Sorry it took so long; I wanted this chapter to be perfect (but I'm sure I've missed plenty of problems). I took The Original Fiction Mary-Sue Litmus Test for Taylor/Claw and got 20 points: The Non-Sue! Yay! I hope it reigns true. Things will start to get a little more intense from here… Not graphic, but intense.
Orange and Black
Chapter Four
Be not afraid of greatness: some are born great, some achieve greatness, and some have greatness thrust upon them.
-William Shakespeare
Sleet feel from the blackened sky over Gotham City's oldest family home. In sight of the main city, on an island at the perfect angle to study the labyrinth of slums, stood a silhouetted Arkham Asylum; it's crumbling walls, mismatched with old and new brick, resounded with the cries of the insane, evil, and a few geniuses. The island was miniscule compared to the city, and the mansion the asylum occupied spread over practically every inch of the moss-covered rock. There was a filthy feeling about the place: something that was both repugnant and frightening. Even the rain seemed contaminated- acidic, filthy.
As the sky's tears formed crowds in front of the main gates, two spotlights-brighter than normal high beams-exposed the greenery, the seasonal grey and ugly browns, surrounding the road to Arkham Island. The spotlights grew larger and reflected off the sleek black vehicle; the aptly named Batmobile squealed to a halt only three paces from disaster. There was a release in air pressure as the car door opened upwards, like something cheesy from Back to the Future.
Gotham's infamous gargoyle, a caped crusader, emerged from the car door, slamming it shut, and proceeded through the iron prongs chained together to form a vicious looking gate; The Dark Knight didn't bother to close the gate as he glided into the intensive treatment building. Outside the door, there were two beat cops and an elder man waiting with umbrellas and coffee; the elder one, Commissioner Gordon, shoved his steaming cup into the hands of the nearest cop and grabbed his hat as he scurried after The Batman.
Drops of rain flicked off the sleek black cape and make a trail of crumbs for the commissioner to track. Batman walked through the lobby, ignoring Pearl, the Warden's personal secretary, and pushed his way to Cell Block 7. As he nodded to Pearl, Gordon almost smiled at her desk nick-nac: a small translucent sign that read You don't have to be CRAZY to work here-but it HELPS.
The vigilante's cape fluttered behind him as if caught in the wind as he took meaningful strides towards the end of the hall; he knew his destination. Gordon took long almost tiresome steps after his-well, one wouldn't call them friends but...
His thoughts ran dry at the sign to his left, he was moving so quickly it was a miracle he managed to make out what it said: Dent H. 0751. The further the police commissioner moved, the more he craned his neck to glance at the former district attorney (DA), Harvey "TwoFace" Dent; the criminal looked pale, sickly, and his hair was black, greasy, and matted on one side, while wild, white, and messy on the other.
The proper side of his face, all that remained of the DA, was hardly the recognizable handsome face Gordon had once known. The other side was purple, scared with acid, and horrifying as ever. The twisted side's mouth pulled back and around the model white teeth in a gruesome smile. The eyelid pulled a similar maneuver, exposing the eye and preventing Harvey from ever blinking again. Gordon never bothered to have it checked, but he sometimes wondered if Harvey still retained sight in both eyes.
Realizing his pace had fallen behind The Batman's own, he jogged back to his position behind the flapping cape. After rounding a corner, Gordon stopped abruptly to prevent a collision with the Dark Knight. An Arkham security guard, Lyle Bolton, saluted the vigilante and unlocked the steel door labeled Name Unknown 4479.
After Batman strolled into the cell, Bolton slammed it shut and locked the door. No such thing as too careful.
The Batman didn't flinch at the loud sound, his focus was only on the cell's occupant; engulfed in shadows, The Joker sat in a chair while playing a game of solitaire with his signature cards; his face only barely visible.
There were these two guys in a lunatic asylum…
The Batman snatched up the only other chair in the room and abruptly sat down at the other side of the table.
FNAP. The Joker snapped another card to the stack closest to the door.
"Hello," growled The Batman, "I came to talk."
The Joker didn't pause in his game, but said nothing. FNAP. He picked up yet another card.
"I've been thinking lately," Batman continued, his voice gruff and raspy, "about you an me. About what's going to happen to us, in the end…We're going to kill each other, aren't we?"
FNAP. Gordon flinched at the sound as he watched from behind the bars, outside the door.
Batman kept talking, growing ever more agitated, "Perhaps you'll kill me. Perhaps I'll kill you. Perhaps sooner. Perhaps later. I just wanted to know that I'd made an attempt to talk things over and avert that outcome. Just once."
FNAP. Batman's fists clenched.
The vigilante snatched The Joker's hand, forcing the criminal to stop his game. Batman growled, "Are you listening to me? It's life and death I'm discussing here. Maybe my death…"
The Joker snatched back his hand, clutching it as if he was in pain… Batman was still riled up, and continued his speech, pointing accusingly at the Joker, "Maybe yours. I don't fully understand why ours should be a fatal relationship, but I don't want your murder on my…"
That's when The Dark Knight noticed something odd about Joker's hand, still clutched by it's counterpart. There were smudges. Batman turned his hands round, and saw white smears on his glove.
"…hands…" Batman's voice trailed off, then his head snapped up as he leapt up and reached out, snatching the criminal's face and pulling him forward.
"H-hey…" came the clown, finally speaking up as Batman pulled his face into the light.
"Hey! Wait a minute! Don't touch me! I got rights! You're not allowed to-" The imposter cried as Batman held him still, his make up wiping away at Batman's touch.
"Where IS he!"
The Joker-imposter cried, "Aaaaaaaa! Oh, God! No-!"
"Do you REALIZE! Do you know what you've set free? WHERE. IS. HE?"
Gordon started from behind the door as the criminal screetched, "EEEEEEEEGH! Get him offa me!"
"Dear, God," Gordon shouted at Bolton, "He's gone berserk! Open that door, Bolton!"
The more the criminal screamed, the more Bolton fumbled with the lock. The moment he got it open, Gordon rushed inside, "Okay! That's enough! You know the laws regarding mistreatment of inmates as well as I do!"
Batman paused in the assault, and the poor man whimpered. Gordon breathed angrily, "If you harm ONE hair on his head-!"
"Commissioner," Batman said, venom lacing his words, "if you're concerned about it, it's yours. Take care of it."
At the sight of the Joker imposter, Gordon froze and his jaw dropped; Batman turned his attention to the inmate, "Now, you whimpering little smear ofslime, I'm going to ask you politely ONE. MORE. TIME.
"WHERE. IS. HE?"
\~~~~/
The Monday after…
Not that she was a saint, but never before, not once in her entire twenty-one years of life, had Taylor ever said more foul things than she did that morning (in fact, she was sure she invented several of them.)
Granted, Taylor was alone and whispering to herself, wrapped in her Captain America comforter on that "glorious" Monday morning, but that somehow didn't make it okay. To top it all off, the one time Maggie wasn't there to wake Taylor up, the sun had woken her up instead as it peaked through the make-shift curtains.
You might remark that one could always get up and close the curtains, but, like the previous night when Taylor had thrown herself into bed, further movement was an impossibility. How did Batman do it? Or even Batgirl? What was the secret to not, well, feeling like crap after a massive butt-whooping by Mystery Masked Guy #1.
They DON'T get their butts whooped, THAT'S the secret, Taylor thought bitterly.
The young protagonist was so tired when she got back, she'd forgotten to remove her mask, or even wash the blood off her body. Thanks to this sad fact, she found out a little practical math the hard way:
Blood + sleep = unhappy Captain America comforter
Disgusted, but perfectly content, with her sedentary state, Taylor laid in her bunk staring at her broken alarm clock through the serrated mask. If she ever got up, she should probably get a new clock…and send her uncle a thank you email for paying for the damages in the dorm wall, which until quite recently sported an alarm clock shaped hole.
Using all the will she could muster, Taylor thrust her arm forth, hindered by immediate pangs of reminders of her recent failure, she wrapped her fingers around a black rectangle next to her cracked alarm clock. Pulling the cell phone to rest in front of her face, she ignored a missed call and read the time: 6:00am. Her arm, still clutching her cell, fell back to her side; if she didn't get up now, Taylor feared that she might never do so again.
Forcing herself up was torture, no doubt behind it. There were parts of her body throbbing that she didn't even know had gotten hit; then there was the sections of her body that she knew would have the worse of it and they certainly did. Slowly reaching up and pulling out her ponytail, Taylor let her hair hang in her face as she pealed off her mask and costume from the night before. Making sure to place the colorful costume back in the black trunk in her closet, she skimmed her closet for something comfy.
Only after she had put on underclothes and a large Gotham U football mock-jersey, the sound of knuckles against wood reverberated throughout her dorm room.
Taylor called out in request, "One second!"
Grabbing a pair of jeans and sliding them on she thumped against the door for balance.
"Who's there?" she called.
"Gotham PD," grumbled the voice. Taylor froze, second leg halfway into her pants. Oh, no: this was it. Claw was done and Taylor was going to jail. Her first thought was to run, but she dismissed it immediately: in her current state, she wouldn't even make it off campus.
"Hello?" came the gruff voice of the police outside.
Taylor was shaking as she yanked her pants on and buttoned them. "Hi," she word-vomited lamely.
"Look, Ms. Riot, I got places tah go and paperwork tah write-"
Taylor jerked the door open, "Okay," she gulped, "let's get this over with."
The first thing she noticed was the gold badge accented with antique finishing: Major Crimes Unit. The next thing was the man holding it; he certainly wasn't what she expected.
Dressed in one of the most untidy, coffee stained suits Taylor had ever seen, dirty and balding severely, stood a burly man; he had five o'clock shadow (a few hours early, might we add) and what was left of his hair was greasy and matted.
"'ay, Ms. Riot, I'm Detective Bullock with the Major-," His face changed to that of surprise, "Jeez! You okay, kid?"
In alarm, Taylor shushed him, "Could you possibly keep your voice down?"
Bullock rose an eyebrow, making his shock at her appearance look more like mild disgust. With a exasperated sigh, Taylor stepped to the side and ushered the detective inside.
"What happen'd?" Bullock questioned in his clearly Queens accent.
"What?" She said out of reflex as she quickly but quietly slammed the door.
Bullock paused, as if she were stupid, "Your face, kid? What happen'd?"
Her jaw fell slack for a moment and she suddenly understood he wasn't here to arrest her; if he was, he'd have known all about her exploit's the night before…right?
"Oh, um…," Taylor stumbled ungracefully back into reality, "Oh-I-um…uh-fell."
"You fell?" Bullock's hint of sarcasm and a pinch of smart-alic gave her the hint that he didn't buy it. Was she a moron? Of course he didn't believe that! What in the world was wrong with her? Stupid, stupid, stupid!
"Wha-wha-wha-well, no, bu-b-b-but I-um…" She continued to rack her brain for solutions, "Why're you here?"
The abrupt question surprised Bullock as he stood in the center of her and her roommate's messy dorm.
"You mean you haven't noticed?" the burly man re-rose his eyebrow in question.
"What? What, in God's good name, have I not noticed?" Taylor huffed, way too tired to deal with word-crap from Officer Butthead.
"Um…" he scanned his pocket for something, then pulled out a notepad. Taylor repressed a sigh of impatience.
"Your roommate," he checked his notepad again, "Maggie Brown?"
Taylor's arms uncrossed and her visage morphed to horrified worry, "Oh my God, what! What happened? Is she okay?"
Bullock's own visage changed as well…to sorrow. Taylor's eyes widened and she felt weak. What happened to Maggie? Was she hurt? In jail? Worse?
"Um…" Bullock stated sadly, "Her body was recovered-"
"Body?" Taylor repeated in dying whisper.
"-from central park…" Bullock focused his eyes on his notepad, so he wouldn't have to watch poor Taylor break apart, "She was murdered last night around eleven t'irty. Did you-"
"Bu-but wha-how'd-I-don't-wha…?" Taylor trailed off, mind spinning so fast, she didn't even realize it when her butt hit the cluttered floor.
"Ms. Riot?" Came the muddled voice of the detective, "You okay?"
"Why did-who?" Thousands of questions suddenly required asking, but she kept changing her mind on what ones were most important. Bullock knelt before her and held her shoulders.
"Listen, I need you to calm down, Ms. Riot, okay? Calm down."
Even his voice was reassuring. She finally formed a coherent sentence, "Do her parents know?"
"Yes." He sounded saddened, but she knew he'd seen many cases like this one…
"Ms. Riot, you need to tell me when's the last time you saw your roommate," Bullock said calmly, something that sounded difficult for him.
Friday morning. That's the last time Taylor had seen Maggie. Why hadn't she notice her absence? Vanity? Had Taylor been so wrapped up in her own life that she hadn't noticed one of her friends was gone?
"Friday, at Ballet," Taylor stammered honestly. Maggie was a Dance Theater Major, where Taylor was a Dance Education Major; they had many common classes.
"And what time was that?" requested Bullock, retrieving his notepad and scribbling down everything Taylor said.
"Um…mid-day? I guess around one thirty or two…"
Bullock's pen paused it's scribbling, "Did she ever return here?"
"Not sure," Taylor said a bit too quickly, "I mean…I came back a little after eight in the evening, so she could've gone out by then."
"Do you know where she went?"
Taylor thought for a few moments, "After class, she said something about some frat party. She could have gone there, I guess…"
"Anything else?" The detective asked, eyes unwavering from Taylor's face.
The red-head's eyes snapped away from his, glancing towards the right in thought. What had Maggie said? The frat party… and something about a guy, Jesse? Yeah, it was about Jesse and Mark. Truthfully, Taylor hadn't been paying much attention; she was too focused on herself for that, an unforgiving voice reprimanded her.
"Talk to Mark Kyle," Taylor said, "Maggie follows…followed him around like a love-sick puppy." Taylor smiled sadly at the thought, "He'd know more than me."
Bullock nodded and scratched more ink across his notepad, "And where were you Friday night?"
"I got mugged," finally came Taylor's lie, a decent one too, but of course it came barreling out of her mouth at the wrong time.
Bullock was a hard sell, but eventually accepted her claim and who could blame him? Taylor certainly looked like she'd been mugged. When he asked why she'd never reported the crime, she said taken a few of her own words from Friday night, "I didn't let him keep the cash he stole."
As Bullock left the dorm room, no longer a two-occupant, he tunred around and held out his hand. In between his fingers was a white piece of cardboard.
"If you think of something else, or you need to talk, call me from this number-" he gruffed.
"How did she die?" Taylor interrupted, not looking at him.
Bullock sighed, "Trust me, kid, you don't wanna know. What memories you got with your friend, those are the t'ings you wanna remember. Not this ugly mess."
Taylor nodded and took the card. After closing the door, she suddenly felt uncomfortable with the room she stood in. Maggie's side of the room, dirty, yet cleaner than Taylor's, stared the red-head girl right in the face.
Taylor fell to her knees fro the second time in the passed few days, only this time, there was no one to comfort her.
Hum... at least I included the part with Batman. Anyone versed in comic land knows what is sure to come. Anywho, Maggie's death DOES have a purpose. We shall find the killer and make him/her squeel like a pig! Muah-ha-ha! What'd you think? Should I try harder with the Bullock and Taylor scene? Want more imagery with the Batman scene? Let me know!