Under the Foundation

by cringethinking

The death of Max’s sister destroyed her childhood and her family. Twenty years later she still digs for the truth as a journalist in Gotham. When she meets someone on a fringe website called Nigma, the layers of her foundation and that of Gotham’s inexplicable corruption begins to crack. Based on the universe of Matt Reeve’s Batman and Riddler Year One comic.

2. Something Rotten

Chapter 2: Something Rotten

Max sat in bed before her laptop screen a little after nine in the evening. Her blanket was tucked up to her waist, her computer heating her lap. The rain was ferocious and relentless outside, beating off the pane of her window like hale. Every now and then a rumble of thunder and strike of lightning would flash the room. She had her Himalayan salt lamp on the bedside beside her giving a warm glow, but other than that, her apartment was completely in darkness. She preferred it that way. Suitable to her comfort and her electricity bill.

She had a few tabs on her screen open. One was to Nigma as she had just posted a recent puzzle for her members to figure out. One the GCPD website with contact information. The one she was currently on was an article regarding the kidnap and murder of her sister Celeste Atkins in 1998, twenty years ago. The tab was in her most visited, and seemed to be reappearing on her computer every night the memories came back. She would look over the evidence over and over, the witness statements and police reports. It was always the same information, nothing new to pertain to the case or flick a switch of where and how to find something new. It was as cold as winter, concealed in black ice. Many times, she had inquired with the detective of the case and tried to reopen it, but it was either ignored or passively dismissed. Not enough resources or not enough leads. It was the perfect case in damning a perp bang to rights. So much forensic evidence found on Celeste's body. A brutal sexual assault and murder like this was not one to usually go cold, but the murderer could never be found. The science from the late 90's to now 2018 was a parallel that still gave her hope. That if they chose to reopen the case, the likelihood of finding the culprit would be better than they ever were back then. Yet, it remained cold. If the cops refused to do anything, she stubbornly mongered as much as she could.

Then her phone rang, an incoming face call from her mother. Max had a small sigh as she flipped the phone into her hands and tapped accept. Her mother's face zoomed in on the screen with Max's shadowy box on the top left.

"Hello! Oh, Jesus Christ. Where are you, a cave?"

"Hey. No, I'm in my room."

"Why is it so dark?"

"My lights are off. Saving money on electricity."

"Are you struggling for money?"

"No… mom. No."

Conversations with Max's mother usually consisted of mindless rambling on her mother's end with a hint of overbearing concern. In her screen she had a neatly quaffed bob, streaks of grey through her thick black hair. One would look upon her and see a traditional Japanese woman— classy and pristine. However, first impressions would undoubtedly go a miss as soon as she opened her mouth.

"Just finished getting that shit out of my pipe. You know what I found in there? Ha! You're gonna love this, Max. I found a damn gold necklace in the fucking sink. It clogged the whole thing. Chunks of hair and other shit that shall not be named. Oh, honey, it was a state."

Max was busy responding to the teasing on Nigma of her 'pathetic' puzzle that was thought out too easily. She replied drolly, "Wow. Crazy."

"It's not even gold! It's that… plated crap you can get from Claire's. You know, you wear it too long it turns your skin green."

"Yeah, know it well."

"Baby, what you doing? You listening to me? Who you talking to?"

Max flicked her eyes from her laptop back to her mom in the screen of her phone, "Nothing. I'm just working. I'm a journalist, remember?"

"You talkin' to a man?" Her mother asked suggestively but an excitement in her tone.

Max sighed, "Nope. No man."

"Oh, shit. Come on, girl. You live in Gotham, for Christ's sakes. You know how many doobies would be drooling over you if they got the chance? Who was that last guy you dated? Carl?"

"That was Kyle. He was a solid reminder of why I shouldn't be dating."

"You gotta go through the weeds to get to the flowers, honey."

The due process of their conversations usually started in a random rant, Max's love life, her mother's medication regime, then a life narration from her mother's perspective of the day. Max knew what to expect, and would endure the chatter knowing her mother was alone.

Max changed the conversation quite radically, "Hey I spoke with dad a few days ago."

"Oh, shit! Bet you needed a stiff drink after that."

"He's doing good, actually. Got a decent job in Metropolis, nine months sober, he got a chip thing, I guess."

"Man should have thought about sobriety ten years ago before our marriage fell apart, and you went away to college. But hey, Godspeed to him."

Max exasperated, "Mom…"

"Max, I got my issues with your dad. More issues than you should know about. I'm valid in my feelings. My therapist told me so."

"Yeah, yeah, I get it. We… talked a bit. About Celeste."

Her mother's voice grew sharper, "What about?"

"Just that… they're not reopening the case despite how many times we've asked. I was gonna… write an article about it."

"Well, what's that gonna do?"

"I don't know. Could bring awareness, maybe even pressure to California officials. Cece was a big case, you know that. A lot of people were affected by it."

"Honey, I just think you're trying to dig this up and all it's gonna do is haunt us all over again. We've already lived it. Let's just let her bones rest."

"Her bones are cold, mom."

"They're not cold, Maxine," her mother chastised, "The case is. For twenty years and stirring it up again will likely leave us right where we were."

"Okay, that's your opinion. I don't agree."

"I'm saying leave it."

"She's my sister, mom."

"She's my daughter. You were too young to remember that time. I remember it vividly, and I'll be damned if I have to live through that hell again. Leave it."

Max sighed and pinched her eyes, "Okay. Fine. Look, I gotta go."

"Wait, you're not upset that I…"

"Bye mom. Love you."

Max ended the call abruptly returning to the deafening silence of her apartment. No pets, no roommates, no friends to occupy it. The shadows would easily flood in among the quiet. She looked back to her laptop and closed the tab for Celeste's case. She went back to Nigma and groaned to the comments of her cookie-cut puzzle.

RATMM commented, "You're shit. No offence."

GTHM AXE added, "A Nigma moderator that can't even bring a decent puzzle to the table? Bro, give up."

Max wrote back as her username 'whatshedoing26', "Get fucked, then."

She closed the tab not wanting to humour anymore of the comments she would undoubtedly get after that. The time was now 10pm, and an indifferent day of work was waiting for her. She closed her laptop and turned off her lamp. She turned to her side and pulled the blanket over her hip. Her mind was wrangling in the pictures of Celeste. She caught a glimpse of a figure staring in the dark. Her glasses reflected off the light from the window.

"Celeste?"

Max flinched and turned the lamp back on. There was nothing in the corner. Another cruel trick her mind favoured in playing unexpectedly. Max's heart rate began to slow, and she laid back into her bed leaving her lamp on.

Would make sense she's haunting me. Her story isn't finished.

She spent time tossing and turning before sleep finally came. Just when it felt it did, her alarm went off. She had no clue how much sleep she even got, if she even got any at all. When she closed her eyes the window was pitch black. Now some dim light from the blue sky was peering in. It was 7:00am, she had to be at work by 9:00am.

Max had a morning ritual. She'd spend 10 minutes too long laying in bed staring at the ceiling gruelling the day. She'd shoot up and take a shower. She'd get dressed, today wearing a grey tank top, white wool cardigan and pale denim jeans. She didn't bother blow drying her hair, just twisted it into a scrunchy. Light foundation, mascara and chapstick. Deodorant as sitting at her desk all day made her sweat. Perfume under her chin and wrists. She'd order food to work today for lunch, so she skipped grabbing a can of soup from the cupboard and taking the can opener. She locked up after getting her purse, phone charger and water bottle. Then she was on her way to work. She drove an older sedan, red and a crack in the windshield. She owned it for 5 years, brought it from Nebraska with her. Sometimes it wouldn't start, mostly it did. It was still stubborn enough to get her to work today.

Max lived in Tricorner, the main hub of Gotham. It was the home of downtown, where Gotham Times tower resided. One of the largest towers but ultimately one of the most useless, as paper journalism was slowly losing its validity in current times. If it wasn't for their app accessing online journalism and Mayor Don Mitchell's influence for the paper to thrive, it would be just another abandoned skyscraper. She stopped on the avenue at a little place she enjoyed getting coffee. She took it to go with just ten minutes on the clock for her to be in her chair. The Times building had many spinning in and out of the revolving doors, with her joining in the mirage of people. Larry at the front desk gave her nod, and she waved, making her way to the elevator doors for 64th floor. As she pressed the button a bit of steaming coffee spilled on her index finger. Then what followed was a flinch and struggle as coffee went spilling over the elevator floor and her jeans. She didn't swear, she didn't scream. She just closed her eyes in grievance as the elevator doors closed before her.

Yup. Another day.

She knew each floor by heart. She would pass the investigative journalling, data, business, sports (worst floor in her personal opinion), entertainment, gonzo, then finally the 64th floor, political journaling. Not by choice, but that was her main hub at work. Her sphere was political for the time being, but two years ago she was promised a guaranteed placement with crime on the 43rd floor. For now, she was just another cog in the controversy of Gothams' politics. The more she learned of it, the more irking it became. Worst of it all, was having to only journal in appeal to current mayor, Don Mitchell. If not, it wasn't published. If it wasn't published, she wasn't paid.

She came in smelling like vanilla latte to all the bystanders she'd pass. The coffee still wet and starting to chill. She made a confident jaunt to her cubicle. She nearly took a hacky sack to the ear lobe from a cubicle she passed. A few of the younger guys in the office erupted in laughter,

"Heads up, Atkins!" Kenny Boyd was one of the new hires, already plopped on politics to paint Don Mitchell picture perfect. Overall, it was far too easy to lose the passion for journalism in politics. Now they wasted their time in the cubicles chatting about nothing and playing with hacky sacks.

Max picked it up and used her best pitching experience from her junior league and chucked it full throttle at Boyd's abdomen. He flew back in his chair trying to grasp for it. She kept on to her cubicle, not saying a word as the others laughed like a murder of crows.

"You pissed her off, man!"

"Nah. She's always like that."

Their voices faded as she turned the corner and made it to her chair. Her garbage bin brimming in candy bar wrappers, a picture of Celeste with a rosary candle and her parents to the left of her computer screen. The cubicles were always a serenade of keyboards clacking and phones ringing. Of course, Manny's voice merrily gracing her ears from the cubicle across her.

"You always fashionably late with yo' ass."

Max flinched, "I'm late?"

"Two minutes, girl. Better hope the Wicked Witch of the Gotham Times doesn't know."

"Two minutes? Are you for real?"

"She got on me yesterday for coming back from my lunch break a minute after. When she in a mood, she in a mood."

Max made a confident but sarcastic grin as she planted to her office chair, "Oh, well, goodie. I'm in a mood, too. We can wig it out."

Manny chortled, "What you get up to last night? You get arrested? Any hot sex?"

"Nope," she mumbled as she typed in her username and password, "No arrests or hot sex for this girl. Instead, I had a forty-minute call with my mother and ate noodles."

"Do you ever leave that apartment for anything besides work?"

"Yeah," she shrugged, still looking at her screen, "I had to renew my license a few days ago."

Manny shook his head and tutted, "You need a dick in yo' life."

"Tell me about it. Too bad all the dicks in Gotham are actually dicks."

Manny hunched down suddenly, "Oh shit, here she comes." He then started lightly humming the Darth Vader theme in the cubicle beside her. She had a giggle in her throat from it but was already tensing to the high heels getting closer.

"Max, my office, please."

Max wheezed through her nostrils and flicked her head back to Cindy Hopper staring down to her. A freshly ironed blouse and blazer, pencil skirt and suede high heels, she was an intimidating icon. The cold icy blue eyes the cherry on the cake. Max made a nervous nod and got up from her chair, following the clap of her high heels to her office.

"Close the door, will you." Cindy tossed her purse to the desk chair.

Max did as she asked, but said swiftly after, "Sorry I was late. I spilled coffee all over myself. Had a hacky sack thrown at my head. I've had a shit morning."

"Huh?" Cindy flexed a brow, "I don't give a shit. Sit down, you're not in trouble."

Max was taken back to the order, but timidly stepped to the chair and sat down.

"Don Mitchell read your latest, he liked it. Liked it so much he boosted our funding. However, he wants some coverage on his speech delivered at the Square Garden. As of now, it's not being received fondly."

"Yeah," scoffed Max, "It was horseshit. He's been giving the same promise for years, no wonder people are pissed."

"Right. Well, he wants us to change that. Bring together the highlights of his speech in a positive way. Basically, become his… PR team, if you will. Just in this incidence. He likes your writing, and I have to admit, you're one of the best writers I've got in politics. Even though I know the stuff you write ain't at all how you really feel."

"Yup."

"You're a gifted weaver. You… can make a sack of shit look like a messiah. I want you on the next paper, I'll make it the front page. Your job is to show the people Mitchell means what he says."

"Yeah, I don't even believe that. I thought you told me if I impress, I'll make it to crime."

"In due time. You're getting there, definitely."

"I've been here for two years. There are people who have been here for two months and they're already in other departments. Why am I still here?"

"You really gotta ask that question?"

Max's eyes went droll then, her face reflecting the discontent in Cindy's, "You're using my writing to appease Mitchell."

"Bingo, cupcake. Look around. I've got a collection of smooth brains here. Because when we hire spring chickens who wanna make big in journalism, they first come here to pump up Mitchell's office. If they show promise, they get thrown in sports or gonzo. In your case, crime. This is a sponsored department, which means we need it to keep printing in the politician's favour if we want funding. The other runts can't take a job like this, I need you one last time. You have the experience and the skills to do it."

"What about next time? How long am I going to be doing this?"

"Not long. You wanna get into crime, fine. I'll let you put in a sample. If the department head of crime likes it, then they publish it, see how it's received, and we'll go from there. For now, I still need you on this speech."

"You'll let me write up a draft for crime?" Max's face lit up.

Cindy nodded, "Yeah, sure. Only if you write up a good piece for Mitchell."

Max blew air from her mouth and asked again, "Fine. I'll be Mitchell's glory hole another time, not like he hasn't fucked my chances of rising up before. But… is there an avenue for crime? Like… do I just pick a case and go with it?"

"Police had a big drug bust last night. Some guy name John Higgins and a few others got pinched. I don't think any of the other stations or papers even know about it. Buddy from the precinct told me. You might want to chat with the lead investigator on the case."

"Who's that?"

"Lieutenant Jim Gordon. Good cop. But he's got inroads with the commissioner, and we all know how that piece of shit perceives journalism with his cops."

"Cool! So… talk to this guy and try to get a story?"

"You're a journalist, Atkins. You know the drill. Just make sure you got something about that speech for me by Friday, okay?"

Max nodded excitedly, "Sure! Sounds good, thanks!"

Cindy didn't smile, didn't acknowledge the thank you. Just wrinkled her nose and asked, "Why do you smell like vanilla?"

"I spilled coffee on myself. Remember?"

"Jesus, you're a hot mess, Atkins. Get going and bring me something good."

Max left Cindy's office with a new spring in her step. She pattered back to her desk with a smile pinching her cheeks, catching Manny's attention.

"What the fuck," he croaked, "Yo, did she beat yo' ass or not? No one ever comes outta that office with a smile."

"Nope," chimed Max as she sat to her desk in a blissful sigh, "No she did not. She offered me a job in crime, though."

Max said it nonchalantly and flicked her eyes to Manny with an excited grin forming. Manny took a moment to digest, then his eyes lit up.

"Oh my God!"

"Yup!"

"Girl, you been wanting to get into crime forever!"

"I know!"

"That's awesome, I'm happy for you! Gonna miss you and you're bitter self. I think I'm gonna cry."

"Don't cry, I'm not leaving yet. She still wants me on Mitchell's speech. I'm not leaving politics, but I'm allowed to, you know… double task."

"Ah. So, she wants her cake and wants to eat it, too."

"Basically. I'm still the mayor's bitch, but I got a little more autonomy, at least."

Max started typing fast on her computer, "I gotta drop thing I can cover, but I gotta talk to a cop, asap. Before GCN gets a whiff."

She dialled the precinct of Lieutenant Jim Gordon she found on the computer.

"Hello, Gotham City Police Department, how may I transfer you?"

"Hi!" Max chirped back, "Hi, I'm Annabelle Rose from the DA's office. I have some questions for Lieutenant Gordon regarding my client, Mr. Higgins. Could you transfer me to his line, please?"

"Oh, sorry. Jim just went for lunch a few minutes ago. I can take a message?"

Max winced and sighed away from her phone. She bit the inside of her cheek and said, "You know what, I was just about to go to lunch, too. Would you mind telling me where he went if you know, I can meet him there."

"Hmm…"

"He was expecting my call, already. I lost his cell phone number; you know how it is. Client after client, right? It's very important I speak to him."

The other line was quiet for a while and the clerk said, "He went to Fehler's Bistro on 40th. He usually dines in; you should see him there."

"Thank you!" Max tried to dial down her excited tone, "Thank you so much! What's your name?"

"Janice."

"Janice! Thank you again, Janice. This was a huge help. Have a good day."

"You too, Annabelle. Happy to help."

Max packed up her things and said to Manny, "If Cindy asks, I went scouting. I got my guy at Fehler's."

"Get it, girl!"

Max ran to her sedan in the parking lot like she was going to the hospital. She threw her things to the passenger seat and started it up. It rolled for a moment, wheezing and sputtering like a coughing frog.

"Come on, you bitch. Don't do this to me now."

Finally, it broke from the roll and began to run. Max exhaled in relief and drove out to Fehler's as fast as the law would allow. She took some liberties when the streets were empty and she'd punch the gas. Lunch hour was in effect, making the streets mostly crowded and backed up in downtown. She managed to get to Fehler's anyway, and bolted from her car across the street to the doors.

She got inside to a quiet café. The waitress noticed her right away, "Hello! What can I get for you today?"

"Uh. Just a latte. Vanilla, please."

"You got it."

She tapped her card on the reader and ventured her eyes to the seats. She saw a middle-aged man, black, a moustache and grey trench coat with a suit and tie underneath. Undoubtedly her guys as he was sitting alone, and she could see the glimmer of a bronze badge on his coat. He was eating a monte cristo with a cup of coffee, a newspaper in the other hand.

She took her coffee down the isle and as she got closer to Gordon's table, she flipped the coffee out of her hand, and it spilled over the floor.

"Oh shit!"

It caught the Lieutenant's attention, who immediately got up to help her in cleaning the mess with some napkins.

"I'm so sorry," she implored, "I'm honestly such a cluts today. Second coffee, believe it or not. I'm trying to break the record."

Gordon croaked a low, gritty chuckle in his throat, assuring Max she was on the right track.

"One of those days, huh?" He asked back as he swept more napkins over the mess.

Max shook her head, "One of those weeks. Thank you so much, I'm sorry."

He snapped over the waitress and called, "We got a mess here. Can I get another… uhh… what is this?"

"Oh!" Max flicked her eyes up to him, "No! It's okay! You don't have to."

"It's fine, don't worry about it. You need a break."

Max smiled bashfully, "Vanilla latte."

He called it to the waitress who came over with a mop and started to clean the mess. Gordon sat back to his lunch and Max raised, "You eating alone? Want some company?"

Gordon thought about it for a while and nodded, "Sure. Take a seat."

Max sat down across the table from the Lieutenant, who scooted his newspaper to the side.

"I'm Max Atkins." She held her hand out to shake his.

He took it and nodded, "Jim Gordon. You come here often?"

"Not really. Just… you know, trying something different."

The waitress came and set another coffee on the table for Max. She feigned a reaction to his badge, "Oh, wow. You're a cop."

"Lieutenant, yeah. Keeps me busy, if nothing else."

"Wow!" Max gasped, "That's amazing! A cop in Gotham, no less. You must see your fair share of nightmare fuel."

"Not really, actually. I'm mostly on drug busts and gangs. It's my end goal to get on homicide."

"Nice! Drug busts… that's like…"

"Drops, mostly. We just intercept a huge shipment last night. Got a few goons that ain't talking, but that's to be expected with this kind of heat."

Max took a sip from her coffee and continued, "Shipment? Where?"

"Uh..." Gordon thought for a moment, hesitating. He said anyway, "Miller Harbour."

Max indulged the fascination further, "You know, I always see such sketchy people around there. I would think… yeah, perfect place for illicit activity, too."

Gordon chuckled, "It's usually busy during the day. Filled with workers from the freight. Not really a perfect place for drug circulation."

Max felt her cheeks burn, "Yeah! Sorry… I'm not really local to Gotham. Just moved here a few years ago. I'm from Nebraska."

"Land of the Great Plains, hey? You from Omaha?"

"No, Blue Valley. Little town."

"Must be, I've never heard of it. What brought you to Gotham?"

Max thought up a lie, "Uh. Work. I'm a dental hygienist."

"They got a low demand of dental hygienists in Nebraska?"

"Pays better here," she changed the subject quite radically, "So, how much product did you guys actually find? Must have been a lot, right?"

"You're a journalist, aren't you?" His face went droll.

Max pattered her speech and then flattened her mouth and nodded, "Yeah."

Gordon sighed grievously and folded up his newspaper, "All that business of you spilling your coffee was just a ploy to get me to talk to you about the case, am I right?"

"Well… you did look lonely I wanted to sit down and…"

Gordon began to sit up from his chair and pull out his wallet for the counter.

Max exclaimed, "Wait! Just wait! I'm sorry. Yes, I'm a journalist for the Times, and I was hounding for a story on the drug bust last night. No other reporters have gotten to it, and I wanted to be the first."

"You could have led with that."

"Would you have told me?"

"No. Regardless, you should know trying to sway a police officer is a crime."

"Okay, well I'm not swaying anymore. I'm gonna sit down and let you finish this fucked-up sandwich. All I ask is you just give me enough to write a small story."

"I can't disclose the case."

"Please. You don't have to tell me everything, just enough I can write something. Anything. I… I really need a story. I've been in politics kissing Don Mitchell's ass for two years now, I need something better. Please."

"Don Mitchell?" Gordon asked again, slightly amused.

Max nodded, "Yes! I need to get out of politics, sir. I need to. I want to be a crime journalist and this is my ticket out. I'm a… good writer. I can write the story with only facts and no bias to the GCPD or you. If anything, I can paint it in the GCPD's favour. But… I just need something."

Gordon sat back down, tucking his wallet away, "Look. You look like a good kid. I can only tell you what I told the GCN when they came sniffing for a story. In cases like this, it's taken over by our commissioner. He handles the perps and evidence. What I didn't tell the GCN, is I can only tell you what happened at the scene."

"Wait. Why is a huge drug bust only being handled by the commissioner. Commissioner Savage? That… doesn't seem weird to you?"

"Seems plenty weird to me. But he's my commissioner so I take my orders from him. I don't question it. Do you want the story of what happened at the scene, or not?"

Max wanted to pry and dig for more on this commissioner, on why he was guarding and coveting an entire drops case to himself. However, she needed some kind of story. She nodded, "Okay."

---

Back at the Times, Max had managed to finish her piece on the drug bust before 4pm. She handed it into Cindy who was surprised to have it placed in her palm.

"You finished your crime sample already?"

Max nodded excitedly, still feeling the ache in the tips of her fingers and lower end of her back.

"What about the speech? You get to that?"

"Nope, not yet."

Cindy raised a brow and gave her a scoldingly motherly glare.

"Hey, you give a dog a bone and a steak. Which one do you think they're gonna go for first?"

"Right," groaned Cindy. She gave it a glance and read a few paragraphs before stretching her lips and slowly nodding, "Not bad, Atkins. Like I said, you're gifted. You'd do great in crime. I'll pass it over to Gilbert, I'm sure he'll like it. If he does, he'll have more work for you in crime. For now, you're still on that speech, got it?"

"Yes, I'm still Mitchell's bitch."

"We're all his bitches, cupcake. Get used to it."

She set the sample in the printer to be faxed to 40th floor, to the crime section for management approval. Max skipped back to her desk to end the day by starting on Mitchell's speech. As she did so, she got a call transferred to her desk.

She picked it up, "Hello, this is Maxine Atkins."

"This is Pete Savage. I'm the Commissioner of Gotham Police Department. You got a second?"

Max froze to the name and the impatient voice on the other end. She muttered then spoke clearly, "Uh. Yeah, I can talk."

"Ms. Atkins. You spoke with my Lieutenant today at Fehler's Bistro this afternoon, am I correct?"

"Yes…" Max softly said.

"You wanted a story regarding the drops bust at the Gotham docks, right?"

"Yes, sir?"

"My Lieutenant also tells me you coerced him with false claims to try and get a story for your own benefit."

"What?" Max exclaimed, "No way. He only told me what happened at the scene. I didn't coerce him at all, he told me willingly."

"You impersonated a lawyer to get his location. You pretended to drop a coffee; you said you were a dental hygienist when you are in fact a journalist trying to get information. You lied to a police officer and gave him misinformation to sway him into telling you confident information regarding an important case. You can be charged with misconduct."

"Are you kidding me? You're gonna charge me for literally doing my job? All journalists talk to the police for case information."

"But they don't lie."

"Yes, they do, have you met a journalist?"

Savage spoke abruptly, "You gonna get snappy with me kid, I'll add misconduct times two, you understand? Now, I said you could get charged. I didn't say you were. If you don't want that charge, I advise you pull that story all together and don't ever harass my officers again, you hear me?"

Max scoffed in anger, "You're blackmailing me. Harborer of justice, aren't you. You may be the commissioner, but you have no right telling me what I can or can't write. Freedom of speech, pal."

Manny peaked over the cubicle wall hearing the heated exchange between Max and whomever was on the phone. He knew it was someone in authority.

"Fine. I'll speak to Cindy Hopper, myself. You want that? Make you look real professional in front of your boss. Who knows, maybe they'll put you in sports instead of firing your ass on the spot. Of course, you'll be dealing with a misconduct charge, will have to tend court and probably serve some jail time. I've got many connections in the court room, baby girl. You want trouble from this, I'll make it. No skin off my ass."

Max clenched her fists, but her mouth was left wide, unable to believe what she was hearing. She remained confident nevertheless and continued to battle, "Wanna tell me why you took this case under your wing, commissioner? Why such a huge drug bust, with over 50 pounds of product, why would you want to take this case on alone, exactly? Gotta say an article about that would surely raise some brows."

All that could be heard on the other end was a mocking and smug laugh, as if he pulled the phone away to chortle, "You're starting a war you can't win, sweetheart. Pull the story, or I'll shit on your career so fast you won't have time to blink before you're in the fucking can with the perps I put away on a daily basis."

The phone call clicked and ended abruptly. Max slammed the phone down and angrily growled, clenching her fingers up and then burying them over her face.

"Fucking prick!"

Manny muttered from the wall, "You okay?"

"No!" Max snapped, "That was the fucking commissioner. He's making me pull my crime story."

"Are you serious?"

"Wish I wasn't. That guy is a… straight A cunt. You should have heard him on the phone," her voice began to shake, "I busted my ass all day on this story and now if I publish it, I could go to jail. Like seriously?"

"He's threatening you with jail time?"

"Yeah!"

Manny shook his head and blew out air, "Girl, I know you don't want to hear this but… people like that you don't fuck over. You gotta do what he says."

"That's bullshit, he's clearly corrupt as fuck. I'm not complying."

"You have to. You think he's just flexing, he's not. The people in this city are dirty. Every last one of them. He says he's gonna send you to jail for the article, you better sure as shit believe he will. You stumbled on something rotten. As journalists in this city, most the time we get a story like walking on a sidewalk. The concrete is flat and paved, and we don't gotta worry about the repercussions. But sometimes we step on a crack, an authority gets pissed off and rains a whole shitstorm over our heads until we crack, ourselves. Whatever this is, you gotta step away from it. Find a different crime story. If you don't, he's gonna make you crack."

Max batted away tears from Manny and then exasperated a sigh into her hands again. She stayed in that moment for some time, fighting with herself on what was right and what was right for her. Would she be a fighter for the city or be a fighter for her own skin? She sat up from her desk begrudgingly and made a slacked jaunt to Cindy's office.

"Come in!" Cindy called.

Max walked in with droll, red eyes, still fighting back her tears.

"Yeah, what you want?"

"I gotta pull that crime story."

Cindy raised a brow and turned her chair to her, "Why?"

Max sighed, "Commissioner Savage."

Cindy closed her eyes and sputtered a scornful scoff, leaning back in her chair as if she was more than well aware of the situation.

"Right. Fine. I'll let Gilbert know. Sorry, cupcake. These things happen in the paper business."

"Why would he want me to pull the story, though? What is he hiding?"

"I don't know… I'm a political journalist. This shit isn't my forte. I just know he's an asshole who hates journalism more than he hates his wife. It's best you don't step on his toes. Now you at least got some time to work on that speech, right?"

Max bit the inside of her cheek again, nodding but trying not to cry. She didn't say a word, just walked back to her desk dejectedly. She wrote a few sentences for the speech but quickly lost interest. She wrote anyway.

"Don Mitchell has once again brought Renewal to the table. Sure, it's stale, fermented and sprouting in fungal mold. But our mayor still finds it an appetizing distraction for his own shortcomings. In his speech he made no mention of the downtown riots, blue collar strikes, and of course, the insidious drop problem that has been eating Gotham city from the inside out. Despite how many mentions he makes of his wife and child to appeal as a down to earth family man, he still hasn't shown the low- and middle-class families of Gotham he is a fighter for their city. So much for family values."

She stared at the paragraph for some time, wanting so badly to keep it in, as it was a summary of his speech in her words. She opened her phone to distract from the gut-wrenching feeling. She brought up Nigma. As she did so, an opening for journalism popped up on the site. She closed her phone and opened Nigma on the computer at her desk. She glanced around for any prying eyes that may see her screen, but she was in blissful solitude. She applied for the journalism and immediately got a response.

ADMIN asked, "Got any experience?"

"Yeah, I'm a journalist for the Times. Getting tired of writing buy outs. Want to write something real."

"This is the place to do that. You can do freelance on here. The pay will be awful, but you get enough likes and subscriptions we can work out a paid membership for your articles. Sound good?"

"Sounds great! Anything goes? Even controversial stuff?"

"Anything goes. Nigma is for the people. Not for the politicians."

"I've got the first paragraph of my first sample now. Should have it done by tonight, send it to you?"

"Nah. Just publish it. You're freelancing. Good luck."