Ernestina, Eris, Aequitas: to obtain that which is just we must ask that which is unjust.
August 25th
11:12 EST
Green Street
I leave with two bottles of 875 milligram dosage Amoxicillin. The pharmacist stares at me in shock as I approach the counter, crunching the scattered medication beneath my feet. It takes him nearly a minute to mutter a hasty apology, and ask me to repeat myself.
"GCPD. I need a broad-spectrum antibiotic. The strongest you've got."
He doesn't hesitate, just fills the script. No pleasantries, no casual conversation, no warning about avoiding long exposure to direct sunlight or probiotic bullshit…he places the bottles in my palm with a shaking hand. "You get that Bastard," he chokes.
For the last two days I have intended to. Even now there is no blood but hatred that surges through my veins…yet Stalton's death reminds me of my guilt. I step back through the revolving doors, blinking owlishly the muted sun. I killed. I didn't enjoy it.
But.
Dent. Dawes. Tanaka. Holden. Baxter. Angel. Countless hundreds—thousands now. Someone has to stop this. Stop him. That little fuck deserves to die.
…and screaming.
And now, now as traffic whizzes by, horns blaring, now there's a slim window of chance. I know where that Bastard is. Was. Not two miles from here…
I am running, sprinting down the sidewalk as cars careen around each other, swerving madly through every intersection. With traffic the way it is, with the Legacy only a week old I have a better chance of reaching the station in time than any other GCPD personnel.
Left, right. Left, right. My neck aches with the effort, straining as I look frantically back and forth across the crowded street. There is no break in the wall of speeding cars. They pour down, ignoring lines and lanes, tires screeching, horns blasting…
Adrenaline burning, chest heaving, in a desperate run I pace the length of the block. But there is no break. The cars continue to come. I tear my hair in frustration, swear, kick a parked Chevy, its alarm now joining the ringing chorus of dented, damaged cars. TV 18's logo smiles tauntingly down at me from a billboard. I'm less than two fucking miles away, and I can't come any closer.
I am 21. I am desperate. I must cross the street have to get to Jon—! "Jon!" I shout, forgetting everything, everyone I can't walk he has left me Jon! Jon! The shock and horror of his abandonment cut deeper than ever I see him eye contact he turns away—heart breaking if I could reach him he would never leave me again I have to get to Jon—!
"Jon! JON!" he has crossed the street, opening the door to his car. No thoughts no looking I spin the wheels on the chair desperate racing I have to get to Jon before he leaves me again he can't leave me again—"Jon, wait, please wait Jon please—"
"PALTRON!" Red shrieks my name as lights glare in my eyes I throw up my hands rubber screeches on pavement—
"PALTRON!" Tires screeching, cars swerving Red's shriek cuts across eighteen years I spin and—
CRUNCH! With a violent lurch Mercedes and a Taurus t-bone in the intersection only feet in front of me. I throw myself to the ground, covering my face as glass shards spiral through the air cars continue to pour, carrying the locked vehicles in their momentum. I raise my head as the tangled scraps spin through the awning and front window of the Starbucks I vacated not three hours before…
I shut my eyes, remembering: a downcast Latina pours steamed milk into my latte…two pimply, scrawny teenagers take orders at the cash registers…
All dead. Oh, fuck.
The tinkering of shattered glass, the horrific grinding noise of metal on metal, the squeal and reek of burning tires….Car alarms blare, spilt fuel fumes rise…I open my eyes and traffic is at a standstill. A blockade of cars lie smashed and broken across the road, barring the way for miles. Flames erupting, drivers screaming, shouting, climbing out windows, running, swearing, exchanging blows…a shot is fired. The Joker doesn't even have to blow up a school to kill and maim today. I watch sprawled on the cement as Gotham City tears herself apart.
Joker.
I groan as I put my weight on my hands and knees, scraped and bloodied from the fall. Art's Beretta lies ten feet from my outstretched hand. I crawl, groaning in pain, dragging my right leg behind me. Seventeen years with a goddamned orthopedic knee and fucking now it decides to give me trouble.
I grimace bitterly, gritting my teeth, willing myself forward. My palms are shredded on knubs of green safety glass. Fuck. Seven years ago I was still fighting bare-fisted every night at Underworld….even three years ago on Fear Night Lawless and I went in with SWAT to break up the largest prison riot in US history—that was the year Lawless turned forty. What was it he said?
I'm getting too old for this shit.
I smile bitterly, the familiar feel of Art's Beretta now firmly gripped in my palm. It's not as funny as it once was.
August 25th
11:27 EST
Green Street
Oh shit. Fuck. Damn. Oh Christ—!
I fall again, my right leg buckling underneath me. I sprawl gracelessly onto the cement, cursing and tearing. No. Not this. Not again. Please not again—!
Washington DC. The Pentagon. I am twenty-one. In uniform. A Purple Heart is pinned to my chest. My fingers are still tingly from shaking hands with godammned POTUS, my face a little flushed. It is a glorious day, the sun just right, a hint of wind… Red chucks my head roughly and grins down at me.
I squint up at him, his honest smile lost in the glare of the afternoon sun.
I am sitting in a wheelchair.
Red doesn't pity me. Neither does Bear. Red says he likes me better in a wheelchair because it's the first time he's been taller than me. He also says he likes to push me because he can "better admire your breasts—I mean, your bling."
Bear mutters something about don't ask don't tell, and calls him a Dyke. I laugh and call them both assholes. They chuckle and ask if I'd like to head over to Bdub's to watch the game—
They load me onto the bus, irritated glances and mutterings quickly stopping as people see the reason for the delay. "It's probably some idiot with a bike" turns quickly into awkward embarrassment. Their frustration turns to pity. Bear glares at them, Red reaches behind to buckle my chair to the wall, telling me to just ignore, they don't understand—
They treat me like a sister. We are the only Third Reconnaissance Division survivors of the Warizistan Incident. We are family.
We get sidelong glances from all entering passengers. Some are pitying. Some are angry. The war has never been less popular…
But I am with my two closest friends. We are about to spend an all American night on the town in DC with wings, Budweiser and football. I was just awarded one of my country's highest honors. For a moment—just this moment—even Jon's absence, even this wheelchair cannot quench my spirits.
Hot wing sauce burns my tongue. I wipe foamy beer and dripping, delicious chicken grease from my laughing mouth. We talk about old times. Basic. Our Eurotrip. The time we thought Masterchief's dog was going to blow us all to hell fetching a live grenade—Masterchief had a laugh at that one. He did that to every bunch of wet recruits. I laughed. Bear gave a shaky, terrified smile. Red just blushed—he had pissed himself, hence his nickname…
The Steelers are winning. We toast our friendship. We toast our comrades, Mortalis…we toast our good times together, we toast Masterchief, we toast Masterchief's dog and the whole damn country of Pakistan. Bear toasts the Steelers, asks Red if he's going to toast the cute little piece of ass he's been winking at all night…"Toast her?" Red says in astonishment. "I barely even knew 'er!"
I am laughing so hard my ribs hurt, my face aching in the widest smile. I feel so light. So free. Red raises his beer one last time. "To good friends. Good times. Good beer!" he cries.
"Fuck yeah," I say.
"Semper Fi," Bear nods somberly.
It is nearly midnight. We leave Bdub's, the air is cool and brisk. It's a great night to be out, and we attract strange looks and angry stares as we bumble down the sidewalk, Red makes car horn noises and jet engine sounds swerving me in and out of the crowd in a wheelie, I am shrieking in laughter. We talk and joke more drunkenly than we really are, giddy with life and high spirits, Bear belting out cadences and stepping in time, I keep beat with my good leg, tapping my foot on the pad as Red inserts obscenities into his song—
Bear stops cold.
"Aw, shit!" Red cries as I let out a whoop of surprise and am jostled forward into Bear. I face plant in his ass. "What the hell, man?" Red asks, righting me as I giggle in embarrassment. "You okay, Paltron?" he says concernedly.
"Sure," I shrug. I open my mouth to jibe Bear, crying "Company, halt!" but the words die cold and empty in the night air.
He is still standing stock still. Rigid. Snarling.
Red takes a sharp breath. "Motherfucker." Still smiling I lean over the arm to see what is wrong-
My heart stops. It's Jon. Jon—!
"Jon!" I shout, forgetting everything, everyone I can't walk he has left me Jon! Jon! The shock and horror of his abandonment cut deeper than ever I see him eye contact he turns away—heart breaking if I could reach him he would never leave me again I have to get to Jon—!
"You cocksucking bastard!" Bear lets out a roar, and Red tackles him to the ground, holding him down as he shouts, tearing to get away—"Don't you turn your back on her don't you dare turn your back on her—"
"Jon! JON!" He has crossed the street, opening the door to his car. No thoughts no looking I spin the wheels on the chair desperate racing I have to get to Jon before he leaves me again he can't leave me again—"Jon, wait, please wait Jon please—"
"PALTRON!" Red shrieks my name as lights glare in my eyes I throw up my hands rubber screeches on pavement—
I stand, dragging the leg behind me, hobbling to a storefront and sitting heavily. I rip the tattered, bloody pant leg open and inspect the damage. Glass. Rock. Blood. I don't have time for this…I can see the orthopedic piece, gravel and glass chunks wedged between the artificial cap and the synthetic plate of the femur. The leg won't straighten because it can't… I am digging them out with my fingers, scratching, clawing away at the raw, red flesh.
I take out the keys to Stalton's hardtop. I begin to dig. My face twists, eyes shut. I wince in agony—
I wake. Blink. Blood trickles down my forehead. It is bitter in my mouth. I am lying on the asphalt, the metal frame of the chair crumpled around me. I blink again, the headlights glaring…Jon. He is rigid in shock, standing not twenty feet away, one hand still on the open car door, his mouth hanging open in horror and disbelief.
"Ma'am? Ma'am? Are you okay?" I don't hear can't hear have senses only for Jon…
"Jon!" I try to stand. I remember I can't. I begin crawling, dragging, slithering my way towards him through broken glass and twisted metal. I hear Red and Bear shouting, shouting behind me.
"Don't you make her crawl you motherfucker don't you dare let her crawl!" Bear's lungs are bursting, the driver of the car is baffled people are staring, staring—
He is feet from me. I am staring up at him, covered in blood and tar, my eyes puffy and disgusting in tears, nose dripping. "Jon—" I choke, reaching bruised and broken fingers for him—
She is in the car. Tall. Blonde. Slinky little black dress, makeup, nails done. My heart breaks. My split lips part. She is a more feminine version of me—a copy, a fake. "Jon."
Red is holding Bear back but failing. He is incensed. Heaving, his curses his threats his volume people are leaving going back indoors getting in cars all my hopes crushed love spent I am bawling as I look at her perfect figure, her confused face.
"Look, Paltron, I—" Jon stammers.
"I'm your wife!" I am sobbing, choking. "I'm still your fucking wife—!"
"He's not worth it, Bear!" Red shouts as Bear knocks him to the ground. "He's not worth it—!" Bear is loosed, his giant hands finding the frame of the chair and he brings it over his head and swings—
"NO!" Red cries as Bear brings the full force of the frame down. Jon topples into the side of the car, raising his arms to defend himself—
"JON—!"
"Fucking. Cock. Sucker!" Every syllable punctuated by a blow "And your goddamned. Little. Cunt!" Jon unconscious she is screaming crying the windows smash around her Red holds me I am sobbing, sobbing—
A lone motor breaks my concentration. I open my clenched eyes and a cute, innocent yellow Beetle trundles down the opposite sidewalk across the intersection, as slowly and merrily as if sightseeing—
Blood leaks hot from my knee, slippery on my fingers.
Joker! His head is leaning out the window like a dog's, happily surveying his Kingdom of Chaos, green hair blowing back, eyes shining with a hideous light—
Rage. Hatred. Fury. But I can't grasp Art's Berretta with my slick, blood-greased hand—
For one second and one second only we make eye-contact. I bare my teeth. Memorize this face, Bastard. Someday it's going to be the last thing you see. He raises an eyebrow, curious, narrows his flaming eyes and nods slowly, his smile gone. He hits the gas—
…And disappears.
Fuck it! I stand one-legged, leaning on the window box for support, committing every detail of the Joker, the car, the license plate to memory—
Like the Joker registers his goddamned car, bitch. I shake my head, grinding my teeth in my frustration. He was right there he was right fucking there—! I let out a shriek of fury, fall back on my ass and shove the key into the wound, blood shoots and splatters over the sidewalk the pain is excruciating unmasked by my adrenaline and anger—
I writhe and cry AngelAngelAngel—!
A squelching pop. I fall back, panting.
It is loosed. Clenched firmly between my shaking fingers is piece of concrete the size of a pea. It is bloody and smeared with chunks of my flesh.
Cursing, I wrap the wound. And walk.
August 25th
13:47 EST
103rd Street
Left. Right. Left-Right-left. Left-right. Right-left. Right-left. Right-left…
Think, dumbass. You have to plan. You can't just go charging blindly into a situation like that—! I berate myself as I limp down 103rd. TV 18 is only blocks away, the roads finally and eerily quiet, littered with abandoned, dented cars.
I can walk now, the gravel gone, the joint works smoothly. But I won't be running…not for awhile. I let my emotions get the best of me. Of course traffic was going to be bad—if the GCPD couldn't get there by car how the Hell was I planning on getting there on foot? I would've had to cross six major roadways—
I'm lucky this goddamned knee is the only damage.
My own words come back to haunt me: If I am going after the Joker, I will have to learn to wait. I have to be strong. I have to be prepared…
The Bastard was less than fifteen yards away. And I did nothing—fucking nothing!—to stop him. Angel I am so sorry…
Right-left. Right-left. Right-left…
I look like a goddamned peg leg pirate. But TV 18 is only two blocks away. Not that it matters…the Bastard is gone. But I am drawn, against my will, a burning desire just to see.
They haven't found Angel's body. This isn't Angel's body…but just seeing Holden will give me closure, relief, purpose…
I am Thomas. I just need to see.
My right leg on fire, I have walked the entire distance. GCPD cars have swarmed into the area, parking in the street, the sidewalks, everywhere—
A beagle, a bloodhound and a German shepherd wearing GCPD Canine Kevlar all sweep the streets. "You won't find him." I pant, doubling over in pain and retching, leaning against a squad car. "He went West. Down 99th."
"You saw him?" one of the handlers asks sharply.
I flash my badge, wiping sick from my chin. "Yeah."
He grabs the radio from his belt. "Commissioner? We've had a sighting. Plainclothes cop saw him on 99th. I'm sending her in."
My heart sinks. Gordon.
"Ma'am? You're going to cross the street and go through those doors—" his words are lost. I nod numbly, stumbling across the car-strewn road, every government acronym in Gotham scrawled across their sides. I've walked nearly two miles on this goddamned leg, yet the next one hundred yards seem impossible.
The pain of the wound. The weight of my guilt. The dread of facing Gordon—
WHAM. I go sprawling, skidding, skating across the asphalt. I am dazed I try to raise myself, falling again—
I look up. A silver Porche looms over me, its driver and passenger both pale and hurriedly clamoring out.
I struggle to stand, fingers slick across the waxed hood. I explode. "You did not you did not you did not just fucking hit me!"
The man is pale and shaky. He looks utterly lost as I hurl insults at him. "I walked two fucking miles through Carmageddon Shit and now fucking now you hit me?" I fall back on my ass. "Jesus Christ are you fucking blind?"
"I think she's fine, Mr. Wayne," the passenger says, patting the driver's arm, a kind smile easing across his relieved black features. The driver is haggard, worn, exhausted. He lets out a sigh of relief that is both a laugh and a sob.
I don't care. I have to get inside. Have to see Holden, to get to Gordon—
I stand. I take three steps, ignoring their protests. My leg collapses.
I fall.
"Holy shit! You're bleeding!" Wayne says. "Jesus Christ! Fox, she's bleeding! Here, let me help you-!"
Twenty-one. Bear has been charged with aggravated assault and attempted murder. His trial is set for a month from now. I am about to be released from a two-day stay in the hospital for observation. Red enters, haggard and drawn. With him is a nurse with a wheelchair.
"Alright, girl," he says sadly. 'Time to go."
I can't look at anything but that chair. Mine lays broken in the middle of the road, I crawl to Jon…Bear swings it again and again into the car until Jon and his girlfriend are nothing but pulpy, bloody masses, the car destroyed…I just wanted Jon. Jon. I have lost him. I have lost Bear. I look down at that chair and know that this has taken fucking everything from me. And it will for the rest of my life.
I am not getting in that chair. I will never get in that chair again.
"No," I whisper.
"C'mon Paltron. Let's go."
"No," I say firmly, shaking my head. "No."
"Ma'am," the Nurse begins.
"Fucking no!" I shout, tears pouring from my eyes my face twisted and contorted. "No!"
"Paltron, c'mon just let us get you in the chair—" I am fighting them, struggling against them.
"NO!" I wrench away, staggering, falling but for one glorious second I stand on my own two feet unaided. I hit the tile hard, but I don't care. I stood I can stand I can walk—!
"Paltron, what the hell? Let me help you—"
"No!" I struggle, using the bedside chair for support. I am shaky, weak. The nurse is protesting, threatening to call the doctor, the psych ward, to obtain restraints—
"I said no, Red!" I claw at his helping hands, pushing him away—
I collapse.
"Don't touch me don't touch me don't fucking touch me!"I am crying, sobbing, screaming but I am not weak. I am strong. I will never, never accept help standing or walking again. That goddamned shrapnel took everything from me: my life, my dignity, Masterchief, my friends, my career, my husband, my children, my modesty, Bear-
I will take back the only thing I can: I will take back my pride.
"Do. Not. Touch. Me," I hiss, refusing the pro-offered, manicured hand.
"No, you're hurt this is all my fault let me help-"
"Miss, please, let's let a medic take a look at your knee," the black passenger says concernedly, staring at the bloody mess dripping down my right shin.
I ignore him.
"No, really! Let me help! This is my fault I'm sorry don't please, miss, you need help—!"
I roll to my hands and knees, ignoring his protests, putting my weight on the bad leg and slowly bend my left. It is excruciating—but I can't rely on my right knee to stand. Left leg up, I lean to the left, hands on my thigh and strain—
Still feverish. Lungs aching. Cold sweat soaks my hair and clothes. Blood pours from my knee. I straighten and stand, trembling, head held high. We are nearly eye-to-eye.
"No, Mr. Wayne," I state, unblinking. "I don't."
August 25th
13:58 EST
TV18 Studios
Wayne bumbles after me, makes a show of opening the studio doors for me. "I really wish you'd let the medics take a look, make sure you're okay—"
"Mr. Wayne," I turn, "I'm not going to sue."
He blinks in surprise, taken aback. "I meant to uh, to uh…"
The man I know only as Fox chuckles and shakes his head.
"And I don't want to go to dinner, either. Or sleep with you. Now please," I look him straight in the eye, "being a conceited asshole isn't a federal offense but impeding justice is. I'm giving you five seconds to get out of my way and then I'm arresting you."
"Wait—you're a cop?" Wayne asks in disbelief.
"Not just a cop. A damn good one," a gruff voice growls. I turn, and Aaron Lawless is standing on the second floor, smiling grimly down at me. "Perhaps the best."
It's been three days since I last spoke with him. I smile tiredly back, knowing already I have begun the foundations for the wall that must drive us apart. The Joker took my Angel…and before this ends, he will take my badge, my honor, and the love of everyone I hold dear.
But for now I look into his hazel eyes, and they are the eyes of a friend. It's so goddamn good to see him.