered with another moan. Her ECG monitor chimed faster, and Ava's eyes bugged as the delta waves on the screen flattened into a straight line. She was no medical genius, but it was obvious that Pam was going into cardiac arrest.
Ava wasted no time and yanked the room door open, calling into the hospital hallway. "Nurse! Help, she stopped breathing!"
Almost instantly, a team of four pushed past her with a crash cart and began work on Pam. Ava looked on guiltily, afraid that she had been the cause of Pam's heart attack. A few stray tears fell down her face as she waited for the redhead to breathe again. And though she tried not to think of it in those brief moments, the question inevitably crossed her mind: What if she doesn't?
Luckily, the doctors were more objective. After the second 'clear' had been given, Ava heard a loud, frantic gasp and gave a cry of joy—Pam had begun breathing. The beeps soon stabilized, and Ava felt the invisible weight lift from her chest.
All the nurses left the room, but the team's doctor remained. She couldn't have been much older than Ava, but her eyes held a hardened realism that seemed off kilter when contrasted with the sunny voice that left her mouth.
"You must be Ava," assumed the woman, holding out a hand; Ava shook it. "I'm Doctor Taylor; we spoke on the phone. Sorry I didn't come to meet you before, E.R's full to the brim tonight."
She wasn't happy to see the doctor. Hell, she wasn't happy to be in the building—she only wanted Pam to be okay. With all that they'd been through, Ava couldn't bear to think of losing the closest thing she'd ever had to a sister. What would I tell Aunt Viv? What would I tell Harvey?
"Nice to meet you," she lied.
"Yes, well I wish it were under better circumstances. Do you remember what I told you on the phone?"
Ava looked at a slumbering Pam; the pinched pain was gone from her face. "She was poisoned, right?"
"Correct. But not just any poison. This one's unlike any one we've ever encountered."
Ava stared dumbly at Doctor Taylor. How unlikely could a poison be? They were all the same, all did the same thing—paralyze.
"What was it, Doctor? Roofies? Chloroform? What?" growled Ava in impatience. She wasn't angry with the doctor, but at that moment, she didn't care who she took it out on.
"Neither," answered Doctor Taylor, voice level. She was genuine, and Ava immediately felt the urge to apologize to the woman who'd been nothing but helpful. "The treatments for those two are fairly simple. This isn't a typical poison. It's more of a toxin, made up of complex chemicals, some of which I haven't dealt with since med school."
Toxin? Ava was instantly confused. Pam would never intentionally put herself in an environment with anything toxic. She was firmly opposed to anything that could potentially mess with her mind—even alcohol. How the hell did she get around a toxin?
"What're you getting at? Are you trying to tell me she can't be saved?"
"No no, nothing like that; we're not the city's number one hospital for no reason. It just means that we have to alter our approach—Pam can't go home anytime soon. We'll have her moved to ICU and set up in a room. I'll have to keep monitoring her condition."
Anytime soon? The words punched Ava in the gut—Pam was her Gotham, her family. She helped her navigate the streets and learn the city that was starting to feel like home. To be without her was to be without light in an endless night—lost. A sharp tug of sadness reared at the thought of losing her best friend, but Ava stuffed it down and concentrated on Doctor Taylor. If she'd been able to work magic with defibrillator paddles, with any luck she'd be able to cure Pam.
"Okay," breathed Ava, straightening her clothes and composing herself. Though frazzled, she calmed at the sight of Doctor Taylor. She seemed so sure, so strong—something Ava would have to be for Pam. "Okay. What can I do?"
"Get some rest. You've been here since one, and it shows. The best thing you can do is be strong her, and you've done that—you're here. But now, it's time to go home and take care of yourself. I'll call you tomorrow when she's more stable." Ava nodded and stared at the ECG monitor.
Tomorrow. That would be a task unto itself. For now, she'd put all her energy into getting home in one piece before another crisis broke. Taking her jacket off the uncomfortable vinyl chair, Ava moved aside as another group of nurses moved Pam to ICU. Cheery colored scrubs and plaintive smiles, they had Pam's monitors and IV's removed before Ava could protest. One by one, the machines were carted out of the room, down a bright-lit hallway and into a service elevator.
Pam was stirring again, and Ava's heart leapt a little. She practically shoved the nurses who were moving her bed and beamed at the sick redhead.
"Mel?" Ava could hear the nurses calling her away from the bed, but Doctor Taylor stopped them. She glanced over her shoulder and offered her a silent 'thank you'; the doctor gave a soft smirk.
Pam grunted in pain and slowly opened her eyes—they were completely bloodshot. But what caught Ava's attention was their vibrancy. Pam's eyes had always been green, but never like this. These were so vivid they bordered on neon; Ava was taken aback, but her assuring smile never wavered.
"Hey," croaked Pam, feebly squeezing her hand. Ava almost broke down right there, but held it back; there'd be time for that later. Now, she needed to be strong.
"You okay?" Instantly, Ava scolded herself for her stupidity. Her best friend was laid out on a hospital bed after being poisoned. Of course she's not okay. Pam tried to laugh, but it manifested as a strained cough. The nurses closed in again—Doctor Taylor stopped them.
"Yeah," she mumbled, a hint of laughter on her brow. Ava brushed the stray hair red hairs from Pam's hot face and nodded.
"Good. I'll be back tomorrow. Hurry up and get better, alright?"
The nurses footsteps were closer this time, and Ava stepped away willingly. It'd been so hard for her not to ask Pam the twenty questions she desperately wanted to. Who did this? Where were you? What's their address? After they rolled a semiconscious Pam out of the ER, Ava left the room alongside Doctor Taylor. Tomorrow.
The doctor tried to make small talk, but it registered as broken chatter in her mind. Ava did her best not to seem rude, offering half-hearted replies at the proper times. At the bustling, overly-decorated entrance, Ava looked at the sky. It was still dark, but hints of the day ahead showed on the horizon. Wayne Tower and the antiquated buildings of the old University filled her sights, further reminding her that she was on her own in the city.
"Thank you, Doctor," said Ava, leaving the kind woman behind in the foyer.
Doctor Taylor waved politely, and shouted out after a retreating Ava. "She's going to be fine, you know."
Ava gave her a grateful smile and left the hospital, running down the stairs and hailing a stray taxi. Getting in, she closed the door and rested her head against the car seat. A deep, quivering breath spilled from her mouth and she let few tears fall. Exhaustion was finally catching up, and she earnestly wished to be home. The fleeting night fell over her with sudden heaviness, forcing a cry from her throat.
Too many thoughts crowded her mind, each demanding her full attention, but she only voiced the darkest one.
"I'm going to kill whoever did this."
A/N: This was a chapter of songs! The chapter title comes from a 90's Mojave 3 song I adore, and Pam's ringtone is from Bombay Bicycle Club. Small details, but I wanted to fold some of my favorite music into the story. On an unrelated note, this is the first fanfiction I've ever gotten past eight chapters!
So gracias to all for reading, favoriting, alerting and enjoying. Most of all, thanks for the reviews (especially the anons).
That's all I've got for now. Chapter 11 should be out sooner than usual (the writing bug's bitten me).
Til next time,
~L.L.