Gotham's Discontent
Chapter Eleven: A Man Called Galavan
In his own cruel manner, Dr. Strange put in his best effort to keep Deedee Valeska away from the community room where during the evening meal, she couldn't give her brother a pleasant goodbye nor a cited apology for leaving him in Arkham. The orderlies escorted her two corridors south down the service exit where even the plausibility of seeing him through the metal, cross-stitched gate remained absent. She couldn't tell Aaron that he wouldn't be getting her desserts or be able to draw her his cute pictures in at breakfast. Dobbs and Greenwood wouldn't be missed; she could take them or leave them, it didn't matter. Partially favorable toward Sionis owing to his protection inside Arkham, Deedee would miss Jerome most of all.
What she would do once her feet hit the pavement, she wasn't sure; all she knew was that the certificate of sanity was clasped tightly in her hand, as the orderlies brought her to the front door. They didn't hand her a change of clothes or shoes, nothing that would give her a winning chance at finding a place to stay without her being easily noticed—and unless they noticed that piece of paper in her hand, they'd have thought that she was an escaped criminal. It was 10:00 PM.
"Kind of rude, isn't it?" Deedee remarked as the door opened to the world outside of the four walls. "You just let people walk out the door without any sort of back up plan to get back on their feet."
"With all due respect, Miss," said the orderly to her right, "You're not a regular person, and quite frankly, the Doc told us that you wouldn't need anything wherever you were going."
"Wherever I'm going?" Deedee repeated curiously. "And where would that be?"
"Wherever your heart takes you," said the second orderly. "Happy trails. Out you get."
Deedee rolled her eyes, but stepped outside of Arkham Asylum, wearing her black and white stripped and torn uniformed dress, bare-footed and unkempt hair falling down her shoulders, absurdly cold from the chilly natural air of the unknown. The door closed behind her.
It was strange. It was quiet. No screaming, no wailing. Lonely, even. Immediately, Deedee thought that she had made a mistake. She had sat in a cell for a year, knowing what would come next each other, knowing that whatever happened—Jerome would be there to crack a joke or crack a few fingers. He was unpredictable, and really, as Deedee stared at the black gates that slowly opened in its ominous sort of way as they had closed behind her when she first arrived, the idea of living a life on her own was quite daunting.
Deedee peered up at the many windows of Arkham.
And…
There he was, peering out of his window at the top story. The red hair, easily seen by the cast of the moonlight against the sheen. Jerome saw her.
Deedee gazed up at him, feeling sad—and a bit scared—as he raised a hand to the window. He waved at her. Deedee slowly waved back. She raised her other hand to show him the piece of paper, which he honestly could have gathered what that was. He couldn't see her close enough; but she mouthed "I'm sorry", on the off chance he might have.
Jerome gestured with a hand: "Go."
Deedee nodded.
Uneasily, she strode through the black gates, and they closed behind her.
Just as they closed, a black van—it must have been waiting, it must have been close, it must have been there the whole time—pulled up from behind her. Deedee's eyes widened at the side doors flew open. Two men in black masks jumped out. Deedee didn't hesitate.
She took off running.
"Aye, girlie, get back here!"
"Part of the agreement!"
"Can't let you leave! Oi!"
Deedee's feet pounded the pavement as fast as she could run, but the two men were faster. One caught up to her, grabbed her by her long hair. Deedee turned—smack!—she slapped him hard across the face and—whack!—She kneed him hard in the groin and he cursed at her as he fell to the ground, uttering a painful squeal. His hand remained latched in her hair, and she stumbled and fell onto him. The second man caught up to her.
"Bit of a firecracker, aren't you! Galavan will have his work cut off with this one!"
"Who the fuck is Galavan?" Deedee remarked, trying to pry her hair out of the first man's vice-like grip. "Get off me!"
The second man caught her around her waist, lifted her clean off his partner and began to carry her like a burlap sack back to the black van. Why isn't there more traffic on the street when you need a witness? Deedee thought hysterically, and she kicked and flailed her arms, but the first man was much stronger than the second. Deedee screamed, but the men didn't bother trying to shut her up.
Clearly, this had been rigged; and Dr. Strange had set her up, not for freedom, but for someone else's agenda. A man named Galavan. The masked man threw her into the back of the van. Deedee scurried to sit up to crawl out of the door like a scampering squirrel—not another cage, not another small room—
"I demand you to set me free!" Deedee said furiously, and she found a metal bar in the back of the van, placing the jutting sharp end to the man's face.
"I don't wanna hurt you, girlie; I got my orders. You are to remain unharmed," said the man who had thrown her into the van. He held his hands out, hoping to coax her rather than to subdue her. "Now I'm not stupid; I know what you can do with that weapon you got there; but if you hear out my boss, I know you're gonna like what he has to say. But I gotta take you to him, you see? I gotta take you to his mansion."
His explanation was rushed, though quite plain. Deedee's hand shook as her fingers tightened around the blunt instrument, but her captors—even the one that she had subdued that hobbled toward the van—seemed to have their boss's good intentions. Deedee suddenly wished Jerome could deal with them in his own way. He'd have chuckled at their story and slit both their throats.
"I," said Deedee through gritted teeth, "Don't. Trust. You."
"Well, quite frankly, I don't trust you neither, girlie," said the second man, dropping his hands. "But I'm just doing what my boss told me to do. Now for safety purposes, I have to blind fold you. You can't know where we're going."
"You're not touching me," Deedee said.
The first man that had taken the shot to the groin, holding his junk with watery eyes through the mask, shoved a blindfold into Deedee's hand.
"Here, then. Do it your damn self."
Deedee glanced between them in consideration.
"Who's Galavan?" she demanded.
"Come on, girlie, I ain't got the time," said the second man tiredly, dropping his threatening persona altogether and rubbing his forehead with a gloved hand.
"Who is he?" said Deedee.
"All he told us is that some big shot doc was gonna spring you from Arkham and that he wanted you," the second man explained impatiently. "Galavan asked for you by name."
Deedee suddenly broke into a smile. Her deposition changed as quickly as her captor. She dropped the metal bar and took the blindfold in both hands.
"Asked for me?" she repeated.
"Yes. That's what I'm tellin' you," the second man breathed. "Apparently, he thinks you're something special or something, I don't know. We're just his lackeys."
Something special. Deedee, interest piqued, nodded. She glanced at the first masked man and shrugged half-heartedly, "Sorry about your balls, man. Honestly," she said as she took the blindfold behind her head, "you really shouldn't sneak up on someone like that. The black van in the middle of the night wearing black masks and I'm a young girl—Looks bad, don't you think?"
"We thought that you'd find it funny or something," said the first man. "You're that Valeska chick, aren't you?"
"My brother," said Deedee, "would have found it funny." She pushed herself into the back of the van. "I don't. But kicking you in the balls was—"
"Don't push it, sweetie," said the first.
"Hey, Ernie, relax. She got you good. Ain't no reason why you gotta be uptight for being beat up by a girl."
"Hey, man, she's psycho. I get kudos."
"Would you two get in the fucking van?" Deedee remarked, placing the blindfold over her eyes. "I want to meet your boss."
"You're a real piece of work, you know that?" said the first man.
"Fuckin' nuts," said the one called Ernie.
Deedee heard the two doors shut, seat belts buckle, and then the van began to move. Deedee sat in the back, arms crossed, humming to herself, knowing damn well that Jerome would have congratulated her for kicking Ernie in the groin—or perhaps he'd actually chastise her for hitting a man in his delicates. He'd probably find that hilariously rude. She wasn't too sure.