Ernestina, Eris, Aequitas: to obtain that which is just we must ask that which is unjust.
August 25th
06:21 EST
Harvey James Dent Memorial Parkway
I left the Fringe early this morning in an old hardtop loaded down with plastic explosives, IR goggles, the rocket launcher, my AK 47 and ammunition for both. I spent the night in that empty hardtop, rain pounding down like machine gun fire on the roof.
We wept together, the night and I.
I left the slaughterhouse, realizing this was the first time I had killed and not enjoyed it. Stalton's death still stained my hands and my conscience. This is the first time I have killed unfueled by anger. I feel neither righteous nor vindicated. Which damns me most, I wonder, idling in early morning traffic as the sun's first rays peeked around Gotham's skyline, hazy and watery through the still rising clouds of dust and smoke, six days later. Finding release in death, or killing in cold blood…
I am 32. Single. Childless.
I am sitting in Commissioner Loeb's office, waiting. Two city police showed up at my door this morning, and brought me here with hardly a word. I am beyond nervous. I am beyond caring. Let them send me back to Memorial. It's less than I deserve…
I sit for hours. But suddenly from this dark Hell I am awoken.
The door opens, and I start: Jim Gordon! His hair is grey, his face, lined. He is still soft, mild-mannered. My mouth has fallen open…I have risen awkwardly, and I don't know whether to cringe or smile. It is so good to see a familiar face…anyone, anything! A desperate laugh dies on my lips as I remember we did not part on the best of terms…and I have begrudged him bitterly these six long years.
He sits next to me, but before I can speak, the door opens again.
"Ah! Dt. Paltron!" The Commissioner enters and extends a slender hand, shaking mine firmly. "So glad you could make it."
Gordon stirs, shooting the Commissioner an intense frown. He refuses to make eye contact with me. I wonder if I care, and decide I don't. The resentment I left him with still lingers.
"What's this about?" I ask. Detective? I have been wary of the GCPD for six years, cutting all ties. A dirty cop—a rogue cope—is worse than any offender. And my record is the worst of all. What can they possibly want from me now?
"I've been reviewing your file," Loeb says briskly. "I need to be frank with you: I'm impressed, officer. Truly impressed. Military service, four years of street experience…a shooting record that has Smithson in SWAT reeling. You're the perfect candidate," he looks at me over folded, business-like hands. "We currently have one hundred and four open positions available for an officer of your rank. I'm inviting you to apply for any of them."
Bullshit. My chest tightens in anger. Is this Gordon's idea of a joke? I disguise my sneer in a polite smile. These two unfeeling men have the power to make my life even more miserable. I must humor both of them. "You forgot the psychological profile labeling me as an unstable, homicidal maniac and the charges of sexual misconduct."
"Charges which were, I have been led to believe, dropped shortly thereafter?"
For a long time, I simply stare at him.
"Four months later," I state. "Sir."
"Correct," Loeb says, opening my folder again. "I've also spoken with Harvey Dent—your former attorney, on the details of the case. This whole WATCHDOG project was his idea," his black eyes bore straight into mine, pinning me still. "I believe Detective Gordon testified at both your trials and was influential in your release."
"Yes," We whisper together, Gordon and I.
"Then let me explain," Loeb leans forward across the mahogany desk. "I need officers. Good officers. Ones I can trust against corruption, ones willing to serve their city because she gave them a second chance. I can't find many, and I need more. This—" here he lifts my file, a brief glimpse of Harlene Quinzel's signature on an Arkham letter head, "was a one-time incident. Even the best men make mistakes, and the better the man, the more glaring the error. You were a damn good officer once, Detective Paltron. WATCHDOG wants you back. Gotham needs you back. I'm willing to start you in at your old pay, give you your old job back if you will take it—and if Gordon is willing to vouch for you."
I am shocked and silent. Loeb patiently waits my answer. He is confident. He is quick. He doesn't fuck around with courtship…
I bite my lips. Rejoin the force? Redeem myself?
For six years I have been numbed to pain and emotion. I have given up hope, waiting only for the day when Angel turns eighteen so I can see him again. But is there another light in this purgatory? Do I still…feel? Yes, I realize. I feel pain. I feel shame. Gordon would never vouch for me if he knows what I have become. And even Angel—my Angel!—would shudder and turn away.
I want this. I want out. I can feel the badge in my palm, the holster around my waist, the weight of the Kevlar on my shoulders…I look at Loeb and he is Art Jamison. A second chance. Forgiveness.
I turn to Gordon, trying to meet his eyes. I want this. I need this…Jim, please…
"No." Gordon whispers.
"Gordon—" Loeb says in shock.
"No!" Jim Gordon barks, standing abruptly. He faces Loeb, then turns to me, his voice softening. "I'm sorry, Paltron, but that's my only answer."
Loeb dismisses us both.
"Don't you walk away from me!" I shout to Gordon's retreating back. "Don't you dare, don't you dare walk away from me! Fucking face me!" I run in front of him, blocking his way, my barred teeth inches from his taciturn face.
I am shaking in humiliation and disgust. For nearly a minute, the only sound in the echoing atrium is my shallow, ragged breath. Finally, he answers me.
"You're a Killer," he elucidates slowly. "An unusual Killer. You could've just shot those men, Paltron, but you chose to torture them instead," his sad eyes never waver from mine. "I will not be responsible for that."
He shoulders past me. I let out a small scream of rage. He stops and turns back, pity written on his worn face. For one shining moment I see a younger Jim Gordon, not a partner but a friend, concerned and holding me in my tears…
"Take care of yourself, Paltron," he whispers.
Take care of yourself. Stalton's parched lips said it, too, around the ashes of a dying cigarette. But just what the fuck is it supposed to mean? I reflect, parking the hardtop in a dilapidated garage and winding my way down the coiled staircase. Is it significant? Or could it simply be coincidence?
The warm rays of the rising sun bathe my face even through the Legacy's aftermath. I need breakfast, coffee, and a newspaper to mull it over.
August 25th
07:02 EST
Starbucks Coffee
Fuck. I am coughing into a napkin, choking on thick strings of mucous. In the three minutes it takes for my latte, the thin paper is soaked through and congealed with a sickly yellow slime. I toss the disgusting napkin in the waste bin, shuddering at the bitter, tasteless residue in my mouth. I burn my tongue on the scalding coffee, desperate just to taste. I sit, silently damning my illness, and open the paper.
JOKER!
The word is in all caps, four-inch font, and bold. For a moment I am reminded of 'The Great War,' more than a century ago. I half expect the paper to yellow and crumble in my hands…But no, there is no Franz Ferdinand, no German Empire, no Lusitania…there is only the Gotham City Star laying silently in my lap, Angel's killer laughing up at me, his scarred face twisted into a sneering smile.
I skim the article, my coffee forgotten.
ERIS UNLEASHED
by Cameron Shaw, Associated Press
Gotham City Police confirmed last night that the Joker is again at large…escape cited to negligence…officials are currently investigating as to how the Joker might have fled the premises…heavy flow of emergency victims on August 19th partially to blame…system unable to hold the additional strain of 300 trauma victims. "It is with our deepest regret we announce that the patient known as the Joker has escaped from the maximum security ward of Arkham Asylum." Dr. Harleen Quinzel—
I stop and read the name again. That bitch, head psychiatrist of Arkham? She was their court-appointed psych consult 13 years ago. I can only hope she has improved since then.
Dr. Harleen Quinzel told the associated press last night. "But it is an unforgivable mistake to regret the opening of this facility to victims of the Legacy Tragedy. Arkham has been listed for nearly 30 years a potential disaster relief facility… and such an event occurred. Like many other facilities, Arkham passed the federal readiness inspection. But Gotham's need surpassed their predictions. It was only through the timely intervention of neighboring counties and their emergency services that Gotham's wounded received and are receiving treatment. We do not regret and cannot afford to regret that nearly 300 people were able to receive emergency care, without which many would not have survived. What Gotham needs to do is unite in cooperation-like the health care facilities and workers not only in our county by surrounding areas of the state-to recapture the Joker. (Assigning guilt) is not healthy psychologically and will do nothing to heal this City nor her citizens of their numerous emotional hurts…"
I skip the rest, tired of that bitch's bullshit.
IS YOUR FAMILY SAFE?
"…difficulty identifying both victims and bodies…Police caution parents to keep children indoors and in sight…always have photo identification as well as an emergency phone contact, and medical allergies on their persons…Wayne Enterprises and GC Child and Family Services are making DNA kits available free of charge at local convenience stores…
DOCTORS URGE FAMILIES TO STAY INDOORS
…similar to Ground Zero respiratory illness reported in New York City following the tragic events of September 11th, 2001. Toxic gases, asbestos, and high quantities of carcinogenic compounds were released into the air, resulting in a noxious smoke cloud that could be seen even from satellite imaging…The EPA advises to keep indoors with windows shut and sealed, avoid long exposure, especially downwind…the elderly, infants, the immuno-compromised and those with chronic respiratory conditions are advised to evacuate and seek medical attention immediately…
No fucking shit, I think, coughing again into my napkin.
The paper is threadbare. There are no classifieds, no comics, no business nor fashion sections. Many of the journalists and staff are dead…I look up to the muted news playing on the wall, and the faces are not familiar. Rebecca James, normally of the Channel 18 evening news, maintains her post at Ground Zero, speaking slowly into the microphone. But it's nearly 7:30, and it should be Trisha Tanaka's vibrant smile and famous "Good morning, Gotham!" greeting us…. She was standing less than five feet away from me when the first RPG struck the Governor's limousine-
Screaming screaming people are screaming the pavement melted ash soot belching smoke heat my skin burning hold Connolly down don't run don't run stay down stay down struggling screaming stay down stay down! smoke clears woman's eyes staring open bleeding skull split in two—
I shudder and turn away from the television, coughing and immersing myself again in the paper. Trisha Tanaka is dead. One of hundreds. One of thousands. But her face and her voice were routine to a million people in Gotham City. They say the rubble of the Twin Towers burned for months…I know the impact of her death will linger longer than the smoking reek of ash over Gotham's skyline. Every single detail of the Joker's plan was a goddamned masterstroke...
STUDENT PROTEST LEAVES 3 DEAD, 17 INJURED
A peaceful protest on GSU campus turned to tragedy last night around 10 pm. Students protesting martial law and curfew harassed both police and national guard enforcers…more than fifty were assembled at Gotham City School of Art in the quadrangle, an iconic and popular hangout for student protestors since the 1960's. Police report that shots were fired, leading to retaliation from military forces…parents of victims claim police brutality and unnecessary show of force—
And on it goes. Mayhem. Madness. Death and Despair. Cameron Shaw was right: Eris has been unleashed. Gotham is become her shrine, the acrid ash rising over her skyline as a burnt offering of appeasement. Riots. Theft. The Joker is not responsible for these: Gotham's Heart of Darkness needed only this catalyst to reveal herself…
I am disgusted.
It takes me nearly forty minutes to finish. My coffee is tepid as I turn the last leaf.
A face jumps out from the back page. My heart leaps. Angel—!
FOUR MISSING AFTER ARKHAM ESCAPE
Initial investigation has concluded the Joker escaped disguised as an EMS team member on a GCFD Emergency Services vehicle…the body of Paramedic Jennifer Hanson was discovered hidden on Arkham property, dressed in patient-issue clothing. The 3 remaining members of the Paramedic team as well as the missing ambulance have yet to be found. Believed with them is 22 year old Detective Jimmy Connolly, reported en route to Arkham Aslum at 16:31 pm August 20th, nearly 26 hours after the fall of the Legacy. GCPD Commissioner James Gordon lists their status as missing, presumed dead until convincing evidence can be provided to the contrary.
The paper says Jimmy Connolly. Lawless just called him Kid. I named him Angel. Another dead face in a city of thousands, and yet-
Tiny, feathery scars open on my arms and fingers gushing lines of viscous scarlet flesh rips from tendons Angel's nails reaching pleading screaming—
Next to my hand, a fat water drop eats slowly through the ink of the text. It is followed swiftly by another. A burning ache fills my heavy lungs and heart as I choke on my misery. Suddenly I am sobbing and I fill an entire fistful of napkins with my running eyes and nose. Yet no one notices me. I am not the only-man or woman-to be weeping here so openly. We are together, and yet so horribly alone.
"I lost somebody too," a quaking voice surprises me. Tears stop flowing in shock.
She is handsome and black, at least sixty, weathered and bent, her hazel eyes moist behind her bifocals. "My husband died at the World Trade Center, and my grandson died on Monday. He was a sophomore in high school," she purses her wrinkled lips.
"Who did you lose?"
In thirteen years I've never said the words out loud. "My son," I choke in a strangled sob. Jimmy Connolly's dark, smiling eyes stare up at me from his Academy photo. He is baby-faced, his dark curls shaven and hidden under his cap. He looks so goddamn young…
"This ain't your fault," she says sternly. "Don't you dare tell yourself diff'rently. You can't live with regret, hon," she pauses. "It didn't work for me. It won' work for you."
She is gone. The door swings shut behind her as her empty cup sinks into the waste bin like her words in my heart. I can take no comfort from her counsel.
She is wrong.
'No! NO!" Angel is clinging to me, his face buried in my shoulder.
Thirteen years…for thirteen years I have looked for a little boy, and suddenly I have found him a man. I am too shocked for tears. Thirteen years. Alone. Betrayed. Three months in Memorial….they are nothing, nothing their bitter memory washed away in his tears his eyes his desperate embrace—
Around us the ruins of the Legacy spread for blocks. Sirens, lights, ash and smoke, yet I have eyes only for the boy cradled against my chest: a goddamned rookie cop. Lawless's own partner. Jimmy Connolly. My Angel. The scales have fallen from my eyes and at last I see. I cannot kiss him hard enough, cannot hold him close enough…his name grows sweeter on my tongue with every whisper of AngelAngelAngel…
Thirteen years but he seems no heavier. I bear him easily to the waiting ambulance.
"You have to let go," I shush him, kissing his tangled hair, grey with plaster and splintered glass. He is wounded. Dehydrated. Burned. They pulled him from the ashes and dust, and he is coated with the messy afterbirth. It stains his hair, his skin, his uniform. The only color is in his eyes, dark, black eyes with wet, shining sclera. Doe-like, teary, large smears of mud now congealing around them on his pale, perfect face…
"You have to go to the hospital," his breath comes fast and hot on my skin, his gentle weight pressing into my breasts. I can feel his warmth, the rise and fall of every breath, the desperate pounding of his heart. He belongs with me, pressed against me…
"No! Don't leave me please don't leave me—!"
"You're hurt you have to go—"
"Please! Please don't leave me no don't leave me-"
"Angel," I choke in his ear, laying him down on the stretcher, wrapping him in a thick emergency blanket. His small, grasping fingers reach for me, touching my hands, my arms, tracing their scars with trembling fingertips.
"You came back for me," Angel breathes as I tighten the cinches across his legs. "You came back!" he struggles, reaching again for me as a Paramedic tapes oximetry to his hand.
"Please," Angel whimpers. "Please."
"I'll come back for you," I choke, his face in my hands, my thumbs pressed gently against the delicate skin of his eyelids…. "I will come back for you. I will find you, Angel. No matter what happens I promise I will find you." Nothing can keep me away. Nothing. Slowly, reluctantly he relents, going limp, his struggle over, his tearstained eyes reading in mine it would take death to stop me from coming to him…
His tears are salty on my lips.
I tuck his arms into the blanket, folding it around him. They tube oxygen into his nostrils, fit a nebulizer around his face. I can only see his doe's eyes, anxious and wet in fear. "I love you," I choke as I leave yet another final kiss in his curls. Each, I tell myself, is the last…his dark eyes are closed. Between the morphine and exhaustion he is finally sleeping. I tighten a last, taut vinyl strap across his waist, then turn slowly, but cannot leave. Drawn like a lodestone, I run one finger down the mask over the perfect line of his nose.
I wrench away.
I am Barren. I am Hannah. Granted a son only to lose him. Not six hours later, he would fight for his life, still bound by those four thick, black restraints. He would scream and struggle, unable to run, hardly able to sit…I had only meant to keep him safe. Secure. Twice now I have surrendered him. Twice I have lost him. I thought the first had cost me everything…
I was wrong.
I tear the last page from the paper with a sudden shredding sound, folding it gently and tucking it into my wallet behind my badge. It is the only picture of Angel I have ever had.
I am Gotham. I observe, staring stonily at the remnants of the ruined paper. I do not learn from my mistakes…
My half empty coffee cup falls with the paper into the open waste bin. I came here for answers. I found none.
August 25th,
09:37 EST
Green Street Pharmacy
I am learning.
I walk through the revolving doors of Green Street Pharmacy. They were closest to the Starbucks, and I am not waiting any longer to seek medical attention…the dead cat catches nothing.
At the counter, they are polite and professional. It's almost as if it hasn't been six days since the largest attack on American soil occurred not four miles from here, and as if one of the world's most wanted criminals hadn't escaped from a nearby maximum security facility…
They are either ignorant, unfeeling, or plain full of shit. I refuse to play.
Of course I'm here for antibiotics. No I don't have a prescription. Instead, I flash my badge and a place a crumpled napkin dripping with yellow mucus onto the counter.
The pharmacist smiles sadly, removing the offensive object with a gloved hand. He'll see what he can do.
I sit, waiting.
A crowd slowly forms around me, and we cough and sneeze in a cacophonous chorus. A woman sits across from me, bouncing a three year old on her knees. A young couple sits next to her, both glowing, his hand on her expectant, bulging stomach. I look away, but it seems everyone brought their children with them: twin babies with matching yellow onesies and barrettes, a gummy two year-old with glazed green eyes and a slimy fist stuck in his drooling mouth, a six year-old girl in her smart plaid school uniform, her slanted eyes studiously furrowed over a Junie B. Jones adventure, and Angel leans his dark head against my knees, looking up at me and smiling contentedly.
I shake my head. He disappears. I cannot blame them. Of course they would. No one will let their children out of their sight for weeks to come. Fleetingly I wonder how many daycares will be forced to close. But I cannot distract myself for long.
Angel stretches and yawns, his eyes disappearing. He nuzzles my knee and lays a small hand innocently against my thigh—
I shudder. I feel his warm weight. My fingers lunge for my face, it is flushed and burning to the touch. I am feverish. Hallucinating. Shit. I should've known it when I lost it in that damn restaurant. I stumble to the water fountain, pull the tab and bring the paper cup to my lips. I drink nearly 64 ounces. I turn back to my chair but Angel is curled up next to my seat, sleeping. His pale face peaceful, dark curls resting on tiny fingers—
I walk calmly away, rummaging through the non-prescription drugs. Acetaminophen. I drop a ten on the checkout counter and pop four extra-strength Tylenol. They turn chalky and bitter in my mouth. I swallow. I return to my seat, cursing myself for stepping over his sleeping form.
I am surrounded by mothers and their children. My only child is dead, a five day old disfigured corpse, bloated and rotting in the heat of the summer sun…and I think back to 18 months in Pakistan, every charred, bloated, gnawed or desiccated carcass, their look, their sickly smell, their hollow eyes and grinning grey teeth rotting and mottled…
I shut my eyes. Afraid to look downwards, lest the sleeping child curled next to my feet should suddenly raise a ruined, corpselike face. Minutes tick by. My fever burns. My lungs ache. Finally, mercifully, someone turns on the television. I recognize the reporter's voice: Channel 18 News.
I sigh in release, opening my eyes.
Rebecca James finishes her closing remarks. "Back to you, Chris," she concludes her segment with gravity. Her grim, frozen smile stays onscreen for fifteen seconds. "Chris?" she finally asks, staring past the camera. She flashes another weak smile, listening intently to her headset and nervously slicking her red hair. She begins improvising. "Like, like I was saying, EMS workers will continue to service the Legacy bombing for another twenty-four hours. The last survivor was found nearly fifteen hours ago in critical condition. Officials have agreed that the likelihood of discovering any new survivors after this twenty-four hour window is medically impossible. Fire Marshall Yosef Haddad has made the statement that EMS will remain on site in reduced numbers to to o-offer ser-ser-ices will eme-gencyper-on…
Static.
We are all silent. The panic and tension become palpable. The white, abrasive noise from the television instills us with unspeakable dread. Six days previously, all the stations went off air at once as camera crews were buried in the falling deluge of dust and ash.
Then—
I jump in shock. Screams. Mothers shield eyes, hugging children close to their chests. The pharmacist drops a bottle of pills that scatter and go spinning all across the floor…
Christopher Holden is dead, his throat cut gratuitously. Splintered bone and raw, cut muscle spill from his shoulders, his head dangling obscenely on the glass desktop. A nauseating pool of blood flows in sheets to the floor.
"Well, uh, now that I've got your uh, your attention," Angel's killer drawls lazily, inspecting the handle of the buried meat cleaver. "I thought I'd uh, make a little uh, announcement," the Joker smiles into the camera, the studio lights casting eerie shadows on the wrinkles of this stretching scars. The edges of the stitched scalpel wound pucker, and blood leaks slowly from the corner of his Cheshire grin.
Angel, I blink in grief.
"You would, uh, think that with so many uh, so many teachers…unavailable this semester that the uh, schools would still be uh, closed," he waggles a finger into the camera, clucking his tongue and smacking his lips. "Well! Imagine my uh, my surprise to hear that Gotham City Public Schools-zuh have uh, Re. O. Pened. On Schedule," he enunciates, shaking his head in mock disgust. "And after such a uh, recent…tragedy. I'm uh, I'm ashamed," the corner of his mouth catches in a moist squelch. " I really am."
We shudder as one. That shudder spreads through all of Gotham.
"So uh, with us here today is…Superintendent Reginald Baxter!" the Joker calls with sarcastic cheer. "So, Reggie," he turns in mocking, rapt attention, chin thrust forward over his gloved hands. "What can you uh, what can you tell us?"
Baxter is gimpering in fright, utterly speechless. He is speckled in the spray of Holden's crimson blood. It drips from his glasses like heinous tears.
"Ah," the Joker says knowingly, taking his hand and patting it between his own. "I see." Urine eats through the crotch of Baxter's pants. Around me, mothers are sobbing.
I am shaking in rage.
"Well," The Joker says again, raising furrowed brows owlishly over his yellow eyes. "Let's just uh, let's make this…easy. If ya keep the little uh, kiddos back in uh…school," A Grinch grin grows slowly, grotesquely, stretching ear to ear. More blood dribbles down his cheek. "I'll uh, blow one up. A uh, school, that is. What uh, what sort of a uh, a fucking sicko would want to, uh, to hurt a uh, a little kid?"
Every mother clutches their child. I cannot: mine is already dead.
"Reggie, I uh, I asked you a question," that moist sound is back, his grotesque lips slavering and shifting…
"What sort of fucking sicko would uh, would want to blow up a uh, a little kid?"
Baxter's answer is a string of terrified gibberish.
"Didn't catch that," the Joker hisses.
"Y-you would!" Baxter gasps.
"Uh, well, Reggie! I'm…uh, I'm insulted, to say the least," it takes both of his purple-gloved hands to wrench the meat cleaver from Holden's neck. It sloughs out more blood as Holden's body careens slowly from the chair, his head twisting on the broken neck until it finally sinks out of sight.
Whimpers. Shrieks. Children are crying. Every parent in Gotham City is riveted to the screen.
"Now," he whispers menacingly, leaning down to speak directly into Baxter's ear. "Let's uh, let's tell everyone to uh, to close the schools, okay?"
My heart is racing, pounding. The Joker isn't a god, he's only a man….his pain as Angel plunged a scalpel through his cheekbone proves it. Even wounded, bound and drugged my Angel fought him. Think. Baxter. Think! I groan desperately. Send an elbow into his solar plexus. Twist and break the arm holding the meat cleaver. Kick his shin, his knee, his groin…bring a fist into his open mouth. Twist, break his neck as teeth pour like blood-
But Baxter isn't a cop. Isn't a marine. Isn't a Killer.
He's a middle aged, overweight superintendent. He simply whimpers.
"Now say it. Let's uh, let's hear you say it, Reggie-boy!" the Joker cackles gleefully. "Say: the schools are closed. Say it! The. Schoollls. Are. Closed."
But Baxter can't speak. Can't string the words together. Sweat and tears pour down his gasping face. The Joker clucks his tongue and shakes his head sympathetically. "Don't worry, Reggie-boy. It's uh, it's just…stage fright."
Apoplexy. Baxter is shaking, seizing, foam appearing at the corners of his mouth. A long, choking rattle comes from his heaving chest. All is still.
A repressed sob. A gasp. A quick intake of breath. The twin babies continue crying. Not even their mother dares to comfort them.
The Joker turns back to the camera, all traces of jesting gone. "One school. For every day." He sets the meat cleaver down gently on Baxter's lap. "So uh, so don't be fucking sickos. Cause, ya know…nobody likes it when little kids get uh, hurt."
He is deadly, fucking serious.
"Oh. And uh…mommies and daddies, since the schools have already uh, already opened…I'd uh, I'd get there prit-ty quick-kuh."
Then he laughs, laughs, laughs until tears stream down his face, running down thick smears of greasepaint…the camera goes to a side shot as a campy musical interlude signals a commercial break. Cris Holden lies sprawled on the floor, his dead eyes staring blankly into those of more than 3 million viewers, and the Joker lazily spins an office chair until Baxter's body topples slowly off.
Static.
Rebecca James' confused face reappears. "Chris? Chris? I don't know why I can't raise him-"
"Beck, you're live!"
That horrible irony and the picture disappear as one. I wrench the cord from the electrical socket with a shaking fist, that Bastard's words still ringing in my ears: And the truth folks, is I might be the devil, but here I get to play uh, god. So ya better believe, ya better have uh, fai-thuh. Because I am om-ni-po-ten-tuh. So when I say something will happen it's gonna happen…
Silence. The identically dressed twins continue to wail. Even the safety and comfort of something so familiar as their mother's arms is now both empty and violated.
Pandemonium. People stagger and run, grabbing cell phones, blackberries, keys…in a matter of five minutes, every mother, every father with school age children will careen recklessly down the freeways, backlogging traffic, slowing down emergency personnel…exacerbating the crisis…
I shut my eyes: Angel's face. Broken. Marred. Smeared against chipping plaster to form a grotesque, sinister grin. "Don't go to the police. Don't trust the police. They might put up a good fight-tuh…but in the end they're whatcha call…powerless. So who are ya gonna trust? Me? Or them?"
The sound of panicked feet slowly dies. My eyes open. All is still.
Trampled pills lay crushed and forgotten on the dirty tile. Gotham has made her choice.
Mine still lies before me.