Ernestina, Eris, Aequitas: to obtain that which is just we must ask that which is unjust.
Wednesday, September 4th, 2030
Dr. Leslie Maurin Thompkins Memorial Park
Fuck.
A blossom of red blushes across the tight white denim, ominous and beautiful both at once.
My knee's still healing. I've pushed too hard.
There's a bus stop not far up the newly beautified beach, servicing at all hours the Sleepless of this City. Restricted, of course, with the National Guard's presence, but even the might of the military can't stop all enterprises. Jobs must be done. Shelves must be stocked. Sick children need transport to ER services. TSA personnel have to travel to airports, bus stops, subway stations. State and Employee ID's are checked and verified at random, and the American Machine churns on.
But a bus stop mean soldiers. Cameras. Witnesses. The Perci Simmons ID will fool some poor military puke, but my face on TSA security footage could bring my whole mission down. Gotham has killed my son, and this will I have as a weregild for his death, the blood of his killers. I couldn't save my Angel…so I'll be damned if I don't avenge him.
Gotham City is Sleepless. Endless. Infinite. The buses come every fifteen minutes on the Red Loop, but every fifteen minutes isn't good enough. Public Transportation was Thomas Wayne's dream…but this is America, Land of the Free and Home of the Eternally Impatient. Outside the plexiglass safety of the shelter, yellow cabs idle, their electric engines silent. Even under curfew the local unions pitched a fit, blue collar workers threatening a class action law suit, ACLU declaring that the underprivileged and minorities would suffer the most from access issues and increased crime. A percentage of taxis have been permitted to roam, picking up those other early morning travelers for transport to and from work.
Gotham City. Even in a crisis, it's still a bureaucracy.
I pay cash. My driver is surprisingly caucasian, no trace of an accent, not even Eastern European. It shouldn't shock me—given Gotham's history, race riots and the Muslims killed after 9/11, my guess is the cab company played it safe. No trouble, no killings, and no clean-ups. Today's drivers will be either White or third generation. Jones. Lance Jones, the placard readers. Jones is silent, accepting of both me and the soldier's presence with a nervous, sweaty sheen. I say nothing, give him no kindness or cruelty, leave my memory entirely anonymous.
I'm white. Female. Dressed well. Found not two miles upwind from the Marina, and there's blood on my pants. My blood, but blood nonetheless. I need him to forget me as quickly as possible.
But the National Guard is out in droves. Sirens have already begun to blaze in the distance, and the hurtling crimson blur of GCFD has passed my window more than once. We don't get far.
At the next intersection, an M-16 knocks on my window.
"State your name," a bald-headed, baby-faced soldier requires.
"Persephone Simmons." Persephone, not Perci. Perci's a skin-head WASP. Persephone is a cancer patient, suffering chemotherapy induced alopecia. She's humorous but quiet, introverted, respectful, and reserved. I hand him her drivers license.
He studies it. Frowns. "And what's your business, ma'am?"
No contraband weaponry. Nothing to incriminate me. No GCPD personnel like Montoya, like Allen, like Norton to blow my cover. I'm just a sick, unarmed woman traveling alone, and they're just green boys who've learned sharply that 'be all that you can be' meant sticking an M-16 into a civilian's face…and they don't look happy about it.
"Cancer," there's a trembling hitch to her voice. "My chemo's on the south side."
He steps back. Nods his confusion to the four man squad. "Should we call the doc, confirm?"
"The fuck, man? Woman's sick," another spits. "You really think her shit doc's gonna be at the fucking office now?"
"My mamá had chemo," a sergeant grunts.
"We're under orders, man—"my soldier counters.
"Yeah. To 'randomly verify'," the second snorts, disinterested.
"What's in the bag, ma'am?" the first insists.
"My photography equipment. Here—" I open the teal soft-shell slowly, deliberately, then place my hands palm up. Last thing I need is to get shot by some jumpy kid. I remember the anguish it caused my Angel. They've gone through basic, served their weekends and summer terms…but they're the GSU regiment, toy soldiers, and shit's gotten suddenly real and far, far too close to home.
"That's a lot of equipment," he peers at the lens under the glare of his flashlight, gesturing to his companions. "Pretty heavy, for a sick woman. Pretty expensive, too."
"I don't have much time left," Persephone tells them. "I try to make the most of it."
"I dunno, 'mano," the third scratches his cheeks, reminding me of Lawless. Latino. A Sergeant Gomez. "Lady's got cancer, you hear?" He turns to me, crouches by the open window. "You have a nice day, Lady. Okay?"
"Thank you."
"And drink a lot," Gomez chews his lip, thinking no doubt of his mother. "That chemo's a real bitch."
But the first soldier isn't sure. "We can't just—"
"Think about it, dumbass," the second snarls. "She looks fucking sick. And who the fuck lies about having cancer?"
Who indeed. Lance Jones and I are permitted to pass.
Healing Hands Infusion Center
On the South Side of town. Well out of my way. Five percent tip, no smalltalk. No sooner has the handicapped door swung shut behind me, Lance Jones drives away, disappearing into the hurried haze of Gotham.
Drive, I ought to say. Drive away. Keep driving and don't look back.
But I am not Gotham's savior. I never have been. Never will be. Good men like Lawless, like Gordon, like Harvey Dent may yet may lead them to the promised land. I bring only prophecy of plague, famine, and death.
I wait three hours on a park bench, testing my new eyes. I snap photos of sparse birds in mid-flight, the plumes of the Legacy's smoke and ash still rising in the autumn air. A flock of pigeons eyes me cooly from the cobblestones, determining my purpose. A shrill bolt of thunder falls, the hawk with short, folded wings plunging expertly in. A flash of feathers. Small drops of blood. The blue-grey birds eying me for bread have scattered to the skies, and the falcon has her prey.
Small touchscreen. Replay. I watch her swanning arc, her graceful, weightless dive. The work of her swiftly beating wings, determination, pulling her impossibly again into the air. Predator and prey. The pigeon was innocent, but I do not mourn. This is the way of life. All things die. All hearts broken. All hopes lost. A mother must feed her child.
Carefully I pack my things. Bundle the Canon, the lens and bulky neck-strap into that chic case. It falls, heavy and uneven across my hip. It is time.
I walk three blocks to the subway. Sunlight glares down on Gotham from above, and the cool embrace of the shadowed entry swallows me. It is a welcome release.
Gotham City Public Transit Station #003
In line for the turnstile. The family in front of me is quiet, subdued. Their dark eyes are downcast, stoic faces and slanted eyes so unreadable. But the stares from the crowd are palpable, menacing. I do not understand.
Sudden footsteps. I'm knocked to my knees, my silk scarf fallen over my eyes. I let out a gasp. Cringe.
"Fucking chinks!" There's a sound of splattering, the mocking laughter of teenagers. Harsh words, male voices, pounding feet of cops on the beat. When I finally look up again the crowd has parted, state troopers in their ungainly hats and National Guardsmen in their green-grey fatigues beating them out of the way. Five teenagers have jumped the stiles, the law in hot pursuit.
The silent asian family in front of me is doused and flecked with paint, visibly shaken. Small entrails of colored rubber lay like worms after a storm.
"Goddamn kids," a stocky GC Public Transit worker growls, yanking me to my feet. "That's the fifth time today."
"What happened?" I ask her in alarm.
"Flinging paint," her white teeth gnash as she forces the camera bag into my arms. "Balloons if we're lucky. The first batch tried it with paintball guns. National Guard blew the living fuck out of 'em. Thought it was for real."
Teenagers. Stupid, willful teenagers. Angry, anarchist, and adolescent, they lost parents, friends, and teachers alike in the Legacy. The most hurting, most susceptible to the Joker's whims. Now the schools have closed, and they've taken to the streets in droves. "I—I hadn't heard about that."
"You ain't going to," she shakes her braided head, wooden and glass beads clicking. "You think they want us to know about that? National Guard here to keep us safe," she spits. "All those cops got killed in the Legacy, yeah? Now I got soldiers in my home and this shit to deal with at work."
"Soldiers?" I ask, alarmed. "In your home—?"
"FEMA housing. Still two years after Fear Night. Now the federal government's decided they want it back!" she laughs angrily. "I'm outta Gotham. Would be, if DOT hadn't pulled retirement."
They'd have to. After Fear Night, the Joker, the Legacy and martial law…if the mass transit lines in Gotham go down, if the unions strike, if the labor leaves, this city will be at a standstill. "You can't quit," I state numbly.
"Yeah. You an' that Gordon alike, honey," she shakes her austere head, more exhausted than angry. "You ever work a hard day in your life? Twelve hour shift, bustin' your ass, got a boss who feels you up cause you're a black woman and can't complain about it, got customers that piss all in your workspace? You worry about lost little kids, women gettin' raped, some suicide on the tracks? You ever find two dead bodies on your car with blood all over everywhere?"
Hernán. Ricardo. I shudder.—she found them.
"I just want to feel safe again. Want my kids to feel safe again," she sighs, not knowing to whom it is she speaks. "The Joker, the National Guard…they can have Gotham for all I care. Let it burn. I give up. I just want my family out."
Let it burn. Let it burn. For the safety of my Angel—to see his living face again!—I'd rage, rage against the dying of the light. For his sake, I'd burn it all. Raze this city to ash and bone, spare no one inside. We mothers are selfish, selfless, sinful people, slaves to instinct. Bound by love.
My Angel is dead. An inferno is coming. Against her will, she has already become complicit.
But there is no such thing as coincidence. In the millions she may have met today, it was with me she shared her stress and secret. Something softens. I let her go. "Go," I urge her. "Get away from Gotham. Get your kids out alive while you still can."