Hey guys, just a small update! I won’t be able to post for a small amount of time. I amtrying to make time for writing, but it’s been difficult to keep up with everything since the move.
I will make an attempt to update HHTC sometime next month, as well as post a few one-shots and the first chapter of AIAW! Thank you for all your support and hopefully, understanding!
I do not give permission for any of my works or their included components to be copied, translated, and/or reposted, even with credit.
Chaste. Empty. Corralled into a corner as if she were an animal.
Any purity of mind is swept away with a single inhale. That’s all it takes. The security one might feel is stripped from their person, smashed to bits and glued back together with no interest in perfection. Reconciliation with one’s mind is unlikely.
Health is of no concern when you’ve been drugged into manic fits - battling against your own subconscious - monsters and demons and past sins come in full force.
He watches it over and over, until his eyes burn. Bruce suspected whatever toxin had accumulated on the streets of Gotham had adverse effects beyond anyone’s expectations. This isn’t just a drug - it’s practiced, evolved from one hit to the next. It brings nightmares to life.
There, in her gaze, proves his theories. Terror stricken, lips unnaturally pale within seconds, tense in a way that he’s rarely seen. Shoulders hunched, legs launching into the air, and a battle cry for survival. Fight or flight working its dirty hands at her base.
It was fear that had ensconced the poor examiner. She’d done well too, a practiced motion of parting empty souls from their flesh, and taking order from it all. Pride and courage had not been her downfall, it had been her curiosity. To witness the drug work its way through a living subject had tattooed a vile tang at the back of his throat.
Now, he fears it’d done more than bring whatever horrors she’d been hallucinating. Could this cause brain damage? PTSD seemed likely, or something similar.
It’s a question with no answer. He’s never been able to examine a survivor beyond the aftermath. Let alone during its attack. Anger stews at the pit of his stomach, his chest tight, but he forces his jaw to relax.
So many have died because of this cruelty - speculative, but supported by streams of evidence that have managed to slip through the cracks. There’s been no pattern, nothing like he’s dealt with in the past. This was different.
In his bones, Bruce could sense a shift in the tide. Something tugging him within its depths. That this - whatever it is - is only the beginning. A set passage for a future of misgivings.
Before, it’d been those forgotten by society. Drop-heads, neglected teens, the homeless; those who are considered invisible to the eye of justice.
A professor of Gotham University? That was new. Higher than ‘low-life’ thugs. A man with means, wealth, and security. A target that belittled the original pathway; one of blood and fury.
He’s seen what that does to a man, how it controls their every move.
Bruce would rather avoid a similar outcome - anything that remotely mirrored the Riddler set him on edge. Kept him persistent, incapable of ignoring even the smallest, useless bits in any investigation.
What’d he miss, what could he resolve?
Bruce refuses that be an outcome ever again. The damage was and still is unprecedented, and he can’t allow that to befall Gotham.
He blinks once, twice, and rewinds the video. Again, again, again -
“Who is she?”
He starts, finding Alfred watching from a distance, his expression the very epitome of muddled disquiet. Hard lines crease at his eyes, brows furrowed as he narrows his attention upon the screen.
Ives’ screeching thrashes amidst the cave, the spacious environment echoing and clinging to each and every edge it could grapple.
A low hum emits from the older man, caked in concern, “That looks horrid. Has she recovered?”
Another pitfall corners his careful migration of emotion, frustration evident on his features.
“No.”
If he were still a child, he’d have nightmares for years.
However, Bruce is used to shadowed horror. He’s lived it. Worn it on his sleeve, had it carved deep inside his heart. There was no changing it - his past - only staking claim to a future. One without torment that swallowed good intentions whole.
Alfred takes a step, narrowing his gaze when, from Bruce’s perspective, a leather clad fist smothers the medical examiner with cloth and chloroform. She’s out within seconds, body limp and at peace.
“I had to,” he says as a way of explanation, then with a heavy sigh, adds, “she’s the GCPD’s new hire - medical examiner.”
He absorbs what Bruce has said, taking each tangible piece by a thread. After a moment Alfred asks, “Was this recent?”.
Of course he wouldn’t know when it took place. GCPD took great lengths to keep what happened within their own walls a secret. Last thing citizens need after healing is another open wound.
His jaw ticks, throat lodged in something sharp and imperfect. “A week ago, when I went to examine the professor.”
Alfred’s brows shoot up to his hairline, “The first or second?”
Time was not on his side, the realization a blow to the head when heard aloud. More so to his expectations. Only a day after his examination of Jarrick Lincoln a new body had been found, alone and crippled and bathed in terror.
Bruce needed to mitigate this. Find the source and dissolve it to its very core - before more innocents were thrust beneath its hellfire.
“First.”
____
Mist envelopes smog, an eerie reflection of street light congregating glistening neon. Gloom suffices for what cannot be said amidst the dreary atmosphere of Gothams innermost alleyways.
In the distance roaring engines and nightlife harmonize - creating a drift between shadows and flashing radiance. It’s all a hunting ground, his home, made up in lust and bone. Far above the city, amidst apathetic moonlight and rain clouds, shines a signal of hope. Of warning and justice and faith. Batman’s call to protect.
Despite the coalition of endless nights, it shone strongly. Now was no different.
Gordon stands beside Batman’s sigil, one hand concealed in his coat pocket and another clinging to a steaming cup of coffee. A patient man waiting for his partner.
Bruce is thankful to him, in a way, he has helped smooth his transition from vengeance to hope; a friend, even. Though he has no intention in voicing as much, the detective didn’t need to become a target.
One ounce of weakness, a shred of affection openly displayed would always be used against both Batman and Bruce Wayne. Allowing someone close meant their suffering in the end. Alfred was proof of that.
“Have they struck again?”
Gordon flinches, exhaustion melding inside his surprise.
“Jesus, a warning would be nice man.”
He withholds his shrug, stepping forward to face his partner head on. A peculiar part of him found a thimble of enjoyment in startling others. Not in a twisted way, but their little jumps of alarm inflicted a bubble of laughter in his throat.
After a moment, Gordon shakes his head. He’s pensive, taking a thoughtful sip from his mug. A small amount of relief washes over his face as he exclaims; “I thought you might want an update on Ives’ condition.”
Bruce perks up at her surname, avoiding any display of interest. He nods all the same.
“She’s awake, afraid and on edge, but awake,” another gulp of his beverage has him sighing, “she’s willing to describe the effects - but only to you.”
Interesting.
“Is there a reason she chose that specific condition?”
The other man looks him directly in the eye, “She doesn’t trust the precinct - Ives is convinced they want to…uh, expose her. It’s a side effect of the poison, if I had to guess, paranoia.”
“Expose her?” had the poison convinced her she had something to hide, or was she truly concealing a truth no one knew about? Odd to believe someone within her place of work is out to give her away.
Though, he supposes he can understand. Falcone may be dead, but that didn’t exhaust even a quarter of corrupt officials, let alone those working under them.
Didn’t help that Maroni was out on good behavior, taking what he could of Falcone’s legacy before the Penguin could snatch it all up. Oswald Cobblepot reigned over Gotham, for what it’s worth, while Mayor Reál cleaned house and did her best to charge him head on.
To be frank, Bruce was surprised she hadn’t ended up dead yet. Something for which he’s grateful for. She’s a good woman with honorable intentions for this city. He respected her greatly for it.
If he could keep as little as one step ahead of Penguin and Maroni to keep her alive, he would. Gordon is much the same.
Said detective huffs out, wisps of midnight mist lapsing from his mouth, “That’s what her doctor said, so did Monroe. Whatever it is, she won’t say a damned thing, at least not to us.”
Prying open between the lines, he clenches his jaw at the memory of her paralyzed and in utter dread. The decision is made for him. It wasn’t even a question. Not only would he get to debrief with a survivor, he needs to catalog what she’s willing to answer.
And he’d be lying if he claimed he didn’t want to ensure she recovered. No person deserves whatever made her scream like that.
“When do we go?”
“Now.”
____
Ives is a willow amidst monitors and pale sheets. Her lips are chapped, the color of her skin nearly drained of its luster, tubes leak from her body in volume. He didn’t know what to expect, but this wasn’t it. Wishful thinking, he supposes.
He’s at the door, the heavy wood shut behind him. Bruce doesn’t want to startle her, let alone make her uncomfortable. The poor woman has been through enough.
She won’t look at him, fiddling with her blanket and fingers. As if he were a specter come to haunt her. The silence is eerie, the calm before the storm. He can feel it in the air, a damp, fluid thing that washes between them.
Without warning, she meets his gaze, her own piercing and unsure.
“You stopped whatever was happening to me,” there is no edge to it, only a subtle ease in which Ives wraps about his worries, “thank you.”
Bruce had been uncertain if she’d hate him for it or not. Some are thankful for his help, others are vindictive and trying. He can ignore it for the most part, even if during early mornings it scrapes at the back of his mind; doubt skidding along his firing synapses.
Short of a nod, he finds himself unsteady. Fingers twitching, jaw aching, his lips on the verge of parting and spewing inane questions. Ones that should be met with care.
What did she see? How did it feel? Does she still have any physical symptoms? Lasting emotional or mental hallucinations? A fever, heart palpitations, white blood cell declination? He could go on for hours, drag every tiny detail from her person until he was satisfied. Expectant for what he was to face.
Tofinally begin his hunt.
Instead, he takes a silent breath alongside a single step. He watches for a reaction, any sign she might find his presence less than neutral. Before he could dig for details, she needed to feel safe, comfortable. Or they’d get nowhere.
As if reading his intentions, Ives bares a faint smile. It’s soft yet strained, as though proffering anything more than a blank expression hurts. Regardless, Bruce assesses it to be as intended.
Paced, dense footfalls trickle about the small room, each heavier than the last. Ives is no longer looking him in the eyes, but she does peer at the rest of him. His boots first, the guards on his forearms, utility belts and kevlar and the bat insignia plastered across his chest.
She maintains an interest many don’t have after first glance. The young medical examiner is searching for something, scrutinizing his blades, the electric wiring built within his braces, to the stitching of his cowl.
“You made your suit all by yourself,” her voice creaks, a whisper of deterioration, “didn’t you?”
Again, he makes no move to answer verbally, halting at the end of her bed. Ives straightens her back, craning her head in observation.
This close, Bruce notes how hollow her cheeks are, how small, sick, and weak she appears even after a week. Dark shadows sludge under her eyes, bold and striking and not of her own making. A sliver of dismay headlines the base of his chest, heart quickening under the realization that yes - this lasts far longer than the poison’s initial contact.
It makes him itch beneath the layers of armor.
“Is that why you want to speak to me alone?” he ignores her curiosity, pushing towards the reason he’s here, “because I stopped it?”
Ives furrows, bow lips bent into a frown.
“I didn’t ask to meet in person,” Bruce struggles to wrap his head around that, “I just wanted you to know how thankful I am. I thought Gordon had told you in my place?”
Confusion knits away at his gut, her entire frame slouching under his scrutiny.
Something is wrong. The air shifts, the tide pulls - he’d been lured in, he had to have been, and Bruce finds himself reaching for her -
Jarring, concussive screams sound from afar - outside, he thinks - crescendo about the room, followed by a distinct bang. Bruce charges for the concealed window. From his peripheral, he catches Ives gaping in shock, angling her body to take stock of his mannerisms.
Swiftly, he discards the curtains, and stills at the sight before him.
There’s a library kitty-corner from the hospital, a five minute walk at most, and the window gives him the perfect view of its stone assembly, limbless and burning alive. Mist oozes from its doors, hysterical Gothamites trip over one another to escape.
Some scatter, others hurl once they reach open air, and a rare few run back in. Likely for their loved ones, or to act on their Samaritan nature.
Vanilla ensconces his senses then, a tinge of cinnamon following, and he finds Ives standing beside him. Her profile is one of distinct alarm, and beneath it, recognition. Familiarity ticks at her jaw, gooseflesh cresting her form.
“You should go,” she murmurs, a lilt of shivering painting her tonality, “before more are hurt.”
If she were to see his face, she’d find an evident scowl. There is an unease to her, yes, but expectation prickles at her spine. Bruce can feel it, the way it thrums in the atmosphere.
Had she been the one to…?
Suspicion fists his abdomen in its death grip, chest constricting - doubt fluttering in a kaleidoscope of color. Biting down hard, he resists the urge to threaten, fight, to have her cowering before him all due to his lack of evidence.
Frustration bundles tightly at his muscle, a thick static coarse in his bloodstream, sewn between bone and flesh.
Alone in Gotham, working a job no one wants, and clearly on edge. Was she to blame for this, or was she running from a past aligned with his current investigation? Perhaps she was related in some way - a trap had been left for the future coroner.
But given the current theme of said anonymous’ attacks, there should be, in theory, a relation to Ives. The woman wasn’t of importance within the spheres of the most recent victims, yet there had been a canister filled to the brim with this killer’s signature chemical waiting for someone to find it.
Bruce refused to believe it was an accident. Had she been attacked in the midst of intimacy, or was she involved - perhaps the source - somehow? How in the hell had he not thought of this beforehand?
Sodden, reflective, dark pools meet him straight on. Expectance drips from Ives, her personage strained as she leans against the wall in search of support. When had she moved?
“They need you.”
Even at this moment, she seems to understand his purpose far more than he does. It’s less a wake up call than a reminder - he is not vengeance. He is a light in the shadow, and he needs to remain as such.
Without so much as looking back, he spins on his heel and sprints out of her room.
He’d look further into Ives when he ensured the safety of those awaiting his arrival. This ‘newcomer’ had unknowingly become a suspect on his nonexistent list. It’s his first real step into an investigation that had no real motive. Not yet.
Bruce would be watching; scouring a past that didn’t belong to him, but to justice.
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I do not give permission for any of my works or their included components to be copied, translated, and/or reposted, even with credit.
Chaste. Empty. Corralled into a corner as if she were an animal.
Any purity of mind is swept away with a single inhale. That’s all it takes. The security one might feel is stripped from their person, smashed to bits and glued back together with no interest in perfection. Reconciliation with one’s mind is unlikely.
Health is of no concern when you’ve been drugged into manic fits - battling against your own subconscious - monsters and demons and past sins come in full force.
He watches it over and over, until his eyes burn. Bruce suspected whatever toxin had accumulated on the streets of Gotham had adverse effects beyond anyone’s expectations. This isn’t just a drug - it’s practiced, evolved from one hit to the next. It brings nightmares to life.
There, in her gaze, proves his theories. Terror stricken, lips unnaturally pale within seconds, tense in a way that he’s rarely seen. Shoulders hunched, legs launching into the air, and a battle cry for survival. Fight or flight working its dirty hands at her base.
It was fear that had ensconced the poor examiner. She’d done well too, a practiced motion of parting empty souls from their flesh, and taking order from it all. Pride and courage had not been her downfall, it had been her curiosity. To witness the drug work its way through a living subject had tattooed a vile tang at the back of his throat.
I do not give permission for any of my works or their included components to be copied, translated, and/or reposted, even with credit.
Chaste. Empty. Corralled into a corner as if she were an animal.
Any purity of mind is swept away with a single inhale. That’s all it takes. The security one might feel is stripped from their person, smashed to bits and glued back together with no interest in perfection. Reconciliation with one’s mind is unlikely.
Health is of no concern when you’ve been drugged into manic fits - battling against your own subconscious - monsters and demons and past sins come in full force.
He watches it over and over, until his eyes burn. Bruce suspected whatever toxin had accumulated on the streets of Gotham had adverse effects beyond anyone’s expectations. This isn’t just a drug - it’s practiced, evolved from one hit to the next. It brings nightmares to life.
There, in her gaze, proves his theories. Terror stricken, lips unnaturally pale within seconds, tense in a way that he’s rarely seen. Shoulders hunched, legs launching into the air, and a battle cry for survival. Fight or flight working its dirty hands at her base.
It was fear that had ensconced the poor examiner. She’d done well too, a practiced motion of parting empty souls from their flesh, and taking order from it all. Pride and courage had not been her downfall, it had been her curiosity. To witness the drug work its way through a living subject had tattooed a vile tang at the back of his throat.
I do not give permission for any of my works or their included components to be copied, translated, and/or reposted, even with credit.
Chaste. Empty. Corralled into a corner as if she were an animal.
Any purity of mind is swept away with a single inhale. That’s all it takes. The security one might feel is stripped from their person, smashed to bits and glued back together with no interest in perfection. Reconciliation with one’s mind is unlikely.
Health is of no concern when you’ve been drugged into manic fits - battling against your own subconscious - monsters and demons and past sins come in full force.
He watches it over and over, until his eyes burn. Bruce suspected whatever toxin had accumulated on the streets of Gotham had adverse effects beyond anyone’s expectations. This isn’t just a drug - it’s practiced, evolved from one hit to the next. It brings nightmares to life.
There, in her gaze, proves his theories. Terror stricken, lips unnaturally pale within seconds, tense in a way that he’s rarely seen. Shoulders hunched, legs launching into the air, and a battle cry for survival. Fight or flight working its dirty hands at her base.
It was fear that had ensconced the poor examiner. She’d done well too, a practiced motion of parting empty souls from their flesh, and taking order from it all. Pride and courage had not been her downfall, it had been her curiosity. To witness the drug work its way through a living subject had tattooed a vile tang at the back of his throat.
I do not give permission for any of my works or their included components to be copied, translated, and/or reposted, even with credit.
Chaste. Empty. Corralled into a corner as if she were an animal.
Any purity of mind is swept away with a single inhale. That’s all it takes. The security one might feel is stripped from their person, smashed to bits and glued back together with no interest in perfection. Reconciliation with one’s mind is unlikely.
Health is of no concern when you’ve been drugged into manic fits - battling against your own subconscious - monsters and demons and past sins come in full force.
He watches it over and over, until his eyes burn. Bruce suspected whatever toxin had accumulated on the streets of Gotham had adverse effects beyond anyone’s expectations. This isn’t just a drug - it’s practiced, evolved from one hit to the next. It brings nightmares to life.
There, in her gaze, proves his theories. Terror stricken, lips unnaturally pale within seconds, tense in a way that he’s rarely seen. Shoulders hunched, legs launching into the air, and a battle cry for survival. Fight or flight working its dirty hands at her base.
It was fear that had ensconced the poor examiner. She’d done well too, a practiced motion of parting empty souls from their flesh, and taking order from it all. Pride and courage had not been her downfall, it had been her curiosity. To witness the drug work its way through a living subject had tattooed a vile tang at the back of his throat.
I do not give permission for any of my works or their included components to be copied, translated, and/or reposted, even with credit.
Chaste. Empty. Corralled into a corner as if she were an animal.
Any purity of mind is swept away with a single inhale. That’s all it takes. The security one might feel is stripped from their person, smashed to bits and glued back together with no interest in perfection. Reconciliation with one’s mind is unlikely.
Health is of no concern when you’ve been drugged into manic fits - battling against your own subconscious - monsters and demons and past sins come in full force.
He watches it over and over, until his eyes burn. Bruce suspected whatever toxin had accumulated on the streets of Gotham had adverse effects beyond anyone’s expectations. This isn’t just a drug - it’s practiced, evolved from one hit to the next. It brings nightmares to life.
There, in her gaze, proves his theories. Terror stricken, lips unnaturally pale within seconds, tense in a way that he’s rarely seen. Shoulders hunched, legs launching into the air, and a battle cry for survival. Fight or flight working its dirty hands at her base.
It was fear that had ensconced the poor examiner. She’d done well too, a practiced motion of parting empty souls from their flesh, and taking order from it all. Pride and courage had not been her downfall, it had been her curiosity. To witness the drug work its way through a living subject had tattooed a vile tang at the back of his throat.
Now, he fears it’d done more than bring whatever horrors she’d been hallucinating. Could this cause brain damage? PTSD seemed likely, or something similar.
It’s a question with no answer. He’s never been able to examine a survivor beyond the aftermath. Let alone during its attack. Anger stews at the pit of his stomach, his chest tight, but he forces his jaw to relax.
So many have died because of this cruelty - speculative, but supported by streams of evidence that have managed to slip through the cracks. There’s been no pattern, nothing like he’s dealt with in the past. This was different.
In his bones, Bruce could sense a shift in the tide. Something tugging him within its depths. That this - whatever it is - is only the beginning. A set passage for a future of misgivings.
Before, it’d been those forgotten by society. Drop-heads, neglected teens, the homeless; those who are considered invisible to the eye of justice.
A professor of Gotham University? That was new. Higher than ‘low-life’ thugs. A man with means, wealth, and security. A target that belittled the original pathway; one of blood and fury.
He’s seen what that does to a man, how it controls their every move.
Bruce would rather avoid a similar outcome - anything that remotely mirrored the Riddler set him on edge. Kept him persistent, incapable of ignoring even the smallest, useless bits in any investigation.
What’d he miss, what could he resolve?
Bruce refuses that be an outcome ever again. The damage was and still is unprecedented, and he can’t allow that to befall Gotham.
He blinks once, twice, and rewinds the video. Again, again, again -
“Who is she?”
He starts, finding Alfred watching from a distance, his expression the very epitome of muddled disquiet. Hard lines crease at his eyes, brows furrowed as he narrows his attention upon the screen.
Ives’ screeching thrashes amidst the cave, the spacious environment echoing and clinging to each and every edge it could grapple.
A low hum emits from the older man, caked in concern, “That looks horrid. Has she recovered?”
Another pitfall corners his careful migration of emotion, frustration evident on his features.
“No.”
If he were still a child, he’d have nightmares for years.
However, Bruce is used to shadowed horror. He’s lived it. Worn it on his sleeve, had it carved deep inside his heart. There was no changing it - his past - only staking claim to a future. One without torment that swallowed good intentions whole.
Alfred takes a step, narrowing his gaze when, from Bruce’s perspective, a leather clad fist smothers the medical examiner with cloth and chloroform. She’s out within seconds, body limp and at peace.
“I had to,” he says as a way of explanation, then with a heavy sigh, adds, “she’s the GCPD’s new hire - medical examiner.”
He absorbs what Bruce has said, taking each tangible piece by a thread. After a moment Alfred asks, “Was this recent?”.
Of course he wouldn’t know when it took place. GCPD took great lengths to keep what happened within their own walls a secret. Last thing citizens need after healing is another open wound.
His jaw ticks, throat lodged in something sharp and imperfect. “A week ago, when I went to examine the professor.”
Alfred’s brows shoot up to his hairline, “The first or second?”
Time was not on his side, the realization a blow to the head when heard aloud. More so to his expectations. Only a day after his examination of Jarrick Lincoln a new body had been found, alone and crippled and bathed in terror.
Bruce needed to mitigate this. Find the source and dissolve it to its very core - before more innocents were thrust beneath its hellfire.
“First.”
____
Mist envelopes smog, an eerie reflection of street light congregating glistening neon. Gloom suffices for what cannot be said amidst the dreary atmosphere of Gothams innermost alleyways.
In the distance roaring engines and nightlife harmonize - creating a drift between shadows and flashing radiance. It’s all a hunting ground, his home, made up in lust and bone. Far above the city, amidst apathetic moonlight and rain clouds, shines a signal of hope. Of warning and justice and faith. Batman’s call to protect.
Despite the coalition of endless nights, it shone strongly. Now was no different.
Gordon stands beside Batman’s sigil, one hand concealed in his coat pocket and another clinging to a steaming cup of coffee. A patient man waiting for his partner.
Bruce is thankful to him, in a way, he has helped smooth his transition from vengeance to hope; a friend, even. Though he has no intention in voicing as much, the detective didn’t need to become a target.
One ounce of weakness, a shred of affection openly displayed would always be used against both Batman and Bruce Wayne. Allowing someone close meant their suffering in the end. Alfred was proof of that.
“Have they struck again?”
Gordon flinches, exhaustion melding inside his surprise.
“Jesus, a warning would be nice man.”
He withholds his shrug, stepping forward to face his partner head on. A peculiar part of him found a thimble of enjoyment in startling others. Not in a twisted way, but their little jumps of alarm inflicted a bubble of laughter in his throat.
After a moment, Gordon shakes his head. He’s pensive, taking a thoughtful sip from his mug. A small amount of relief washes over his face as he exclaims; “I thought you might want an update on Ives’ condition.”
Bruce perks up at her surname, avoiding any display of interest. He nods all the same.
“She’s awake, afraid and on edge, but awake,” another gulp of his beverage has him sighing, “she’s willing to describe the effects - but only to you.”
Interesting.
“Is there a reason she chose that specific condition?”
The other man looks him directly in the eye, “She doesn’t trust the precinct - Ives is convinced they want to…uh, expose her. It’s a side effect of the poison, if I had to guess, paranoia.”
“Expose her?” had the poison convinced her she had something to hide, or was she truly concealing a truth no one knew about? Odd to believe someone within her place of work is out to give her away.
Though, he supposes he can understand. Falcone may be dead, but that didn’t exhaust even a quarter of corrupt officials, let alone those working under them.
Didn’t help that Maroni was out on good behavior, taking what he could of Falcone’s legacy before the Penguin could snatch it all up. Oswald Cobblepot reigned over Gotham, for what it’s worth, while Mayor Reál cleaned house and did her best to charge him head on.
To be frank, Bruce was surprised she hadn’t ended up dead yet. Something for which he’s grateful for. She’s a good woman with honorable intentions for this city. He respected her greatly for it.
If he could keep as little as one step ahead of Penguin and Maroni to keep her alive, he would. Gordon is much the same.
Said detective huffs out, wisps of midnight mist lapsing from his mouth, “That’s what her doctor said, so did Monroe. Whatever it is, she won’t say a damned thing, at least not to us.”
Prying open between the lines, he clenches his jaw at the memory of her paralyzed and in utter dread. The decision is made for him. It wasn’t even a question. Not only would he get to debrief with a survivor, he needs to catalog what she’s willing to answer.
And he’d be lying if he claimed he didn’t want to ensure she recovered. No person deserves whatever made her scream like that.
“When do we go?”
“Now.”
____
Ives is a willow amidst monitors and pale sheets. Her lips are chapped, the color of her skin nearly drained of its luster, tubes leak from her body in volume. He didn’t know what to expect, but this wasn’t it. Wishful thinking, he supposes.
He’s at the door, the heavy wood shut behind him. Bruce doesn’t want to startle her, let alone make her uncomfortable. The poor woman has been through enough.
She won’t look at him, fiddling with her blanket and fingers. As if he were a specter come to haunt her. The silence is eerie, the calm before the storm. He can feel it in the air, a damp, fluid thing that washes between them.
Without warning, she meets his gaze, her own piercing and unsure.
“You stopped whatever was happening to me,” there is no edge to it, only a subtle ease in which Ives wraps about his worries, “thank you.”
Bruce had been uncertain if she’d hate him for it or not. Some are thankful for his help, others are vindictive and trying. He can ignore it for the most part, even if during early mornings it scrapes at the back of his mind; doubt skidding along his firing synapses.
Short of a nod, he finds himself unsteady. Fingers twitching, jaw aching, his lips on the verge of parting and spewing inane questions. Ones that should be met with care.
What did she see? How did it feel? Does she still have any physical symptoms? Lasting emotional or mental hallucinations? A fever, heart palpitations, white blood cell declination? He could go on for hours, drag every tiny detail from her person until he was satisfied. Expectant for what he was to face.
Tofinally begin his hunt.
Instead, he takes a silent breath alongside a single step. He watches for a reaction, any sign she might find his presence less than neutral. Before he could dig for details, she needed to feel safe, comfortable. Or they’d get nowhere.
As if reading his intentions, Ives bares a faint smile. It’s soft yet strained, as though proffering anything more than a blank expression hurts. Regardless, Bruce assesses it to be as intended.
Paced, dense footfalls trickle about the small room, each heavier than the last. Ives is no longer looking him in the eyes, but she does peer at the rest of him. His boots first, the guards on his forearms, utility belts and kevlar and the bat insignia plastered across his chest.
She maintains an interest many don’t have after first glance. The young medical examiner is searching for something, scrutinizing his blades, the electric wiring built within his braces, to the stitching of his cowl.
“You made your suit all by yourself,” her voice creaks, a whisper of deterioration, “didn’t you?”
Again, he makes no move to answer verbally, halting at the end of her bed. Ives straightens her back, craning her head in observation.
This close, Bruce notes how hollow her cheeks are, how small, sick, and weak she appears even after a week. Dark shadows sludge under her eyes, bold and striking and not of her own making. A sliver of dismay headlines the base of his chest, heart quickening under the realization that yes - this lasts far longer than the poison’s initial contact.
It makes him itch beneath the layers of armor.
“Is that why you want to speak to me alone?” he ignores her curiosity, pushing towards the reason he’s here, “because I stopped it?”
Ives furrows, bow lips bent into a frown.
“I didn’t ask to meet in person,” Bruce struggles to wrap his head around that, “I just wanted you to know how thankful I am. I thought Gordon had told you in my place?”
Confusion knits away at his gut, her entire frame slouching under his scrutiny.
Something is wrong. The air shifts, the tide pulls - he’d been lured in, he had to have been, and Bruce finds himself reaching for her -
Jarring, concussive screams sound from afar - outside, he thinks - crescendo about the room, followed by a distinct bang. Bruce charges for the concealed window. From his peripheral, he catches Ives gaping in shock, angling her body to take stock of his mannerisms.
Swiftly, he discards the curtains, and stills at the sight before him.
There’s a library kitty-corner from the hospital, a five minute walk at most, and the window gives him the perfect view of its stone assembly, limbless and burning alive. Mist oozes from its doors, hysterical Gothamites trip over one another to escape.
Some scatter, others hurl once they reach open air, and a rare few run back in. Likely for their loved ones, or to act on their Samaritan nature.
Vanilla ensconces his senses then, a tinge of cinnamon following, and he finds Ives standing beside him. Her profile is one of distinct alarm, and beneath it, recognition. Familiarity ticks at her jaw, gooseflesh cresting her form.
“You should go,” she murmurs, a lilt of shivering painting her tonality, “before more are hurt.”
If she were to see his face, she’d find an evident scowl. There is an unease to her, yes, but expectation prickles at her spine. Bruce can feel it, the way it thrums in the atmosphere.
Had she been the one to…?
Suspicion fists his abdomen in its death grip, chest constricting - doubt fluttering in a kaleidoscope of color. Biting down hard, he resists the urge to threaten, fight, to have her cowering before him all due to his lack of evidence.
Frustration bundles tightly at his muscle, a thick static coarse in his bloodstream, sewn between bone and flesh.
Alone in Gotham, working a job no one wants, and clearly on edge. Was she to blame for this, or was she running from a past aligned with his current investigation? Perhaps she was related in some way - a trap had been left for the future coroner.
But given the current theme of said anonymous’ attacks, there should be, in theory, a relation to Ives. The woman wasn’t of importance within the spheres of the most recent victims, yet there had been a canister filled to the brim with this killer’s signature chemical waiting for someone to find it.
Bruce refused to believe it was an accident. Had she been attacked in the midst of intimacy, or was she involved - perhaps the source - somehow? How in the hell had he not thought of this beforehand?
Sodden, reflective, dark pools meet him straight on. Expectance drips from Ives, her personage strained as she leans against the wall in search of support. When had she moved?
“They need you.”
Even at this moment, she seems to understand his purpose far more than he does. It’s less a wake up call than a reminder - he is not vengeance. He is a light in the shadow, and he needs to remain as such.
Without so much as looking back, he spins on his heel and sprints out of her room.
He’d look further into Ives when he ensured the safety of those awaiting his arrival. This ‘newcomer’ had unknowingly become a suspect on his nonexistent list. It’s his first real step into an investigation that had no real motive. Not yet.
Bruce would be watching; scouring a past that didn’t belong to him, but to justice.
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Chaste. Empty. Corralled into a corner as if she were an animal.
Any purity of mind is swept away with a single inhale. That’s all it takes. The security one might feel is stripped from their person, smashed to bits and glued back together with no interest in perfection. Reconciliation with one’s mind is unlikely.
Health is of no concern when you’ve been drugged into manic fits - battling against your own subconscious - monsters and demons and past sins come in full force.
He watches it over and over, until his eyes burn. Bruce suspected whatever toxin had accumulated on the streets of Gotham had adverse effects beyond anyone’s expectations. This isn’t just a drug - it’s practiced, evolved from one hit to the next. It brings nightmares to life.
There, in her gaze, proves his theories. Terror stricken, lips unnaturally pale within seconds, tense in a way that he’s rarely seen. Shoulders hunched, legs launching into the air, and a battle cry for survival. Fight or flight working its dirty hands at her base.
It was fear that had ensconced the poor examiner. She’d done well too, a practiced motion of parting empty souls from their flesh, and taking order from it all. Pride and courage had not been her downfall, it had been her curiosity. To witness the drug work its way through a living subject had tattooed a vile tang at the back of his throat.
