A/N: Hi again! No particular note today, just that we're getting into delirious stuff here :)
Enjoy!
Winnifred warily looked down the streets. She has been coming back to Gotham for four days now, trying to find the right streets. And of course, she did not take into account that there are multiple Warren Streets in multiple regions of Gotham, and that there were even Gotham slums, or the island, with at least three Warren Streets.
Winnifred nervously cracked her fingers. The subway speedily tore her towards these Gotham slums. Four days were less than enough time to get used to the frightening, towering skyscrapers, buildings, cars, and faces. The glooming slums scarily increasing behind the windows did not promise anything good either. The subway jerked and stopped. Winnifred felt the unpleasant taste of vomit on her tongue.
The grim, taut houses followed Winnifred with their eyes. Winnifred lowered her eyes down, trying not to attract anyone's attentions. Lonely cars passed the road, yet Winnifred didn't want to hitch one. The drivers alone looked...dubious.
Winnifred glanced at her map of Lower Gotham. The streets were listed all right. Winnifred looked to her sides. Two alleys stretched right and left. Seventh Avenue. Bella Street. Both gone from the map. Winnifred angrily stuffed the map into her pocket and resumed her walking. The polluted air clogged her throat, stretching its strained blanket over her lungs. Winnifred coughed blood into her palm. Damn. She quietly cursed under her breath and halted. Stepping back to her wall, graffiti staring back, Winnifred rummaged through her purse, trying to find the box of pills. She accidentally yanked it too much, causing the purse and its contents spill on the ground. Winnifred hastily lowered down, picking up the handkerchief, pocketbook, and pill box off the slightly red asphalt and straightened back up. Quickly biting the pill in half, Winnifred thoughtfully observed the graffiti on the brick wall. It looked something on the mix of SMILE in pink FUCKING LIFE in yellow and WELCOME, GUYS, FREE ROAD TO HELL! in red, the exclamations points in orange. There was also a weird caricature. Winnifred shrugged and swallowed the pill.
"Miss?" Winnifred almost dropped her purse. A dark auburn haired, young lad was smiling back at her.
"Yes?" Winnifred cautiously responded.
"Are you looking for something?" Stalker.
"No," Winnifred curtly answered and started quickly walking in the other direction. Carrot Boy hastily caught up with her.
"Hey, miss, I know you."
"Magnificent. You have further alienated yourself from me." Winnifred tightly fixed her beret with one hand, eyes searching for a gate away.
"Miss. There is someone who wants to see you." Winnifred slightly slowed down. This person can mean everything to her - either good or bad.
"Who I wonder?" She instead played. "You?" The Carrot Boy delicately blushed.
"No, miss. Does the name Falcone say anything to you?"
Damn it. They caught her.
"No." Winnifred turned the corner, slamming right into a dead end. Shit.
"Strange. Didn't you uncover him?" Shit. Shit. Shit. Stay cool.
"Okay, fine," Winnifred whirled around, scaring the poor lad. "I busted your boss. Well, tell your lovely sire that if he wants to speak with me, he'll have to come right up to me instead of sending some not-so-subtly flirting youngster."
Carrot Boy stumbled back, eyes wide open.
"C'mon, I'll wait right here, at this spot," Winnifred sneered. "Oh, and by the way, is your name Nicholas?"
"N-Nicky," Carrot Boy stuttered. Winnifred widely grinned, hating herself at this moment.
"Well, I busted you also. Mister Millard, remember?" He fled. Winnifred pressed her wet hand over her sweating forehead and carefully looked over the corner. Nicky was out of sight. Winnifred fled.
She ran as fast as she could manage in her square heels. She won some time, but her lack of streets greatly compensated her improvised escape route. Winnifred sped around the corner, knocking into another dead end. Winnifred wheeled on her heels and ran on the opposite alley. Breath knocking out in gasps, increasing her pace Winnifred desperately fumbled with her pockets, trying to read ANYTHING on the constantly shoving, jumping, changing map. Subway to the right. Winnifred sharply turned, noticing the train. Winnifred tossed the map away, giving all she got. Suddenly, her heel jotted into a rock, sending her flying on the ground. Her knee skidded on the asphalt, tearing her stockings, and scraping of the skin off her palms. Winnifred frantically got up, racing towards the subway. The doors shut in her face. A strong, Italian mixed with Chicago accent rang out behind her back.
"I see why Heath was friends with you, Miss Freddie."
Winnifred felt a deep sigh and fear burst inside her lungs. She led it out with a quiet damn before slowly turning around. A tall, grey haired man with a round belly, probably in his early fifties, in a white tuxedo broadly smiled at her.
"Good day, Miss Freddie." Winnifred lifted her eyebrows, trying to stop the shaking threatening to overtake her knees.
"I'm glad that you realize that I don't like being addressed by a third party, Signor," she paused,"Falcone." The Roman smirked.
"Quite a hubris for someone so low of your level."
"Depends on how the level is set, signor. I think the position of a simplistic woman is morally higher than that of a complex mafiosi."
"Morally," Falcone snorted. "Mistake number one. No one cares what you think morally."
Winnifred bit her lip, sweat soaking the collar of her coat. He was too good.
Falcone noticed the tense loss of words on her face and smirked.
"Cigarettes, miss?" Winnifred lowered her gaze at the pack he was holding. It was Heath's. Winnifred looked back up at Falcone and wordlessly knocked it out of his hand. The dangerous smile dropped off his face and the mafiosi slowly sucked the air. The cigarettes rolled on the ground next to their feet.
"A subway platform is not quite fit for our conversation, miss," Falcone coldly said.
"We are going to have our conversation where I want to," Winnifred quietly replied, fingers gripping into her purse.
"Then you better want what I want," Falcone sharply retorted. A limousine pulled over the street. Humid, sticky sweat drops rimmed the inside edge of Winnifred's beret as she helplessly followed Falcone into the car. A leathery, new smell hit her in the nose. There was another man in the car. He had a rifle. Winnifred nervously glanced at it, before transferring her gaze at Falcone, sitting across her.
"So," Falcone tilted forward, elbows resting on his knees, fingers intertwined with each other.
"I know what you're doing these past days. And I want you to knock it out." Winnifred lifted her head upwards, choosing her words. An iron fist squeezed her stomach, juice trickling in between its metal knuckles. The back of her head suddenly ached, as if the bullet already passed through it.
"If you're so afraid of me finding Heath, does that mean that I almost found him?"
Falcone chuckled, looking to the side. Suddenly, the man pointed the gun at her. Winnifred's heart rattled in the rib cage. Falcone looked back at her, merriment gone in his eyes.
"Only fools have such loose tongues like yours, Miss Freddie. And let me tell you. I don't like fools." The man cocked the gun. Winnifred stiffened, afraid to breath. Shaking as if in a fever, she desperately tried to tell her brain to tell her heart to stop pounding. A minute passed. Falcone suddenly flung open the door. He jotted his thumb outwards.
"Get out."
Winnifred quickly scrambled out. She heard the door flung shut behind her and the starting engine. There was a roar and the whistling of the wheels. The limousine was gone. Winnifred harshly pulled off her beret, messy, damp hair falling on her face. The entire part of her forehead covered by the beret was coated in sweat. Winnifred wiped it from her face, tears smearing with sweat. There was a rumbling sound of the upcoming subway train.
*After leaving Heath, Johnathan stood for a while in the empty street, before tucking his coat closer to his body and walking away. Heath's swollen scars flashed in his mind, like neon lights above a bar. Why didn't he think to advise him to get some ibuprofen? That would at least take away the swellness. Johnathan sighed and, squinting, glanced at the building in front of him. Arkham Asylum. A strange feeling of stifled curiosity and trepidation shivered on the reflection of his eyeglasses. The building's shadow looked over the road, wind dragging the leaves in front of him. So what if he gave him ibuprofen? Heath would refuse and kindly let him no that he doesn't care a fuck about his scars and neither should others…. Johnathan turned around and walked in the opposite direction. But he could still feel the disappointment treading after him like a dog.
The city was quiet today. The cars occasionally blurred past Johnathan, but it wasn't the same six o'clock Gotham when every driver seemed to lose their mind and race as if the last time in their lives. For some it was the last time in their lives. Johnathan stopped at a crosswalk and looked forward. Collins wanted him to start teaching in the Gotham University while continuing his practice in the hospital, before slowly transferring to the university. Johnathan did not like the plan, but his opinion wasn't asked. The crosswalk glowed green, and Johnathan stepped down on the road. Then again, with him transferring to Gotham, he could conduct his experiments easier. After all, who would care if he borrowed a bum from the road? Winnifred would be horrified. Johnathan bitterly smirked and quickly running up the steps and opened the university's door. The heavy smell of wood and books stepped before him. University days of rushed before Johnathan's eyes; loud, uncomfortable parties on the floor above his room, lonely days, hiding hypnotized roommates in the broom closet. Dr. Collins was already waiting for him, hands placed behind his back. When Johnathan entered, the doctor turned around and quickly walked towards him.
"Crane, you're here. How did your presentation go? I thought it would end earlier."
"I had some places to get to when it ended," Johnathan replied, deciding to omit the part where he literally explored the Gotham slums to find Heath.
"Well, come earlier next time. It's better to start early with these folks. Follow me."
Johnathan walked through the open door into the conference room. There were only two professors inside. Johnathan quickly looked around before transferring his eyes at them. One of them was dressed in a grey suit, the other one in brown. The latter was cleaning his nails. Collins and the professor greeted each other. Johnathan nodded. They sat down. For a while, it was quiet, the provincials and the city dwellers examining one another. Johnathan's eyes involuntarily lowered down; he felt that he was going to burn from awkwardness. Damn provincials. Collins clumsily cleared his throat.
"Uh...this is Johnathan, Johnathan Crane," he turned in his seat and gestured towards the intern. That one gave a quick, tense smile, eyes shooting up at the professors.
"He's our best," Collins continued, gaze going from one professor to another. "Since his speciality is a bit out of the hospital range, we were thinking that he could stop by and share his knowledge at this university."
"Did he finish his doctorate?" Grey-suit interrupted. Johnathan immediately sensed a foe. So did Collins.
"He is working on it," the doctor answered after a second's hesitation. "He has finished the writing portion and is on the presentation stage."
Grey-suit leaned back in his chair.
"We take only doctors."
Johnathan indifferently shrugged his shoulders.
"As far as I remember, Kramer was a magister when he taught neurology and didn't even think of getting a doctorate."
The room elapsed into silence. Collins nervously chewed on his lips. Brown-suit continued to pick on his nails. Grey-suit leaned forward, folding his arms on the table.
"Kramer didn't teach a mainstream subject. And for a mainstream subject you need a doctorate," he spat. Johnathan smirked.
"I wasn't planning on teaching a mainstream subject. That would take up all my time."
"What is your speciality?"
"Phobias. Creation of fear and its intoxication on the mind. Quiet relevant for the students who have a phobia of teachers catching them smoking cannabis."
Collins's collar was obviously to tight. Grey-suit drilled Johnathan with his bright green eyes. Johnathan answered the professor with a calm gaze, thinking of the time when he placed his toxin instead of cannabis. That was one of his best experiments ever.
"We'll consider it," Grey-suit growled. Johnathan politely smiled and stood up before Collins.
"Good day, gentlemen."
"Can you afford to cut down on your witty remarks?" Collins snapped as soon as they walked out of the room.
"They wanted to shut me down before they even learned what I was teaching," Johnathan retorted, eyeing the students walking past him. If he's lucky, he'll have to teach them. Johnathan clasped down the thought and focused back on Collins.
"They said they'll consider it."
"No they won't," Collins scoffed. "Not after you talked back to them." Johnathan sighed, not wanting to get into an argument. He hoped that at least his remarks would free him from his job; he wanted to visit Winnifred.
"Do you need me today?"
"Yes," Collins harshly replied. "We have to perform a surgery on a tongue. Quite fitting to teach you what happens when you use it too much."
Johnathan pressed his lips, but didn't say anything.
Dear Freddie,
Heinrich Henry whatever got me his job. Nothing special. Running a gun shop.
Jack got a compassionate release. It didn't even hurt for him.
It's hard to speak.
I need money. Not that I need need it, but it would be nice. And they make good money at that biathlon.
Heath looked up over his triangle shaped glass of whiskey. That old guy brought him to some scummy, underground club. Heath did not know why he did that. He was probably bored to go alone. Or his scars would bring attention which Heinrich might want.
The light for the orange, hanging lamps gave off a dim radiation from the smoke. Barely audible music, the clinking of glass, loud laughter, rough, barking voices. Some were dressed extremely well, tuxedos and gowns like that. Mafiosi. Heath was disgusted. Point a gun on 'em and there goes all the lofty air. Heath suddenly wondered what would happen if you blow them up. The fireworks must be spectacular. The vibrant hues of the ladies' dresses would make a grand explosion of colors in the sky.
"So are you going to drink or not?"
Heath blinked and glanced at the young woman who handed him the glass. She had a frivolous dress with a low cut in the front. Her high cheekbones complemented her jotting out complexion. Heath shook his head and gave the glass over to her.
"No." His vocal chords strained to go over the aching mouth. His voice came out as deep and slightly rough. The woman shrugged. Heath noticed how her eyes nervously skim over his face. Heath smirked and started going through the crowd. The woman followed him.
"Where are you going?"
"The bar stand."
"You just said that you don't drink."
Heath made it to the cramped bar stand and sat down. The bar tender immediately popped up next to him.
"Your order?"
"Heineken beer." The bartender momentarily disappeared, before sliding over a large glass of beer. Heath slapped the cash Heinrich gave to him and turned around to the woman. He wordlessly handed her the glass.
"What's your name, love?"
"Lucy," she answered in surprise before taking a sip. "How did you know that I like Heineken?"
"You drank it last time I was here."
"Oh," Lucy took another sip. "So you were watching me?" She asked slyly. Heath smirked, eyes wandering around the room. The analogy of fireworks came back to him.
"I don't think that's a compliment." Lucy climbed into a chair next to him, crossing her right leg, sliding out of her dress, over her left.
"What are you thinking about?"
"Fireworks," Heath absently answered, looking around the guests.
"Fireworks? Oh, there are great fireworks on the Fourth of July. They do it right in front of the city hall-"
"Not those kind of fireworks. I was thinking that if you blow up this entire place, how great the fireworks would be."
Lucy stared for a moment, then erupted in a loud, slightly hysterical laughter.
"God man, I knew you're nuts," she chuckled, beer splashing in her glass. Heath bitterly grinned out of politeness, but didn't say anything. Suddenly, there was commotion in the room. The crowd moved backwards, clearing the space. The bar tender placed a table with borders all around the side right next to the wall, about eight meters away from crowd as well as a round cage without a bottom. Inside was a crow, a light chain wrapped around her claw. The chain was fixed to what it seemed a ball, light enough for the bird to move around, yet not enough for her to lift it up. The crow wildly thrashed against the cage's bars, feathers ruffled in fear. The crowd excitedly whistled. Heath leaned close to Lucy.
"Is this a kind of sport?" He quietly asked. Lucy nodded, sipping on her beer.
"Yeah. Shoot the crow. Prize of five thousand dollars and public respect. No one except Ramey can get it. Just watch."
The crowd suddenly hushed. The bar tender expectantly held out a small gun?
"Well?" He cunningly asked. "Who's first?" A young lad jumped out.
"Me!"
"Very well," the bar tender obediently handed over the gun. The lad positioned himself eight feet away from the table, waiting for the cue. The bar tender walked over to the cage and held its top.
"Ready..." he purposely slowly said. The lad nervously nodded. The bar tender abruptly lifted the cage.
The crow surged up, frantically flapping its wings. The metal chain strained and snapped the bird back down. The ball violently rolled across the surface at the crow's movements. The young lad aligned the gun, trying to catch the crow's motion. The crow screeched, its case blending in with the hoots of the crowd. The dim lights illuminated the beads of sweat on the lad's forehead.
"God, will he shoot already?" Lucy muttered. Heath gave her a corner glance. Suddenly, a shot rang out. For a moment, the crowd was silent, listening to the the undisturbed caws of the crow. Then, it erupted, booing and humiliating the lad.
"Next!" The bar tender happily proclaimed. A woman volunteered this time.
Heath quickly got the idea of "the sport". You had to shoot the crow. The trick was that the target was always moving, at lightening speed of an alive creature desperately fighting to remain alive. Three people went, all futile. The crowd was becoming more and more impatient, mocking the contestants from the start. Some weren't able to shoot. Heath noticed that a slick looking man in the corner was watching the entire processions with growing, animal like satisfaction, cigar smoking between his fingers. Lucy caught Heath's glance.
"That's Ramey," she quietly explained. "He's waiting for the high stakes." Another unsuccessful shot rang out. Ramey suddenly parted from his corner and walked out in front of the crowd. A sudden hush fell over the people, as they watched, as if hypnotized, how Ramey lazily cocks his gun. The crow went hysterical. It was cawing anymore, simply violently thrashing above the table in all directions. Ramey aligned his gun, squinting one eye. The strained silence was disturbed only by the barely audible pounding of the crow's heart and the flapping of her wings. Heath felt sweat trickled down his back.
"I can do it!" Heinrich, drunk to the core, suddenly tumbled out of the crowd. Lucy closed her eyes in disdain.
"That pathetic creature. Misses every time."
"I can do it!" Heinrich grabbed the gun out of coldly amused Ramey's grasp and re-cocking and cocking the gun again shot into the air. The crow fell on the table. The crowd, prior exchanging disgusted glances, breathed out in shock. Lucy spilled the beer over herself.
"See?!" Heinrich triumphantly shouted. "I did it!"
The crowd suddenly surged up, blood trickling down from its foot over the metal chain, and ravaged with an even greater vigor. Ramey wordlessly took the gun away from Heinrich whose eyes seemed to be popping out of their orbits and aimed. Heath suddenly caught himself counting down. Three...two...one...A shot shook the atmosphere. The crow fell down on the table, dead.
The crowd triumphantly roared, people clapping Ramey in the back, ladies fawning over. The bartender, smiling to himself, swooshed the bird into a trash bin and carried it away. Lucy victoriously whooped and took a large gulp of beer.
"Told yeah! Ram wins all the time. Hey, Ramey!" She waved to get his attention. The slick mafiosi noticed her and made his way through the crowd.
"Hey there, dolly," his voice was slick and stretchy as well. Ramey came up to Lucy and curled his arm around her waist.
"You did great," Lucy beamed in his grasp. Ramey smirk, scanning Heath, wordlessly watching the crow being taken away, from head to foot.
"What clown did you find Lucy?"
"I don't know," It finally dawned on her that she never asked his name. "Hey, buddy, what's your name?"
Heath blinked, returning to reality, and turned to them.
"Doesn't matter, does it?"
"Are you new?" Ramey squinted, picking up an elegant glass of champagne from the waitress.
"I don't remember seeing you here. Are you an Arkham guy?"
People started gathering around them. Heath, looking for something in the crowd, glanced back at Ramey in irritation.
"Excuse me?"
"Arkham," Ramey broadly grinned. "For loonies." The drunk crowd around him chortled. Heath smirked, starting forward, walking past the mafiosi.
"Missed it, gun guy. I beg your pardon," Heath gallantly said, making his way in between a woman in a long dress and accidentally stepping on her hem. Ramey, unfortunately, followed, Lucy flanked on his side.
"Who do you work for?" Heath sent him a chiding look.
"Not you. Anything else?"
"Yeah. Why are you sitting on my girl?"
Heath snorted, dying inside from laughter.
"Keep her. I have my own." Lucy's eyes grew wide like apples. Ramey said something else, but Heath didn't hear him, knocking the back door close behind him. The trash was dumped on this lonely alley, stench steaming off the asphalt. Heath's eyes scoured the broken glass bottles, punctured cans, towels, scraps of paper, corks, plates, plastic forks, confetti until he found what he needed. Heath lowered down on his knees, taking the dead crow into his hands. The cold, messy feathers softly brushed his palms. The bullet singed right through the crow's breast, grey ash neatly piled on the circumference of the black circle. Heath abstractly stared at the dead bird. What if all of this was a dream, starting from him entering Falcone's restaurant to him suffocating in these hypocritical, disgusting bars? So if this is a dream, this crow is alive, with a beating heart and flowing blood! Heath scrambled up to his legs, his entire body shuddering. There was only one way to check. The muscles in his forearms tensed, conscience and reason pulling on them. So? If she's dead, then she'll fall to the ground and won't feel anything because she's dead. If she's alive, then she'll fly away. Heath hesitated and then threw the crow upwards into the air. It made a neat parabola before plopping on the ground. Heath stared at the corpse he just threw. Suddenly, immense hilarity bent him over. He. Thought. A corpse. Was alive. ALIVE! Hysterical laughter broke from the swollen lips, tearing the face into one like those devilish grimaces drawn on the cards.