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prorevenge · 5 years

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Coworker tried to get me fired over breast implants, so I pulled a reverse uno card.

4 years ago now, when I was 24, my mum died of breast cancer, and as both my grandmothers had also died of it I saw a specialist for a screening. I found out I had some cells in one of my breasts that could have turned cancerous at any given moment.

I was told I had a few options:

I could have regular screenings every 3 or 4 months until it does develop into cancer (I was told the risk of the cells becoming cancerous was very high due to family history) but it could also potentially never could turn so I'd just be getting these screenings for no reason

I could get a single mastectomy on the breast with the bad cells, but they'd need to keep an eye on the other one, so I'd still need regular checkups for the other breast

I could get a bilateral mastectomy and remove all of my breast tissue, basically eliminating the risk.

I went for the bilateral mastectomy. It was admittedly the most drastic option but after seeing what cancer did to my mum and grandmothers I didn't want to risk it.

I was warned about scarring but told it should be fairly minor. It wasn't and I was left with 2 huge, pink, jagged scars on either side of my chest, each about an inch long and half an inch wide, and it caused me to go into a severe depression, where it got to the stage of me not even leaving my flat because I didn't want people to see me, throwing out my mirrors, and getting physically sick looking at myself.

I went to a therapist, who suggested a plastic surgeon. The therapist said they'd never normally do that but it was clearly something I was struggling with and I might never get over it, and the therapist could see why I struggle with it. Although I'll admit the therapist did send me to ask about scar reduction. The plastic surgeon suggested a cream, a laser or implants. The cream didn't work, and the laser was both expensive and risky, so I went with the implants. My natural boobs were an F cup so I went with a slightly smaller DD. Since then my mental health has improved and I feel a lot better about the way I look. My confidence has gone up, as has my self esteem. I know I shouldn't put so much into my appearance but I wasn't exaggerating about these scars. Huge, bright pink, jagged, raised, just really awful to look at and I hated seeing myself, and they are now nicely hidden away and you can barely feel them.

In the present day, I'm 28 years old and working in an office. I'm doing a lot better than I was. My coworker, Jill, found out I'd had a boob job (but not about the cancer thing), when myself and my friend from years before the mastectomy were planning a holiday and she made a joke about me going on a plane with my implants, and Jill overheard. By the end of the day, the entire office knew I'd had a boob job, but not why, and half a dozen people confirmed Jill had told them.

Over the next few months Jill made many "jokes" and comments about my chest to coworkers when I was in earshot, at one point saying I had "more plastic than Barbie" and calling me "fake in two ways". I didn't hear this one myself but a friend in the office told me that Jill had at one point referred to me as a "sack of silicone".

IDK what her problem was exactly but at one point she mentioned the NHS so I assume Jill thought that I'd got my tits done for free on taxpayer money (I'd gotten the mastectomy on NHS but gone private for therapy and implants).

I asked her to stop more than once, but unfortunately the places I'd talked to her were places like the lift and the women's bathroom, where there weren't any cameras, and Jill just kept making comments no matter how often I asked her not to. I wouldn't say it was every single day, but I heard at least 3 comments per week for 3 months.

I hit my breaking point when me, Jill and a few other coworkers were having lunch, I referred to something as being shallow and Jill said "you'd know all about being shallow" while gesturing to my chest. I snapped.

I said "do you know why I have these? A few years ago the doctors found potentially cancerous cells in my breast tissue, I was advised to get a mastectomy and was left with huge ugly scars on my chest. I went to see a therapist who sent me to a cosmetic surgeon, who advised me to get implants to hide the scars, and I did just so I could look at myself in the mirror without crying. So maybe next time you want to judge someone for having cosmetic surgery, you should ask them why they had it first". And feeling like that was a mic drop moment I picked up my food and left.

For the rest of the day I had about 1/3 of my office come up to me and offer support, and the rest tell me that Jill was just joking around and I was being a bitch. I replied that Jill was being a bitch long before I was.

I then got an email from HR saying they wanted to talk to me the following day, and when I called for clarification they mentioned a "hostile work environment" (note: this is apparently an American term and holds little weight in England but it's what was said over the phone). I knew the person who signed off the email and I'd spoken to. Her name was Debbie, and she was Jill's friend in HR so I was fairly confident on who had reported me.

I realised that if this was already being sent to HR, I needed as much ammunition as possible, so I went about collecting my information.

As Debbie had dealt with me so far, it was safe to assume she would be the person reviewing the complaint with me, and if that was true I was fucked. However, I vaguely remembered a section on complaints that was in my contract when I first signed with the company. I flicked through the contract and there was a part in complaints section that said I was contractually allowed to request a change of reviewer if I felt my allocated reviewer was biased. It was called an "impartial overseer". I photocopied the page and highlighted that part.

Then I messaged the people who had offered their support over facebook, and said basically "HR have asked to see me. Do any of you remember Jill insulting me to your face and are you willing to write and sign something saying what you heard and when?". Not everyone was willing to help as Jill is somewhat feared in the office due to her befriending HR and management but about 20 people were willing to help me.

I guessed roughly when I'd asked Jill to stop previously (the 4 asks over the last few months, some timings were easy to guess as they'd happened on my break or when I'd first arrived at work) and I wrote them all down, along with a rough time of when the lunchroom confrontation happened and a list of names of who was there for the lunchroom confrontation.

I got to work slightly early the next morning. I went round everyone who had messaged me and most of them managed to give me a printed and signed letter (some didn't manage to write one but nbd). This isn't exact words as there's 16 letters to sum up here but the gist was:

"My name is [their name]. I work with Jill Lastname and OP. On [date] at [time] (approx), I spoke with Jill Lastname, during which she referred to OP as [quoted insult]. I felt this was inappropriate as it directly related to OP's appearance and am willing to go on record further to establish that Jill Lastname has been discussing OP in the workplace in the same manner for 3 months now, causing me discomfort and creating what I feel is a hostile work environment. Signed [their name]"

I wound up with about 16 letters, all from different people, and one of them was in the lunchroom for my conversation with Jill. Some even had bulletpointed lists of everything Jill had said to them about me or other people, as it turns out Jill has issues with a lot of people's appearances. She apparently made comments about one coworker's weight, and something antisemitic about a different coworker's nose, all of which were put in these letters. There are about 45 people in the office so while 16 wasn't a majority, it's still a decent amount. The letters weren't hugely long, most were only a paragraph, but they had all the necessary information.

I was asked to come to HR at 10am. I took the letters from coworkers, the photocopy of the page in my contract, and my dates and times in a little folder with me.

I got there and Debbie was the one overseeing the interview. She got up from her desk, ready to lead me into another room.

I immediately turned to the other HR worker that was currently there and said "so is my meeting with you, then?"

Debbie said "no, you're with me."

I replied that this wouldn't sit well with me, as "my contract states I have a right to an impartial overseer" and as I said this I took the contract page out of my folder. Debbie read it (I wouldn't let her take the paper when there was a shredder so close by) and said she could be impartial. I replied that I really didn't mean to be a pain, but I had it on good authority that the person on the other end of this complaint is her friend, and my contract does say I'm allowed an impartial overseer.

Debbie stomped off to get Supervisor. Supervisor asks how I know she can't be impartial and I tell him that I have it on good authority that the Jill, who was on the other end of this complaint, is a close friend of Debbie. He asked Debbie if this was true, to which she only replied "I can be impartial".

Supervisor took a deep breath, asked the other HR rep to come with him, and the four of us all went to review the complaint. I thanked them for being so accommodating (I was worried I'd annoyed them), Debbie took out the complaint and all 3 of them went through it with me. Debbie looked homicidal the whole time the interview was happening, as she had clearly anticipated firing me (or at least recommending me being fired).

The interview went something like this. It took like over half an hour and they kept asking me the same questions but phrased different ways so this is a really drastically condensed version.

Q: You said outside that you think Jill Lastname reported you. Why is this?

A: Jill has had an issue with me for about 3 months now

Q: Why didn't you come to us when you realised Jill had an issue?

A: I had no issue with her

Q: What issue does Jill have with you?

A: Four years ago a specialist identified potentially cancerous cells in my breast tissue. I had surgery to remove my breast tissue, thereby removing the cells and the risk. After the surgery I was left with large scars on my chest. I went to a therapist for low self esteem and depression. The therapist suggested a plastic surgeon who suggested breast implants to cover my scars. All of this is in my medical history which you have a copy of in my file and my full permission to review. Jill found out about my breast implants but didn't know about the cancer. Jill had a problem with my breast implants, and decided to communicate this problem to our coworkers.

Q: Why do you feel this is true?

A: Here's 16 signed statements all from different coworkers, all testifying that Jill told the entire office I'd had breast implants on the day she found out and has since made comments about these implants frequently. They have quotes of what Jill said to them about it and rough dates and times.

Q: Rough dates and times?

A: No one knew this would be escalated to such an extent so no one really took notes as and when it happened.

Q: What event or events do you think directly led to this complaint of harassment?

A: For me harassment began when Jill told everyone about my breast implants without my consent, but as to the complaint placed against me, it would probably be what happened at about [time] yesterday in the lunch room. Jill made a comment about me being shallow while gesturing to my breasts and I replied by giving her an abridged version of my relevant medical history and ending with a comment about the importance of getting the full story. There are cameras in the lunch room, so I'm sure you'll be able to find that conversation. I'll admit I could have handled the situation better, but after 3 months I felt I had to put my foot down. Here's a list of names of people who were also present. There were 6 people at the table, including myself and Jill. One of these people is also in those letters, and has written their account of the conversation and signed it.

Q: Had you had a conversation with Jill prior to this regarding her comments about you?

A: Several, spaced out over the last 3 months. Each time I communicated to her that I felt uncomfortable and upset with these comments she was making and would appreciate it if she were to stop.

Q: To your knowledge, was Jill made aware of your former cancer at any point in this time?

A: No. It wasn't mentioned in the conversation with my friend she overheard and I didn't tell her because frankly it's none of her business and I did not feel the need to detail my medical history to a coworker in order to avoid further sexual harassment.

Supervisor stands up and says "well I think we're done here". He shakes my hand and sends me back to my desk saying that I'd hear from them after they reviewed the evidence (letters, CCTV, medical history and anything they had already) and made a decision on the case.

I got back to my desk, pulled up my CV, and prepared to start the job search again.

About an hour goes by, then the person who wrote the letter and was there for the lunchroom conversation gets called for a meeting with HR. They come back 10ish minutes later.

The other people who were also there for the lunchroom conversation get called one by one, except Jill. All of them are gone for about 10 minutes then come back, find a coworker, and say that HR wants to see them.

Then the people who wrote letters but weren't there yesterday are also called one by one and are each gone for about 10 minutes each, some longer, some shorter. By about 3:30 it looks like everyone who wrote a letter or was there in the lunch room has been interviewed.

Then, finally, Jill gets called in. She's gone for about 30 minutes and comes back fuming. She glares at me while I work, but I ignore her.

4:30ish, Jill gets called into HR again. 5 pm rolls around, everyone is either leaving or getting ready to leave, when Jill storms back into the office. She glares at me the whole time she packs up her desk. She then starts telling anyone who will listen that I got her fired before shoving her way onto the lift.

An email comes in from HR. My case is closed.

(source) story by (/u/3240278189)

#prorevenge #by /u/3240278189 #pro revenge #revenge stories #pro revenge stories #pro #revenge #last10

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hopelikethemoon · 4 years

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merry christmas, baby

Title: merry christmas, baby Rating: Explicit Length: 3,000 Warnings: Period-typical sexism, smut (pregnancy sex, fingering, *squint* cock warming, girl-on-top), fluff. Notes: Click this to check out the timeline for Maybe Today, Maybe Forever. Summary: It’s Christmas time in Colombia. Tag List: @grapemama @seawhisperer @huliabitch @pedropascalito @rogrsnbarnes@thewallpapergoesorido @twomoonstwosuns @gooddaykate @livasaurasrex @ham4arrow@hiscyarika @plexflexico @readsalot73 @hdlynn @lokiaddicted @randomness501@fioccodineveautunnale @roxypeanut

Holidays were weird. Particularly gift-giving holidays like Christmas. The unfortunate holiday that was looming right around the corner. It was made all the more difficult by the fact that you were five months pregnant with your partner’s baby and you spent most of the day pretending to have a merely casual friendship. You were still trying to figure out what normal was for the two of you.

Sometimes he would steal a kiss from you when you both ended up on the elevator together, with just enough fervor to leave you reeling for the rest of the day. Other times, it would be three days before he turned up at your apartment looking to spend the night with you.

You still hadn’t told him that you loved him too. You said it all the time, without so many words. Something about saying it terrified you. You still couldn’t wrap your head around the fact that he had been the one to say it first. You had loved him for a while; first as a partner, then as a friend, and now… as whatever he was. He wasn’t your boyfriend — that seemed far too juvenile for your taste. Lover sounded ridiculous, but it at least suited the situation well enough.

“So,” Chris mused — which was never a good thing. “What are you doing for Christmas? Sit at home and wonder why the baby daddy didn’t stick around?”

You felt a flush creep across your chest and you glared across the office at him. “None of your business. Get the report done so I can send it off.”

“Hey Peña,” Chris ignored you completely. “Don’t you think she’d be less of a bitch if she were still getting some?”

“Why the fuck would I be thinking about that?” Javier snarled, “Get your mind out of the gutter Feistle.”

“I’m just saying.” Chris shrugged. “That’s how I keep my lady pleasant.”

“Fuck off.” You snapped, flipping him off before you started furiously typing.

“You are a walking HR disaster.” Javier quipped, rising from his desk to bring the stack of his completed paperwork to you. He lingered, resting his hand on your shoulder. “Just breathe.” He squeezed your shoulder three times.

You looked up at him and smiled softly. “Thanks.” Unwillingly you let Chris read anything into the encounter, you snatched the top file off the stack and skimmed over it. “Your ribbons need to be replaced.”

“Yeah, yeah, yeah.” He waved his hand dismissively as he made his way back over to his desk. “I’ll get to it.”

“Peña what are your Christmas plans?”

“Dunno.”

“Are you spending it alone?”

Javier shrugged. “I guess it depends on how things go.”

Chris leaned forward, suddenly interested, “One of your lovely ladies?”

“Jesus Christ, Feistle.” Javier dragged his hand over the back of his neck. “This isn’t work.”

“They get expensed as work.”

Javier flipped him off. “We’re not going to be having a Christmas break if you don’t get your fucking reports in.” He glanced up at you, brows furrowed with a sympathetic smile.

You shrugged. There wasn’t much to be done about Chris’ antics. You couldn’t exactly file a report against him for the harassment, because they’d just let you go to cover their own asses. It was a pain in the ass to be the only female agent currently on the job. With Escobar handled, Messina had long since headed back to the states.

You never had an issue with Javier or Steve. They had treated you like part of the team from day one, Javier especially. He’d always been especially encouraging about your efforts whenever you got briefed on the case.

If you hadn’t gotten knocked up…

Javier wouldn’t be anything more than your friend and colleague. You’d still be hitting bars with him after work, helping him snag whatever woman had caught his eye that night. He hadn’t been a half-bad wingman himself, though sometimes he definitely set you up to fail.

Which, in light of recent events, made you wonder.

You blinked as a wad of paper was thrown at your face. “I’m talking to you.” Chris said dryly. “Pregnancy brain?”

“I was contemplating how much effort it would take to put a human male into the paper shredder.” You countered with a smirk. “What did you need now?”

Chris stared at you. “You really need to get laid.”

“That’s what you needed to tell me?”

“No.” He rolled his eyes. “I forgot what I was going to say now.”

“Of course you did.” You muttered under your breath. “Get the report done, Feistle. The sooner it’s in, the sooner we’re out of here.”

———

Javier was a hard man to shop for. He didn’t need much, which was made apparent by the fact that he could spend three consecutive days at your apartment without needing to get anything from his, except for a clean shirt on the way to work in the morning. You had considered getting him a fancy engraved cigarette case, but he was trying to quit. He didn’t need another pair of aviators and a money clip seemed like a tacky gift.

You ended up stumbling upon the perfect gift down in a street market near your apartment a week before Christmas. An antique edition of Don Quixote. Javier wasn’t exactly one to settle down for the evening with a nice book, but you recalled a brief conversation you’d had with him last year where he had offhandedly mentioned that it was a story that he and his father had bonded over.

On the front page of the book, you wrote a short note. You only felt a little guilty for ruining an antique edition.

To Javi,

Long before I knew that you would become the father of my child, you mentioned how much you loved bonding over this story with your father. Now that you are about to become a father yourself, I thought you might enjoy your own edition to share with our child. May she take away as many fond memories with you, as you did with your father. I still remember the way you lit up when you mentioned it and maybe, even then, I was falling in love with you.

I love you.

“You mean it?” Javier questioned as he traced his fingers over the words you had written.

“Yeah.” You smiled softly at him. “Do you like it?”

“Baby, I love it.” Javier reached over and gave your thigh a squeeze. “Now I feel like my gift isn’t nearly as sentimental.”

“You didn’t have to get me anything.” You assured him, resting your hand over his. “I’d settle for a back massage.”

“I did get you something.” Javier leaned over and pressed a quick kiss to your cheek, before he got up off the sofa and grabbed his leather jacket off the back of a chair in the kitchen. He presented you with a package wrapped in bright red Christmas paper. “I hope you like it.”

You peeled back the paper to reveal an empty photo album, “Javi.”

“The camera will get here next week. The shop couldn’t get it in time.” Javier explained as he perched on the arm of the sofa, watching you with a furrowed brow. “It seemed like a nice way to document things… for us.”

“Thank you.” You gestured for him to come closer. “This…” You looked down at the empty album, flipping through a few pages as you imagined it filled with pictures. You and Javi, the baby, a lifetime of firsts and memories to be made. You hadn’t even considered documenting your pregnancy — your relationship. You blinked quickly as tears slid down your cheeks. “Goddammit Javi.”

“Baby, don't cry.” Javier brushed his fingers over your hair. “C’mere.”

You scooted closer to him, sniffling. “They’re happy tears. Promise.” You assured him. “And you thought this gift wasn’t sentimental.” You had never been much of a crier, but ever since your hormones had been put to the test with your pregnancy, you cried over everything.

“Well without the camera, I figured a blank album didn’t seem like much of a gift.”

You swept another tear off your cheek. “It’s perfect, Javi.” You tilted your face to look up at him with a smile. It wasn’t just a blank album, it was the promise of filling the pages. “Javier,” You started, brushing your thumb over his bottom lip as you stared at him. “I love you.”

“I love you too, baby.” Javier drawled out, leaning in to press a kiss to your forehead, before dipping down to press a kiss to your lips.

Your fingers trailed around to cradle the back of his neck, playing with the soft hair at the nape of his neck. You didn’t let him pull back from the kiss, your tongue sweeping out over his bottom lip. He groaned against your mouth, lips parting enough to give you access.

Javier curled his arm around your waist and hauled you onto his lap, his hands settling on your hips as you straddled him. Reluctantly he pulled away and leaned back against the sofa, searching your face. “You good for this?”

You brushed your hair back behind your ears as you held his gaze. “Would you judge me if I told you I’ve been thinking about this since yesterday?”

He arched a brow, a smirk playing over his lips. “Oh?” He rubbed his thumbs against your hip bones, before trailing them up along your sides. “Tell me more.”

“Well,” You bit down on your bottom lip, trying to feign a look of innocence as you rested your hands on his shoulders. “I had to take matters into my own hands last night, since someone didn’t come over.” You arched a brow. “Asshole.”

Javier leaned in and kissed you, “I planned on coming over, but I ended up falling asleep on the sofa.”

“A likely story.” You teased, dragging your fingers through his hair, letting your nails scrape lightly against his scalp. “You realize falling asleep on the sofa is an old man thing. God, you’re already turning into a father.”

He grumbled, “Oh, fuck off. You know I’ve been keeping God awful hours this week.” His hands returned to your hips, giving them a squeeze.

“I know.” You tilted your head to the side as you met his eyes, “We can just sleep if you’d prefer.” You said softly as you trailed your fingers down the column of his throat.

Javier shook his head. “And leave you to take matters into your own hands again?” He caught your hand and brought to his lips, kissing your palm. “Tell me.”

You felt a blush rise across your cheeks and you shifted forward in his lap until you were pressed against the hardened length of his cock. “I thought about your mouth.” You told him, dropping your voice into a low whisper. You traced your thumb over his lips, a shiver running down your spine as his tongue flicked out against your finger. “Is it bad that I started thinking about it at work?”

“Did Feistle’s line of questioning get you thinking?” He ran a hand up the length of your spine, before he rolled his hips beneath you, his cock grinding up against you and sparking heat low in your belly.

You gave a short nod of your head as you rock downwards, a soft moan slipping past your lips as the movement caught against your clit. “I guess we can thank him for that.” You whispered as you leaned forward and kissed him, your lips slanting needily over his. You dragged your teeth over his bottom lip, your fingers dragging through his hair as you pulled back.

“You should’ve called me.” Javier drawled out, tracing his pinky along the line of your cheekbone. You should’ve — you actually considered it, but ultimately you hadn’t wanted to seem desperate. Especially considering Javier had already planned to spend Christmas with you.

“Well, you’re here now.” You smirked at him as you moved to slide off his lap. You didn’t feel particularly sexy in your current state, but the way that Javier looked at you had you convinced that at least he thought you were.

You hooked your fingers in the waistband of your sleep pants, pushing them down your hips, before letting them slip down your legs, before shimmying out of your underwear. Your breath caught in the back of your throat as you watched Javier palm himself through his jeans, his eyes raking over your naked flesh. You peeled your shirt off, letting it join your discarded clothes.

Javier shifted forward to perch on the edge of the sofa as he smoothed his hands over the curve of your stomach. He dipped down and pressed a soft kiss to your skin, as one of his hands slid lower. “Did you think about this too, baby?” He questioned as he ghosted his fingers along your inner thigh.

You grabbed ahold of his shoulders to keep yourself steady as he dragged his fingers between your slick folds. “Fuck.” You widened your stance, drawing in an unsteady breath. “Don’t tease me Javi.”

“No?” He brushed his thumb over your clit, but it wasn’t enough.

“No.” You shook your head. “It’s not—” Whatever you were about to say died on your lips as Javier pressed two fingers into you slowly. Your eyes fell closed and your lips parted with a breathy moan. Though your second trimester was still fraught with the occasional upset stomach, it had done wonders for your libido. And Javier had been more than willing to give into your needs, despite his own hesitancy about doing something wrong.

“Love the way you look.” Javier drawled out, his voice rough with his own desire as he watched your face. “So fucking pretty.” He dragged his fingers out of you before pressing back into you again, building a slow pace that was driving you wild. “Are you going to come for me, baby?” He questioned as his thumb rubbed tight circles over your clit.

“Fuck, yes.” You told him, biting down on your bottom lip as you tightened your hold on his shoulders. “Javi.”

“Just let go, baby.” Javier urged, pressing a kiss to your stomach as he looked up at you. He twisted his fingers, pressing them directly against that sweet spot within you. That was all it took to set you off, his name tumbling from your lips as your body clenched around his fingers. “That’s it.”

He dragged every second of pleasure he could from you, working his fingers in and out of you until you weren’t certain you could keep upright. Javier guided you back onto the sofa to straddle him. You curled your fingers around the back of his head, kissing him like your life depended upon it as he worked to get his pants open.

You lifted up on your knees, reaching down to curl your fingers around his cock to hold him steady as you settled down onto him. “Oh.” You breathed out as he gripped at your hips to keep you seated atop him. You were still so sensitive from the orgasm he’d pulled from you, your inner walls clenching around him.

Javier tangled his fingers in your hair, tightening it just enough to make the pain merge with the pleasure of being filled with him. “You feel so fucking good.” He whispered close to your ear as he kissed a path down your throat. He rolled his hips beneath you, holding you close to him. The movement kept him buried within you, the slow grind of his movements making you moan.

“You really love me?” Javier breathed out against your lips and all you could do was grin back at him.

You brushed your nose against his, laughing softly. “Yes, dumbass. I love you.” Pointedly you rolled your hips, smirking when he groaned in response.

“Dumbass?” Javier grabbed at your ass, holding you steady as he thrust up into you. “Awfully rude for someone wanting me to fuck them.”

You rolled your eyes. “Are you going to stop?”

“No.”

“I thought so.” You grinned, brushing your fingers through his hair as you met his eyes. “But if you don’t start moving, I’m going to have to kill you.”

Javi chuckled, slowly rolling his hips beneath you. There was nothing hasty about his movements, he took his time — drawing out the pleasure until you were both trembling messes. His thumb found your clit, stroking it until you shattered around him, coaxing him over the edge. You pressed your face into the crook of his neck, breathing heavily as you came down from your high, his cock softening within you.

“Merry Christmas, baby.” Javier whispered, pressing a kiss to your temple as he cradled you against his chest.

For a fleeting moment you wondered what next Christmas would be like. Would the photo album be filled up with photos of the three of you? Would you set the timer to pose with your baby in front of a Christmas or would Javier be there to take it? The future was cast in shadows of uncertainty. You knew what you wanted. You were willing to settle if you had to. You’d do what you had to do to protect your baby’s future, but you wanted Javier there beside you along the way.

“Merry Christmas, Javi.” You said as you pulled back to look at him. Leaning in you pressed a soft kiss to his lips, letting it linger. “I love you.”

“I’m gonna need you to keep saying that this weekend.” He smirked.

“If you’re lucky I might say it for a long time.”

“Luck has rarely been on my side,” He mused, smoothing his hands along your side. “But I’m hoping it might be this time.”

“Me too.”

#javier pena #javier pena x reader #pedro pascal x reader

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foreignbrunette · 4 years

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Vigilantes

A/N: This is my first short story I write about the bayverse turtles. It’s a simple story. Sorry if there are spelling erros. Hope you like it ^^

It’s late night. You are sitting on the couch with your cat, Ozzy, sleeping pacifically on your lap. You had a hard day at work but you’re always happy to get home and see your cat waiting for you in front of door.

You moved to Manhattan with Ozzy to get new opportunities of work and start a new life. Of course it was difficult at first but you had some help to find a good apartment in the concrete jungle.

Most of the lights in your house are off, but the only light source is from your TV and kitchen, which is separated from the living room by a kitchen courtertop.

You’re watching the Channel 6. The live News is being presented by a beautiful woman. The News is showing many NYPD cars with its red and blue lights on, ambulances opens at the back with people being cared by paramedics, some people running side to side, other with officers giving their statement. That place was in chaos.

“The Foot Clan is now immobilized and arrested. According to witnesses, they attacked by surprise and took seniors, adults and children as hostages. Unfortunaly, many of the victms are injuried but none in a serious condition. Now these victms are reciving a proper medical care.”

While the reporter was talking about what happened, the cameraman started to turn the camera around to show the actual situation in that place.

Suddenly you feel your cat adjusting himself on your lap to stay in a more confortable position. You look down at him, your eyes admiring that fluffy ball moving graciously. You smiled, taking your hand to his little head to give him a softly pet. ‘’Confortable, sweetie?’’ you asked quiet and softly, Ozzy raised his head slowly towards you and purred like he wants to say ‘’yes’’. Then, Ozzy laid his head on you thigh and fell asleep.

Turning your attention to the live News again, the reporter was interviewing a woman with blond hair, her name is Rebecca Vicent aka Chief Vicent. You’ve seen this woman before when the two criminals Bebop and Rocksteady and Shredder escaped from prison. These two mutants were recaptured but Shredder was never found again. What happened to him? Is he living hidden in the city or hidden in another country? Who knows where this guy is. Since the Technodrome incident your curiousity about the Vigilantes the curiosity built inside you even more.

Vigilantes. ‘’Where are they now?’’, ‘’Who are they?’’, ‘’Why exexactly they don’t reveal their real identities?’’, your mind is running wild of thoughts about them and you don’t realize that the reporter ended the interview with Chief Vicent. Damn.

‘‘Again the Vigilantes saved these people and helped the Police. And again we are greatful.’‘

You were saved by them too when you was coming back from work some weeks ago. You were with your coworkers and some Foot Clan soldiers surrounded you and before the worst happen you saw big shadows jumping side to side, fighting with Foot Clan.

‘‘They born in shadows. They live in shadows. They fight in shadows. And they always will.’‘

So, you turn your head to look through the window, watching the beautiful city out there. New York is so beautiful, mainly at night. Its lights illuminating everything you look.

The reporter’s final words to finish the live News echoed through the room:

''This is April O’Neal from Channel 6 News.''

Suddenly your eyes set on four dark figures at two roofs away. They are with their back turned to you, looking at the city. You smiled, thankful for live here.

#tmnt bayverse #tmnt 2014 #tmnt 2016 #tmnt

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bitter69uk · 3 years

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In honour of Faye Dunaway's 80th birthday today (she was born 14 January 1941) - my analysis of The Temp (1993). Tagline: “Don’t get mad. Get promoted.”

Following the box office triumph of Basic Instinct in 1987, it felt like every other film was some variation of the “erotic thriller” or the “psychological thriller” (or better yet, the “erotic psychological thriller”). Basic Instinct, Single White Female and The Hand That Rocks the Cradle all emerged in 1992, which clearly represented the cycle’s zenith. The more forgettable examples had generic, interchangeable titles like Body of Evidence, Body of Influence, Consenting Adult and Gross Misconduct.

The Temp is a threadbare and hackneyed late addition to the genre that also manages to be an unintentionally hilarious camp fest. It tells the deeply implausible “yuppie-in-peril” story of Peter Derns (Timothy Hutton). He’s a thirty-something marketing executive at Appleby, a struggling cookie company in the midst of a merger with a major food conglomerate (tense management shouts things like “our asses are on the line!”). As if this wasn’t already stressful enough, he’s estranged from his wife and son and it’s implied he’s also recovering from a recent nervous breakdown. Peter urgently requires a new personal assistant and into the breach steps “the temp” of the title – the ultra-efficient, enigmatic and alluring Kris Bolin (Lara Flynn Boyle). It soon becomes apparent Kris is a manipulative psychopath who will do anything – ANYTHING! – to climb the corporate ladder. Even resort to murder! (You will never look at a paper shredder the same way again). Rest assured The Temp’s climactic finale will leave you scratching your head and saying, “What?!”

Lara Flynn Boyle really sinks her teeth into the role of Kris and has a good line in knowing smirks while scheming. (Remember when nineties starlet Boyle was a ubiquitous red-hot leading lady following the success of Twin Peaks? Since then she completely vanished off the radar. A cursory Google search uncovered some really tragic stories about alcoholism, health problems and botched plastic surgery. David Lynch pointedly didn’t invite her back for the Twin Peaks re-boot last year).

But it’s Faye Dunaway in the secondary role of Charlene Towne – Appleby’s power-suited, cappuccino-drinking, icily composed, tough-but-vulnerable female chief executive - who truly owns The Temp. The scary, surgically enhanced veteran diva attacks every scene with her customary blowtorch ferocity and intensity (and won the Razzie Award for Worst Supporting Actress that year for her efforts). As far as Faye is concerned, The Temp isn’t low-grade schlock. She’s reprising her triumphant 1976 Oscar-winning role as a driven career bitch in Network here, in the same way Joan Crawford in decline brought her A-game to late-period hagsploitation horror b-movies like Straitjacket and Trog.

Speaking of Crawford: Charlene is definitely a kissin’ cousin to Mommie Dearest. “Don’t fuck with me fellas! This ain’t my first time at the rodeo!” Dunaway’s Crawford memorably lambasted Pepsi executives. She gets an equivalent speech here. “This is just my latest battlefield, Peter,” she hisses. “Sexism. Cronyism. Now it’s ageism. But if they think I’m going down without a fight - they’re mistaken! Don’t be fooled. People still stomp on your toes and stab you in the back, just like they did in the eighties! Now they just smile in your face while they do it. Believe me – I’ve had more knives stuck in me than Julius Caesar!” Dunaway’s finest moment: Appleby is in a PR disaster meltdown because a batch of the oatmeal and raisin cookies has been sabotaged with broken glass! Charlene – yanked straight from the tennis court, glowing with perspiration and still clutching her racket - is in crisis mode and raging at underlings. She announces Kris will be appearing on the evening news to make an official statement. When another female employee protests, “But I handle media relations” Faye snaps, “Kris is more camera-ready!”

#faye dunaway #the temp #bad movies we love #bad movies for bad people #diva

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cecilspeaks · 4 years

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164 - The Faceless Old Woman (Live)

[applause]

Jeffrey Cranor: I’m really excited, we wrote this script recently coming up in this last performance for tonight. And I got real excited for writing it, cause we haven’t written like a, to do a live show full length in a new voice. And it was a lot of fun to do.

Joseph Fink: Yeah so tonight we are presenting the first Welcome to Night Vale show that is entirely from the point of view of someone who is not Cecil, this is the time when the Faceless Old Woman Who Secretly Lives In Your Home gets to step out from her secret.. place in your home. [laughter] And tell you a little bit about herself.

Jeffrey: One of my favorite things about writing the Faceless Old Woman stuff is cause the way Joseph and I work is that we’ll write episodes or write parts of episodes and pass it to the other and that person will, sometimes have questions but oftentimes just maybe like add something to it. So a lot of times it’s either, when I get stuff back from Joseph and I dunno if he feels the same way getting stuff back form me, with the Faceless Old Woman script it was always either something really hilarious for something really upsetting. [laughter] And I really love that a lot.

Joseph: This is maybe the most upsetting thing we’ve ever written, I hope you guys enjoy it. [laughter]

Jeffrey: Have fun, good night! [applause]

Joseph: I guess we should start that show we talked about.

Jeffrey: Let’s do it. You guys, let’s welcome to the stage your friend and ours, Mara Wilson!

[applause] [long silence]

Mara Wilson: I am the Faceless Old Woman who secretly lives in your home. Hello. You don’t know me, but I know you. I know you very well. I’ve been going through your medicine cabinet. You take too much Advil. Do you realize how hard that is on your digestion? I know a couple gelcaps and a glass of water before bed can alleviate a morning hangover, but it also puts you in a bad mood, because you don’t get good sleep with all that extra stress you put on your guts. You know what’s a better hangover cure? Not drinking like it’s the last day of community college. I replaced your vodka with clear Windex, and your Advil with Ipecac. This won’t help your hangovers, but it certainly will be more entertaining for me. I don’t sleep, so I need better late night entertainment than Netflix. I’ve already watched every episode of “Money Heist” and “Criminal Man” and “Planet documentary”, I have to spice it up a little bit.

Which reminds me, sorry about the tarantula incident last week. And here I’m speaking specifically to you, Tony. Yes you, in the shirt. The one hoping I’m not talking about you. I’m not sorry you woke up with a tarantula covering your face, nor that it bit you, causing your eyelids to swell up like Kinder eggs filled with purulent discharge instead of toys. I am sorry that I forgot to turn the flash off of my camera, which alarmed both you and the spider, and I never got a good photo. I’ve been building up my portfolio for an art exhibit I call “Gross Things on a Sleeping Tony”. It’s going up June 1, exclusively in your living room. I’ve already gotten “Open-mouthed Centipede Bouquet” framed. You’re gonna find this show absolutely terrific. Wait no, not terrific, what’s the word? Terrifying.

Tony, you’re one of my favorites in Night Vale. I know you hate your direct marketing job selling high interest credit cards to twenty-somethings, but the benefits are great. You have health care, a 401k, and you get to take advantage of people less fortunate than you. Everything is its own reward. But I’ve read your poetry, you love poetry. To be fair, there isn’t a big job market for poets, but you need to explore what makes you happy. I tattooed one of my favorite lines of poetry on you last month. It’s by Mary Oliver. “Instructions for living a life. Close your eyes. Be scared. Good luck.” And then I drew a little butterfly next to the words. I’m not the best artists, though, so it kind of looks like a radish or a sarcoma. Doesn’t matter, you still haven’t noticed. It’s just right below your right shoulder blade, don’t try to find it now, it’s still healing and given that I used the metal rod from that fondue set in your closet as the needle, it’s possible it’s infected. Better to leave it alone.

Tony, look at me. Imagine where my eyes would be. You have a lot to work through. I’m here to help you, I really am. I’ll prove it by giving you some advice. If a venomous arthropod is on your face, don’t scream.

Anyway, it’s not you Tony who’s bothering me, it’s the new people. They are elderly, like me, and they just moved into a house in the center of Night Vale. Or maybe this is decades from now, time is a little hazy for me. I’ve never been in this house nor noticed it before they moved in. it’s a one bedroom and there are three of them. I thought polyamory, but they have three separate beds and they never speak to each other, rarely look at each other, and never leave the home. The first night I secretly lived in their home, I realized they never slept either. They brushed their teeth, put on pajamas and get into bed. But they all lie there, eyes open, through silent hours of darkness.

I tried whispering to them but got no response. Usually when I reveal myself in the dark, I get the thrill of witnessing horror dawn across a person’s distorted mouth and bulging eyes as they see my faceless face pressed up against their own. One of the best parts of visiting new residents. But not these three. For once, I’m the frightened one.

Speaking of frightening, did you get your taxes (-) [0:08:20] on time Alex? You, you’re Alex. You with the shoes. I had to file for an extension. I don’t owe any money because I have no income, but I’m over 200 years old, never got a social security number, have no permanent address and I wasn’t born in this country, it’s a lot of paperwork. And Alex, you know your Wi-Fi is terrible and I was having a hard time downloading the forms I needed, so I just wrote my name on some yellowish-black Boston lettuce you’ve left in the crisper for the last three weeks. But the leaves kept falling apart, I think more like melting. After about 20 minutes, I got frustrated and just made myself a salad. Also, I used the last of your parmesan cheese, but don’t worry, I replaced it with dried skin I’ve been collecting from your bed sheets. Don’t be grossed out, Alex. Same texture and nutritional value, you won’t know the difference. I got the idea from a Food Network’s “Beat Bobby Flay”, where this one winner tied up Bobby and ran a (micro-) [0:09:17] across his forehead to make a chimichurri sauce.

I love that show, but I’m a bigger fan of HGTV’s “House Hunters”, the desert dystopian version. That’s where I met you, Addie. Yes you, with the face. You were shopping for a new home here in Night Vale. You told the realtor - who was inside of a living deer, its belly horrifically distended and quivering with every one of the agent’s words and gesticulation – that you wanted three bedrooms, a back yard, and something close to an outdoor community space. The first home, the yard was not in good shape, lots of (- remains) [0:09:55] and the lawn was glowing, perhaps from underground radiation testing. It was well under your budget, but you would have had to spend your savings on fixing it up. Also, in the bathroom mirror you saw, crawling across the ceiling, a faceless old woman devouring what looked like a rat. You didn’t need to worry about a rat infestation, Addie. It was a chipmunk. The second home was a condo right in the heart of the arts district. You loved the design: a simple large black cube, no doors, no windows, no interior. A true closed floor plan, so popular these days. But you weren’t sure there was enough room for entertaining, or anything else at all. The house you selected was perfect. Three bedrooms, a Jacuzzi en suite, and a large patio backyard. Plus it was right in the middle of town next to a community dog park. Although you would be disappointed later to learn that your dog had been arrested for domestic espionage after peeing inside the park’s forbidden walls. I think you made the right choice, Addie, but I can’t help wondering every time I watch “House Hunters”, who is this person running away from? You left Queens to move to Night Vale. Queens is where your family lives, where your best friend lives, and your girlfriend of two years. Are you afraid of stasis, Addie? Of being loved, of commitment? You might be afraid of that pinkish ooze coming out of your ear, might wanna see an ENT about that. Or if not an ENT, an entomologist.

Speaking of putting woodboring beetles inside orifices, I tried a similar thing with the elderly room mates who recently moved to town, or will move to town many years from now, again time is strange to me. But these room mates are also so strange. When I went to put a beetle into one of their ears, I noticed a lot of scar tissue there, making the hole too small. In my haste, the beetle scurried away and I got kind of desperate and just made a bunch of spooky moans and hisses like this: [moans, hisses] but not one of the three responded to me. They continued their meaningless pantomime of sleeping, and in the morning they got up and each went quietly about their days. One of them made coffee, but did not drink it. They then went to the window and waved at their neighbor, Susan Willman, who was on her porch stretching before her morning run. Susan looked at the figure in the window next to her and froze. She stared in terror, then darted back into her home and locked the door. Susan has always been unfriendly. I ran her bed sheets through her office shredder as a reminder to be more open and loving toward the world.

The other two room mates climbed into the shower at the same time. I’m not one to get off on others’ sexual activities, I just thought I might see something new, something human here. But no, they stood side by side, cleaning their cold gravity-defeated bodies, not once looking at each other let alone speaking. A squelch and a squish and grey water falling around yellow toenails. They toweled off, but when they hung the towels up, those towels were completely dry.

I’m used to being the one who does inexplicable and disturbing things. Last year during the community players’ production of “Romeo and Juliet”, I decided it would be more fun if they used actual poison. But it was a last minute idea, so the only poison I could find was Borax. Which just gave the two kids playing the leads several unhappy hours in the bathroom on the night after the show ended, so I don’t know. I could have made a stronger directorial choice. But so could the actual director, I get that Shakespeare plays are long, but he cut out all the best parts like the train robbery, and also Tybalt winning his bowling league. Although I did appreciate that they left in Juliet’s famous line: “Good night, good night, your blood and guts and marrow, which worms shall eat inside your grave so narrow.” It’s a classic story. Kids these days just don’t try to fake their own deaths anymore.

Oh. And Morgan. Yes Morgan, I’m talking to you, you with the fingernail sand the teeth. I need to explain something to you. You tip 20 per cent. You can afford it, stop using it as a measure of how much you approve of the restaurant service. A 20 per cent tip is not bonus, it’s a fee. Restaurant owners don’t pay their staffs, instead they make the diners pay their employees through this idiotic notion of capitalist meritocracy. I don’t care how bad the service, tip them. You have money, Morgan. I would also tell you to stop asking to speak to a manager every time your Long Island Ice Tea is a bit like, but I got out your tongue last month, so they wouldn’t understand you anymore anyway. Do you know what a cut human tongue tastes like, Morgan? Yes you do. You just don’t know that you do. Remember Applebee’s last week? You ordered soup. It was a beef base with little onions and little perfectly sautéed flecks of your own tongue that you had used to lash out at a manager the last time you ate there. You could blame them for poorly expediting your orders, but really the onus is on you for going to Applebee’s. Which serves neither of the items its name promises. It’s false advertising. It’s like an egg cream soda, or Taco Bell.

Speaking of eating, the elderly room mates made lunch together, but not for each other. They were all in the kitchen at the same time making separate meals in silence. They sat around the dining room table together and ate. They carved and stabbed and pushed foods quickly into their mouths, but their eyes were empty. One of them began to spit out their food. No one seemed to care or notice. They all began to vomit, but not with muscular heaves of shoulders and necks, the vomit spurted out like water from a hand pump, their torsos and heads perfectly still. After each bodily rejection of food, they would start shoveling it back to their mouths, repeating the same process. Eventually one of them stood up and threw their plate into the kitchen window, glass bursting everywhere. That person leaned into the hole and began punching the jagged shards out with their clenched fists as blood poured out of their forearms and wrists. They screamed mournfully into the suburban street. Neighbors and passers-by passed only briefly, as if they had barely heard the sad howls spreading across the valley. Susan’s lemon tree next door died instantly and all the lemons fell with wet plops to the ground. The fruit pealed open and inside of each was a fleshy crimson pulp, like meat that has been ground for too long. The other two room mates kept eating and vomiting, not even noticing the shattered glass being subsumed by the growing pool of blood on the floor.

You know, I wasn’t always like this, faceless or old. Secretly living anywhere. Once I was born upon warm water. The smell I remember is sharp citrus and the peppery sting of grass. The salt funk of ocean. I was once a child. I grieved once. I smelled blood. Once I was a thief. I lived among thieves, I saw empires rise and fall, centuries cast themselves upon infinity as fruitlessly as waves upon cliffs. Once I was a recluse. I lived amongst bandits and farmers, I spoke a different language then. I’ve spoken many languages.

Once I was under the sea. That was a quiet time. I lived amongst the coral and dead-eyed fish. Once I was a wanderer. I’ve seen the (head) [0:18:14] waters of the Mississippi and I’ve seen the cobbled streets of Paris and I’ve seen the empty arches of Franchia. But I’ve never seen anything like those three room mates. Of all the things I've been – child, thief, recluse, wandered, faceless old woman who secretly lives in your home, I’ll tell you this: I’ve never been more scared.

Fear is in the unknowing and the mystery. Fear is seeing everything about an old woman except her face. Fear is the uncertainty of her secretly living in your home. Fear is not the spider you see on the wall. It’s the spider you no longer see on the wall when you look back again.

In the unnerving din of shattered glass and mournful howls of that house, I found the loose thread that unraveled this mystery. The room mate who screamed had no tongue. And one of the others had an ear swollen shut from a previous surgery. And the other had a red mark, like a radish or sarcoma adorned with poetry drawn upon their shoulder blade. I realized I knew these three strange room mates. They are you, Tony, the special tattoo I gave you. And they are you, Addie, with your oral scar tissue from the beetle I jammed in there. And you, Morgan, with your tongue removed and digested. The three of you do not exactly live together in that home, not at the same time. You are living three different lifetimes in that same space. You do not speak or respond, because you are dead. Each of you alone in that house together, or you will be, time is confusing for me. Decades from now after you die, your souls will be trapped in the house, because something in this world is unresolved for you. You know this, paranormal neuroscience is required for all high school freshmen. But what they don’t teach you is how to resolve it. I know how and when each one of you die. I wrote it down on the back pages of your journals. Iv’e done this for everybody, but nobody ever reads it, because while people always think they’ll write every day, after a few pages they fall off the wagon and never see the lsat pages of their journals. Except Jonathan Franzen. He didn’t seem bothered by what he read. But he did cross out all my adverbs and added some Oxford commas. In case you’re wondering how Jonathan Franzen dies, here’s the answer: he doesn’t.

I am the faceless old woman who secretly lives in your home. You might find this ambiguous, after all the word “home” is singular. So whose home is it that I secretly live in? Listen, some things in this tangled world are simple. I live in your home, and your home, and your home, I live in all of your homes simultaneously. I am many. [echo] I am many. I am one. [echo] I am one. You all live such different lives, teeming, that’s what you are: teeming. And I am there watching you.

You, Tony, you dream of being a poet. Resolve the unresolved. The worst that can happen is crushing disappointment and public mockery, and eviction when you can’t pay your rent. Many more awful things after that, get to it!

And you, Addie, you fled your previous city to escape a murder charge. Strangely, you didn’t commit the murder you were charged with, but you have committed murder. Weird choice to go on “House Hunters” as a wanted fugitive, but maybe it was a good first step to healing your soul.

And you, Morgan. You have an idea that could save us all, an epic defining idea, one of the greats, but you don’t know which one. You have so many ideas. I can tell you this: most of them are not important. One of them is vitally important. Good luck. Also, tip 20 per cent.

And you, I forgot your name, you tweet too much. We all tweet too much, but that doesn’t let you off the hook. That’s why I ate your phone. You can thank me later. You can all thank me later. Because you all will be seeing me soon. I think that tonight is the night to let slip my secret. You’ll soon see me fumbling wet and gray from out of the bathroom mirror, or folded up strangely loose skin and mashed bones in the bottom drawer of your dresser. Or you will see me scuttle on your walls, the hair hanging down from my faceless face. Or you will look out your kitchen window and there will be someone standing in your driveway, and it will be me, and there will be no one in the driveway and instead, I will be next to you in the kitchen. Faceless and so very very old. Won’t that be nice?

I’m the Faceless Old Woman who secretly lives in your home. And your home. And your home. And every home. And I will be seeing you very, very soon.

[music, applause]

Today’s proverb: Never judge a book by its cover. Judge it by the title page instead.

#welcome to night vale #wtnv transcripts #episode 164 #the faceless old woman #the faceless old woman live #finally #thanks for your patience #there might be more mistakes bc there were many big words

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duallygirl178 · 3 years

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Dearest O'Malley Chapter 11

Chapter 11

I was soon starting to feel under the weather myself after Joe passed away. I felt weak from being under nitrus for 3 months, just like Jim; Nathan's instructor said. I began to get sick too just like that. Nathan tried to get me running again and grew frustrated. I felt my timing points were off just a little bit and I had to sit for almost 2 months that summer and I dreaded feeling sick for a while. All I could do was rest and as I was napping that afternoon, I had a dream about my father. In my dream, I was a young boy and playing a prank on him. I had sneaked quietly into my father's room and tip-toed to the bed where my dad was sleeping. Then, I tipped the mattress fell on top of him while he was in it. My dad was yelling and swearing in fury, but in the background, I could hear my mother laughing herself silly. My father squirmed effortlessly to get up as he fought through the covers. Once he was out of the cover twists and turns, he pops up trying to breathe and then that's when his face turned angry. He was just as angry as a yellow jacket wasp. He hollered out "Who flipped over my mattress? Whoever did this, better know that I'm out for you, I'm coming! Ya hear! you broke my chassis and my rear view mirror done broke!" I was laughing as my mother came up behind me chuckling as if no one cared. Dad yelled and yelled at my mother that she was in trouble. He yelled as us kids and mother didn't let him get away with it. She yelled at him with the most uncomfortable and longest sentence of swearing I've ever heard. All of us except for me, would start copying mom on her swearing in the background.

I suddenly woke up with a jerk and started to think to myself; 'Did that really happen?'. I remembered my dad was always fussing that he broke something when it wasn't fatal or when it was minor. If he bumped something on an object, he'd make a big scene out of it all. It was embarrassing! I liked to compare my father's personality with the parent from the TV show, "Life of Louie". He was a difficult, caring, comical, and downright paranoid father. After 10 minutes, I already forgot about my dream. I checked the time. It was late in the evening around 6 o'clock and I was beginning to get sweaty from the heat.

That mid-July, Joe fell and hurt his head. He had to go to the hospital in Farmington New Mexico. Carol, his wife couldn't bare to live without him. She was in her chair when it happened because she could barely get around. Then the night Joe was in the hospital, she got depressed and started to be loopy. She was seeing things that weren't there and she called the police because she would imagine that children were trying to steal her medication. Carol; Nathan's grandmother, called the house phone at 1010 late and there was all this commotion that really wasn't necessary. Carol was paranoid the whole time Joe was in the hospital and when Joe was transported to the hospital that was located in Albuquerque that July, she was going downhill fast. Sadly, Joe passed away a few days later. Jan, Nathan, and Natalie all had to pitch in each of their time to help with Carol that included changing her diaper, feeding her, bathing her, and changing her gowns. The care went on for a few more months after she got out of the hospital from an infection. It took several weeks to get Carol out of there, but she was doing fine when she was transported to Good Sams in Aztec. Good Sams was a place where old folks could recover from the hospital, be socialized with others and live there. It was really nice. Carol was doing fine and couldn't wait to be home again. While Carol was at Good Sams, I got bored that day. I headed inside the empty house. It felt cold and drafty because no one was here except for me, Ol' Reliable, and the van. I went into the spare room to go sort out some VHS tapes. I looked under the twin bed and found the box of VHS tapes that was stuffed under there. I pulled them out, took them out to the living room, set the VHS player up to the TV, turned it on and watched. There. On the tape was me. I was a lot younger then...possibly about 13 years old. The camera focused in on my dad. He was putting an old stack of newspapers in boxes ready to shred up in his electric shredder and was listening to a matching song too. He was listening to "Rip it up" in the Bill Haley & His Comets version. I turned the camera on a pipe hose connected to an exhaust pipe to a truck that lead to the window of a room. I was going to have a neighbor floor the gas pedal to release dirty diesel exhaust smoke and fumes through the pipes to smoke my dad out of the room he was in to shred the newspapers. I was fed up of him saying "I'm busy, son" and "Go play outside son." a lot to me. The camera focused on me after it showed footage of what I did and how I was explaining it. As it focused on me, I had this revengeful look in my eyes and said "I'm going to get you, dad" then I was laughing my deep hissing laugh that was weird. I focused my eyes on my neighbor and said "Okay Dan. Move em' out" Then, my neighbor revved up his engine and black smoke flowed through the hose and into the window that I lodged in. Quickly, the room flooded up with black smoke and out came my dad like a raging bull. I could hear him coughing his wheezy cough as smoke poured out like water from a faucet. My dad was covered in a black soot coat and had a death stare in his eyes. He was furious and said "When I breathe, I'mma kill you, boy" but I just laughed my stupid laugh. It was hilarious to watch my dad burst out of the house like if it was on fire and covered in soot.

I had forgotten how funny it was when I recorded my dad being angry with me because I pulled a prank on him and filmed it all on video cassette. My dad looked 50 years younger on this one and his owners had him 8 years with him still running. He was still an errand car till this day.

Next, I viewed another tape dated May 13, 1981 and I couldn't remember what was filmed on the tape. I ejected the tape out, placed it on the living room table and slid the second tape in. I watched and waited to see what came up. I could see it was something to do with my first dance at an Elk's Lodge and I was on a stage singing my first number. Then, it struck me. My father came to see me with my talent aboard to perform at the prom that I volunteered and signed up for at the high school.

I was singing a tune I had selected from my dad's records to show off. I looked dashing with new primer and cloud-white paint up on the stage. I was rocking it out to 'Jailhouse Rock' by Elvis Persley himself for a moment. And just when it was about to get boring, I performed "At the hop" by Danny and the Juniors and that's when everyone got crazy for rock n' roll. You could see square dancing and hooting from the crowd. Everyone was having fun and rocking it out. Then I remembered I was the Disk Jockey singer before people started to use re-mixer equipment and electric bits on their buttons. I remembered as I was viewing this tape I had sung a few more Elvis Persley songs such as "Don't be cruel" and "King of the whole wide world". I remember singing a few more songs by Little Richard too like "Tutti Frutti", "Rip it up", "Long Tall Sally" and "Jenny, Jenny".

Gonzo was even there too watching me with a random band that I had known for only a day that was playing the notes behind me. One of them was a Chevy Impala, two of them were Dodge Cornets, the other one was a GTX that was handling the music key grip. The tape was full of memories and outdid myself. In the tape: I was making my way off the stage when I was all done. The rules were; I had to pick and sing six songs. After my turn was over, they needed to let the next contestant have a turn. I enjoyed the rest of the night dancing with the crowd. I could see Impa and Gonzo in the back of the room. I had weaved through the crowd to come get them so we could party. Impa was in his best dressed and Gonzo was fixed up as if Elvis Persley dressed him up himself and said 'Okay, have a good time. don't get drunk on Greyhounds now' Greyhounds were a type of alcoholic drink that was from the 1960s. It was a tangy grapefruit like drink that wasn't made from any orange juice. We were giving Gonzo a little bit of guff about how he was all fixed up in his duds for a few minutes. Then we boogied until we turned purple to all the great songs and then some with the crowd. It was all fun until I accidentally bumped into a 1968 Plymouth Fury. Right away, I apologized and got her some first-aid care. She told me I was very generous and rare for a gentleman to say anything sorry to. Most men bump into her and not even say their sorry. I had responsibility unlike those jerks she was talking about that she may had encountered.

The tape ended and I ejected it out of the player after rewinding it. I looked at more titles that looked tempting to recall back upon.

I had a lot of fun watching all the VHS tapes that my dad recorded on. Not many of them had Impa and Gonzo on them, but I sure missed him. I knew I got to remember all the things we three boys did together when he was still alive. It was good to see him on the tapes. As I viewed more of the tapes, I was even more taken back to see Gonzo, Impa and I singing at a stage that a bar had around. It was hazy and smoky from all the customers smoking pot and drunks that were bored out of their motors, twisting their beer bottles off the tables as they were getting high on hash. The smoke was making us three high, tired and sound like the California Raisins during our song we were performing. I remembered after that, we were so exposed that we were driving high. We didn't get caught by any police officers and we reached home alright.

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ariel-snow-tmnt · 4 years

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the new vigilantes

chapter 3

The next morning, Ariel woke up at eight o’clock sharp just like April said. She got up and went to the kitchen. She made a nice cup of hot chocolate for herself and a cup of coffee for April. When April came into the kitchen, she smiled at the cup of coffee ready for her. Ariel was a sweetheart even with what happened to her 11 years ago. They both ate breakfast in a comfortable silence. April decided to break the silence.

April: “Hey girl. What are you planning on doing today?”

Ariel: “you know probably going to trained with my sensei. Why are you asking?”

April: “I just want to make sure you’ll be alright. I don’t want you to be lonely.”

Ariel: “Oh… don’t worry for me. I got my sensei and my friends. Ill be fine, besides I got you that I can bug all day.” She smiles with a giggle, then she got up and put her plate in the sink and went to get dress. When she returns to the April to thanks her before she left to go to her sensei for training. April always wonder why she would carry a big bag with her but never question her on that. She knew that Ariel didn’t have much. Once she got to the dojo, she was greeted by her sensei.

Yoshi: “Hello Ariel. I thought I told you that there was no training today.”

Ariel: “Hello sensei. I know but I got nothing else to do and my friends are all busy.”

Yoshi: “I see, but I cannot let you trained all day. It is not healthy for you. But I heard that there is a convention in town and it is related to Japanese culture. You should go and have fun.”

Ariel: “oh…sure. Can I leave my bag here with you? Ill come and get it later.�� He nods and handed her a pass to the convention as he knew that she couldn’t say no. She took it with a smile and thanks him before leaving and grabbing the nearest subway train to down town. Once she reaches the convention, she was amazed buy what she saw. She knew that her friends and her sensei gave her some money for her to get somethings and in case there is an emergency. She spends the entire day there. She bought a few things like a little bonsai tree. When she was in the subway on the way back to her sensei dojo. She told him everything she sawed and showed him what she bought including her little bonsai tree that had some beautiful red and green leaves. She told him good night then left with her bag. She had a weird feeling that she was being followed but brush off that feeling. It was probably just someone going in the same direction. She knew that only creeps that would arrases someone on the street. A hand landed on her shoulder and she turned around ready to fight off who ever touched her, but to her surprise, she was greeted by officer Jones.

Ariel: “Jesus Casey! I could have seriously hurt you. Why didn’t you just call my name?”

Casey: “Sorry snow. But you need to come with me.” He pointed to his car before adding. “We need to talk about something.”

All Ariel could do was nod and followed him to the car. Once she got in that she knew that he had found something about her parents’ murder. He mostly hangs with her if she called him but besides that he keeps his distance to keep her safe.

Ariel: “Casey does it have something to do with my parents?” She asks as her voice started to tremble a little. Casey was the officers responsible about Ariel parents.

Casey: “we found out that they were murder by the shredder.” He looks down and sighs. “I’m sorry Ariel but…we be believed that you may be in danger.”

Ariel felt tears in her eyes. She knew that her parents loved her and would never abandon her without a reason. Now that she knew that the Shredder was responsible, she had a better reason to fight them.

Ariel: “Thanks for telling me…” Casey stared the car and started to drive off.

Casey: “that’s not all. I’m taking you to some of my friends to make sure you will be safe. I know you know ninjitsu but April and I think its best if you go stay with them for a few days even their sensei agreed with us on this mater.”

Ariel: “Wait… you know April? And you never told me?” she seams confused about all that why didn’t he just took her to her sensei and why going to another sensei anyway but remained silent for the rest of the ride. Casey pull the car to a stop in a dark ally way and got out. Ariel opened the door and got out. She could easily see 4 figures standing in the shadows.

Ariel: “if their supposed to be ninjas they’re not doing a good job of being unseen.” April giggle and move forward to greeted them with a smile.

April: “I know that you master ninjitsu but if the Shredder finds you. You won’t be able to fight him alone or with your friends without putting them in danger.”

A voice from the shadows spoke.

Leo: “we were not trying to be invisible we let you be able to see us.” Ariel raised an eyebrow in their direction. She didn’t believe that for one bit.

Donnie: “the foot clan can track anyone down. No matter where they are.”

Raph: “yeah. and with y’a hair color of yours it made it easy for them to find y’a.”

Ariel: “and what if I don’t want to stay with you? I could had gone to my own sensei.” She looks directly at the figure that had katanas but one with a playful body language came up next to him.

Mikey: “true but we took down the Shredder once and that huge thing in the sky a few months ago. Not to brag or anything but yeah we did that.” He started to flex when one of them wacked him in the head. She sighs as she looks down then look back at Casey.

Ariel: “I don’t have a choice, do I?” he shook his head with a smile.

Casey: “don’t worry their just teenagers like you beside their fun when you get use to them.” Ariel looked back in their direction.

Ariel: “they don’t look like teenagers.”

Raph: “well sorry to disappoint y’a but we are.”

Leo: “I think its time to go back to the lair. Mikey you know the drill.” With that one of them approached her and put a pillow case over her head before she could even process what she saw.

When they arrive at the lair, they were greeted by Splinter. The smell wasn’t that bad for being in the sewers. Mikey gently put me back on my feet. He was talking the entire was, witch she found amusing. She felt that he only had three fingers on each hand. She felt his skin was kind of rough and was that scaly?

Splinter: “I apologies for the pillow case on your head but we need to keep this place a secret.” He nodded towards his youngest son to remove the casing over her head. She heard him whisper to her.

Mikey: “please don’t freak out…” he trailed off and she wonder why he had asked her that. He slowly removed the casing. Ariel took sometime to adjust to the lighting. Then she understood why he asked her that. In front of her stood four giants mutant turtles and a giant mutated rat. He looked wise and caring. The she notices Mikey, that was the smallest, was kind of scared but you didn’t know why.

Ariel: “now that’s explain your size, and that Vern didn’t do shit when it came to the shredder.” Mikey with orange slowly approached her.

Mikey: “you’re not freaked out about us??” Ariel just shuck her head. Mikey expression completely change. He was going to say something when the one in blue stopped him. He looked like the oldest and the leader of them.

Leo: “my name is Leonardo and you must have guest that he is Mikey.”

Mikey: “it’s short for Michelangelo.” He said with the biggest smile.

Splinter: “my name is Splinter but you can call me sensei if you want.” He then turns to his son and nod to them before going to what she presumed to be his room. Then the one in red came up to her and at that moment she knew that she was going to leave him alone.

Raph: “names Raphael but call me Raph.” He then left to go to his room probably. The one with the glasses was kind of cute. He was tall and wasn’t as muscular then his brothers but he was defiantly the smartest one.

Don: “I’m Donatello but you can call me Donnie or Don just don’t call me D please.” As he looked at her she saw how beautiful his eyes were. They were golden brown, something that she never saw before. Leo propose to give her a tour and Mikey was the one that eagerly showed me around. When we passed the gym, she saw how much Raph could lift. But she didn’t look long before she dragged away by Mikey. He finished the tour by showing her Donnie’s lab. He pushed her into the lab gently. She looked back at him confused.

Ariel: “you’re not coming in?”

Mikey: “I’m not allowed in their since I ended breaking things.” He then motions to her to look around. She saw Donnie at kind of computer. She approached him and she noticed that he had saw her on one of his monitors.

Don: “you like the tour?” he didn’t even turn around to speak to her as she stood next to him. She was focus on something on the screen.

Ariel: “are those the city’s camera system? How did you even get access to them?” Donnie was amused by her curiosity.

Don: “I hacked into the system years ago and I’m also the one that made most of the gadgets and the heating system. No one tough me that I just learned on my own.” He was bragging to her but she didn’t mind. He showed her to the spare room they had prepared for her. Her bag was already there along with Leonardo. He smiled at her as he lifted her new little tree.

Leo: “I have never seen one this color before.”

Ariel: “I got it at the Japanese convention down town. I always wanted one so now I have one. Their hard to find around here.” She went to her bag as she heard small chirping sounds. She turned around and saw Donnie leave. Leo turned around and looked at her and knew she was going to ask the question.

Leo: “it’s turtle language.” Ariel just nod before she gabbed something in her bag.

Leo: “if you need anything, I’ll be right across the hall. I know this is new but you’ll get use to it.” She looked at him with a small hint of sadness.

Ariel: “I know, I’m just not used to being with a lot of people when I seep somewhere. I had problems in the past with others.” She looked down.

Leo: “you won’t have to worry about anything. No one with hurt or try anything on you. We may be turtles but we now better then to do such a thing.” He walks to the door before adding. “you are welcome to join us tomorrow morning for training. Good night Ariel.” He closes the door and left. What he told her made her feel safer. She took out all of her weapons and put them all up on the wall as they knew that she would bring them with her. She changed into her pyjamas and took out her favorite plushy. She really like plushies. It comforted her and made her happy. She climbed into the bed and laid down. It really was a comfortable bed. She felt asleep instantly. A few hours later, Donnie was going to bed but before he went to check on Ariel. He opened the door of her room and saw her sound asleep with her plushie. It was a purple bunny with very long ears. He smiles and close the door again then went to bed.

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popolitiko · 4 years

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Exclusive! Leaked Fox News Job Offer Letter For New Female Employees by James Schlarmann

A leaked job offer letter for new female Fox News employees.

At most companies, when someone is hired, they are given an offer letter that discloses the terms and conditions of their employment. Things like salary, vacation days, and general job duties are typically discussed within the offer letter. Fox News is like many corporations in that they send offer letters to new employees, however the news agency apparently also separates the letters they send to females from the ones they send to males. In an exclusive to this website, an anonymous source in the Human Resources department at Fox News has sent us the following female job offer letter template, which they claim Fox sends to all its newly hired female employees.

Dear Sweetie,

Fox News and its parent company Newscorp are pleased to offer you the position of _________, within our highly-respected, fair and balanced news network. We are so very excited to have such a great dame with your special and unique assets on our team. Your salary will be _____% of the male who most closely matches your job description. Your expected hours of work will be ___ through ___, from ____AM/PM to ____AM/PM.

We understand that women-folk take a little longer to get ready for on-camera time than males do, so we’ll provide you with your own key to the females-only wardrobe and makeup rooms. Your security is our number one concern, so we have positioned cameras in a 360-degree fashion around both rooms. This way we can keep an eye on them and ensure no one breaks in on you while you are changing your clothes, a time where your titty/boobies may be out and exposed. Our cameras ensure your safety, please do not tamper with and/or disclose that they exist.

Female Fox News employees should come to work freshly showered, but if they forget to do so, don’t worry! We will provide you with fully-ventilated shower facilities. The venting holes in the shower stalls are there for your safety — we don’t want too much steam building up, after all. Please feel free to avail yourself of the shower facilities, even if you’ve already showered that morning.

The Fox News grotto will be open every night from 8pm to 3am. Each female Fox News employee is expected to attend at least three mandatory parties in the grotto per year. The schedule for the next month’s appearances will be emailed by the 25th of the current month. Please be prompt, and wear something to dazzle us.

In addition to your regular job duties, all females who are employed at Fox News are also expected to accept the following additional terms and conditions of their employment with the news agency that is most synonymous with good, clean, upstanding, ammo-hoarding, American patriotic family values.

During production meetings it might be necessary to do a “line” or “bump” of cocaine off your boobs, IN A RESPECTFUL WAY.

You may be asked to get into swimwear and pose with various semiautomatic weapons.

If any of our male anchors or staff get handsy with you, please report it immediately. To do so, write out an email, print it, then put it in the special receptacle for complaints marked “Paper Shredder.”

Don’t be afraid to stand up for yourself. In the bathroom. After you’ve gone pee.

Never, EVER make eye contact with Bill O’Reilly. He can suck your soul out that way.

Show us your tits!

Fraternization between employees is discouraged, except during normal office hours

We look forward to meeting you when you come in for your orientation. Please bring two changes of clothes, an updated head shot, and a list of the sexual positions you’ve still yet to try on the day of your orientation. Thanks, and we welcome you working your way tothe top of us/our organization!

Sincerely,

Skip Welsley Executive VP of Female Resources Fox News

Fox News could not be reached for comment.

https://www.politicalgarbagechute.com/fox-news-job-offer-letter-females/

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fordarkisthesuede · 5 years

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The Tolls of Justice - Chapter 5

It's morning brunchtime in Atlanta, and I'm servin' up a big ol’ stack of Johnny cakes with a juice reduction on the side. B)

IMPORTANT SPOILER TAGS: past mention of abuse, mental illness, gun violence, bonding over trauma

Read on AO3 or continue below:

[Chapter 5: The Wheel Still Turns on the Upturned Chariot]

John was quite used to keeping an eye and an ear out for everything. Arkham had its share of nasty surprises in all its forms, and it paid to be well-prepared for anyone rounding the corner or prying their eyes into what they shouldn’t see.

It took him one week to learn St. Dymphna’s camera patterns. Two to learn the normal guard rotation. One-and-a-half to learn the layout.

He was not used to the impromptu schedules they seemed to make for him, however. It was like his doctor saw some psychologist’s note about how repeated structured tasks was supposed to help affirm that the patient’s reality was indeed everyone else’s reality, scratched it out with pen, tore it out of the book, and tossed it out of the window straight into the industrial-size shredder while they knocked back a beer.

Yesterday was supposed to be the day. Instead he was suddenly forced to see - more like wait around for - his Parole Officer and assigned social worker. Apparently he could not get away with saying he was adjusting fine - both of them grilled him so much after the hour of waiting a piece that he felt like he’d been seared to a fine medium-rare.

As much as it infuriated him and made him want to just grab them both by the collars to make it very clear he was ‘okay’, he’d barely hung on. He’d had to clench his toes as much as possible and try to channel Bruce’s enviable ability to keep calm under pressure as he actively stopped himself from clenching his teeth or saying something he’d regret. He knew - knew - a lifetime in Arkham and a small obituary list on his record would always make people question his intentions and sanity, but it didn’t make them any less annoying, and it didn’t do that...other part of him any favors.

It might have been tamer now, but it was still there, and with every new tightly-wound ball of aggravation it was fed he could feel it start to pace. It seemed to take more and more calm-time to get it to stop lately… Heck, he could feel it now, still but almost pressed against the inside of its cage like it was waiting for something to come close enough.

But he would have to deal with it later. Today was the day. He’d had to adjust his schedule, had to account for a few extra things, but here, in the early evening before the sun completely set and Officer Kane was busy doing his ‘personal call’ to the on-duty nurse downstairs, John could make his move.

He watched the camera in the hall as he counted by tapping his fingers against his thigh. It would turn the other way - indicated by the slight shift in the lens’ focus if he could see it - in twenty seconds. He was wedged tight in the corner underneath it, having slid there and made a show of opening and closing the door so it looked like someone had gone inside.

The felt the familiar anxious thrill in his legs and sides of his head, just like when he was sneaking around Arkham. It was brighter in St. Dymphna, and had less places to hide, but at least if he got caught John wouldn’t be thrown in the hole.

Of course, they could throw him back. They could lock him up and refuse to house him again later. They could-

John shook his head. He didn’t have time to be paranoid.

This was the time for action! For suspense! For catchy secret agent music!

He’d tapped to twenty, and the Secret Agent Man theme started to cycle in his head; he side-stepped carefully against the wall, just to make sure the camera couldn’t see him for the few steps it took to be out of the watchful eye’s range.

He walked on the sides of his feet rather than his heels, reducing the inevitable noise on the not-that-clean tile floor, and made for his target - the door halfway down the hall with the plate that read Officer Hank Kane, Parole.

John didn’t have long. Thankfully his office didn’t need any RFID card or fingerprint or anything like the more dangerous rooms in the place. Just a plain, old-fashioned lock.

And John had an old-fashioned method for unlocking.

Secret - aaagent maan, Secret - aaagent maan! He hummed to himself, sliding the lost-and-found credit card he’d been carrying around for a while into the gap between the door and the frame, and carefully angling it to wedge in-between the lock mechanism and begin to pry, bending the card out of shape. They’ve given you a number, he continued, wiggling the card’s edge into what should be the right angle and pushing, And taken away your naaame!

He pushed hard, and he twisted the knob at the same time as his finished the chorus - click.

John ducked inside the dim office and almost slammed the door shut just in time. The camera switched positions every thirty seconds - two more and he’d have to walk away like he wasn’t trying to break into the place and wait some more.

The place was just like it was yesterday, and couple have almost doubled as the Arkham Warden’s private office: a couple of slightly-peeling filing cabinets that held useless documents John didn’t need; a bookcase with a couple of ‘law’ books and far too much football paraphernalia for the Gotham Rogues alongside several pictures of the guy’s wife and kids; a pair of wooden chairs that John swore were deliberately designed to be uncomfortable; and a boring desk with the same thin-client PC and sleek monitor as everyone else had, and yet two more family pictures, one of which had a King Charles spaniel John wanted to kidnap on principle of it being way too cute.

The tune kept playing in the background of his thoughts as he took a seat in the much-more-comfortable office chair. He made sure not to touch the arms.

Password-locked. Just as he’d thought.

John had watched very carefully as Hank typed away yesterday. It was something clearly easy for the guy to remember, because unlike some of the doctors and other staff, he didn’t dawdle over the keys or tap them lightly as they waited for their hippocampus’ reflex to kick in. He’d done the same motions several times during his last visit, which likely meant he used the same password for everything. (Dr. Song seemed to use various complex ones, if her odd typing methods were anything to go by.)

Which was good news for John, because he wasn’t sure what the password was.

He had some good guesses. It was something easy to remember, so something somewhat personal with a series of numbers at the end…so an anniversary of something was pretty likely.

John had remembered the areas of the keyboard Hank had used: somewhere between one and four and eight and the dash sign on the top row; he’d had to use one finger to hold down the shift key for letter on the upper left, clearly not excelling at touch-typing; he was sure he hadn’t used the space or bottom row of letters, too. He had three tries to get it right before the account would get locked.

He took a moment to think.

Two distinct things in the guy’s otherwise very boring life was his family and football.

John knew the tricks to get into people’s protected FriendBook pages; he could try the anniversary of his marriage or birth of his kids, saved in a note on his phone.

Or he could look up the year the Gotham Rogues won last; it was before his time, he knew, because people wouldn’t stop hoping they’d go all the way every damn year.

Orrrr…

John flipped the keyboard over halfway with his palms. No sticky note there, unfortunately. He supposed he could poke around the desk a little more on the off-chance the guy had left it lying around carelessly like Bruce did with cash, but he was on limited time. He could risk looking and get his fingerprints all over the place, but why bother when he could just try to look it up?

Hm. Family, football, family, football…

John eyed the desk. The picture of the dog might as well have been taken by a professional photographer – it was all alone, as happy as could be, beaming up at the camera in a showy grassy yard with the perfect angle. The family portrait was a typical family photo with all the taste of Wonder Bread.

It was probably the dog, plus either the year it was adopted or the current one.

John mapped it out mentally on the keyboard. Woofles2019 seemed to fit pretty well with the pattern he remembered. It was worth a shot.

He put it in, waiting for the little wheel to finish spinning and give the ‘incorrect password’ message.

There was a soft da-ding, and John was looking right at the same outline of St. Dymphna holding the white lily to her chest that functioned as the clinic’s logo.

“Sheesh, why not just use password while you’re at it?” He snorted to himself.

John didn’t have too much time. He continued humming his little theme to himself to help count off.

He recognized the same enormous register of criminals that Bruce had access to back at the Batcave just sitting on the desktop. John was pretty sure Ian ‘Nito’ had done time for something, likely a drug habit if he’d left the facility after only a week.

At least it was a web-based registry rather than a whole program, so John could easily just delete the history there afterwards as long as he had the time. Well, if it would load fast enough…

John tapped his fingers on the mouse button gently, still keeping the rhythm as the page took it’s time to load. He wondered if Bruce ever had to deal with dumb inconveniences like this before he’d got the super-computer installed. There seemed be a few dozen guys (and non-guys, possibly) named Ian. A quick sort by crime, and the more timely Ian arrested that jumped out to John was Ian Coggs.

There was no ‘Ian Nito’ on file, but ‘Ian Coggs’ made John think of the word in-cog-nito.

It made John chuckle to himself. It was definitely the sort of thing John would do, if he were giving an alias with his own name. Well, if he could make a decent play on ‘John’ anyway. And he had decent makeup to cover his white-and-green tones.

The arrest photo taken several months ago was definitely the ‘Mr. Nito’ that John had seen, only the boring t-shirt Ian was wearing was covering up the tattoos more.

Ian Coggs, arrested for driving under the influence and possession of heroin. Notes included he had traces in his car indicating he might have had the intent to sell, but the charge didn’t stick, as there was no mass quantities in Ian’s car or apartment. He seemed to have served a short sentence and was ordered to check into a clinic.

Hmm… John took a picture of the screen with his phone, making sure to capture the last known address as clearly as possible.

John thought for a second – he could look up Ian’s patient file, too, now that he knew Ian’s full name. It was probably somewhere in some kind of share-drive.

The screen flickered, and a pop up informed him that the operating system was not licensed and please license it, would you? John rolled his eyes – a common issue with those sorts of old OS sitting on the network’s virtual machines. It was wonder they didn’t upgrade yet. The thing was practically a dinosaur.

He ignored it and did a quick search in the X-drive-marks-the-spot had Ian Coggs’ old data just sitting in a folder with his name on it. No handy doctor notes, of course, but there was a discharge form.

John skimmed it, interrupting his little background-tune with an intrigued hum. “Looks like Ian was moving to Bludhaven…”

He’d have to look up the new address later…

John was running out of time. He very quickly wiped away the last few bits of internet history on Hank’s machine and went back towards the door, counting the last couple of beats on his thigh. Three, two…

On one, John again became the ghost of Arkham’s hallways, silent and swift, leaving his tampering unnoticed as he closed the door behind him as softly as can be. Another successful heist on his mental tally; Arkham three, John…

He found himself stopping.

I’m not at Arkham anymore, he thought to himself. He blinked, staring straight down the hall.

Right. Right, it just…looked like the repainted Arkham, sometimes. Sneaking around like this just reminded him of it. That was all.

He resumed walking, clenching his hands and releasing them. He wished he had something else to touch for a bit. Just to make sure.

He reached the stairwell. He needed to get to the library on the second floor. It was open until lights-out at eleven and it was the best place he could get some privacy and a decent phone signal.

It was a short walk to the small room that smelt of overly stale cigarettes and books, with a hint of wood-polish underneath.

St. Dymphna wasn’t new. Arkham wasn’t either, not by a longshot, but at least it had a sizable selection in comparison, even if the tall metal bookcases were all kinds of dangerous. St. Dymphna had short cases, all in soft wood so no one would hurt themselves, all in a room about the size of Bruce’s master-bed-and-bath, half of which was occupied by un-squeaky tables and hushed conversations.

He casually weaseled his way towards the little stacks, pretending he belonged there as much as anyone else, and had a peek at his phone.

Four full bars – the best signal he could get.

Too bad his battery was at twelve percent.

John frowned down at the device, half wanting to break it on principle of it not behaving. He’d charged it just yesterday!

“Old fashioned way it is,” he muttered to himself.

Thankfully the reference section was always deserted. John knelt down and skimmed over the few little books of Gotham history – including one on crime statistics that probably should not be accessible to patients – and snatched the guide-to-the-state map book, feeling the weight and laminated paper cover in his hands.

John thumbed through the soft pages by flicking them like a deck of cards, and stopped right at Gotham.

He’d seen this same map before, years ago, when he was a very bored Arkham newbie who still didn’t know what Gotham was. It was a shiny thing, at the time, a beacon of freedom and mystery, a break from the madness and rust and rot of Arkham. It didn’t take long into cycling through the numerous news segments and headlines for John to realize it was a city with a criminal underbelly so obese that it was a wonder anyone could still be considered an honest citizen. It was fascinating, really, to go back as far as possible and learn just who and what had led to the then-current state of things. The power imbalances and shuffles of gangs, the creative ways people wanted to hurt each other, the things people did just to survive another day… He had hours of fun picking apart the reasoning and motives and predicting outcomes. It was a good thing to delve into when he was stuck without entertainment, which was often on his bad days.

John pulled out his phone and opened the picture he’d taken of Ian’s arrest entry: his old place was at 511 N. Blade Street, Apt. 1005.

He traced his finger around, and North Blade Street was deep in what everyone referred to as “the Cauldron”, and naturally above South Blade Street. What highly appropriate name for roads; the Cauldron was a hotspot for the more basic criminal activities and lower gangs.

Kind of far to travel to get to the humble area of the Eastern Docks, but that was only if he still lived there. He probably did, if he was hanging around town, even if it was just temporarily. He wouldn’t put it past him to just muscle his way back in, either.

He flipped to the Bludhaven page. Ian supposedly moved to 900 Wanda Way.

Wanda Way was tucked into a tiny corner, off another road, but… There was no nine-hundred address. Wanda Way had addresses in the four-hundreds.

A four and a nine were easy to misinterpret if not written clearly, and the forms were filled out by hand and stamped by an authority figure before being scanned-and-typed in… The only question was, was it done on purpose?

Wanda Way sounded too much like “wander away”, and clearly the guy liked puns on his name, so John had the feeling he’d chosen whatever place was there just to throw everyone off.

The guy was clearly smarter than he looked…

John hummed. Now he just had to get someone to look at Ian’s old place and shake him down.

“Hey, clown,” someone said quietly, poking him in the back of the head.

John felt a surge of annoyance quick-boil his blood. Couldn’t they see he was busy? He wanted to throw the map book at the offender and start teaching them some manners.

But he grit his teeth and clenched the map a little too hard instead, blinking hard once to help push the urge away. It was still there, but he couldn’t let it out. “What?” He growled, turning around.

Mickey stood there, somewhat bewildered by…well, maybe he was actually seeing the roiling violent urge in John’s eyes. Mickey almost looked sheepish, suddenly, drawing the offending hand he’d poked John’s head with to tuck under his arms lying on the shelf. “Just tryin’ to get your attention,” he muttered, staring at him somewhat innocently with his chestnut brown eyes.

John had softened somewhat, seeing as it was only Mickey and not some new asshole trying to pick a fight. “You could always try saying my name, next time, Mick’.”

“I tried twice. You didn’t answer.”

“Third time’s the charm,” John shrugged with a little titter. “Sorry,” he added, not feeling it at all, “I just tend to get absorbed in things. What ‘cha need from little ol’ me, Mick’?”

“Just wanted to know what you were doing,” he mumbled, not looking at him.

What a terrible liar. He probably got caught with his hand in the cookie jar somewhere and wanted escape. “Miiick’, what did you dooo?” He teased, putting a hand on his hip like he was a disappointed parent.

“I didn’t do anything.”

“Mm-hm. Let me guess – you said something a little too bold to someone and now they’re trying to find you.”

Mickey might as well have been sweating bullets as he turned his head to look around. “Maybe.”

John chuckled. “Who did you piss off? ‘Firecracker’ Fred? Abdul? Abdul looks like he could fight well… Ooh, was it Harper?”

“No, none o’ them.” Mickey turned back, glancing back at the front door, and suddenly ducked to the ground like he’d been shot. John heard him crawling on the floor around the case, and John could barely contain his curiosity, so he poked his head up above the shelf to see who had entered.

It was another one of the handful of women staying at the place, scanning the room with a hoity-toity sort of anger. Karen McCarthy - addicted to miscellaneous pills, wine, and pretending she was better than everyone else. John had all of two interactions with her, and disliked both of them.

“Don’t let her see me,” Mickey pleaded from the floor. John sank back down and tried to read Mickey’s face. Why on Earth was he scared of a woman less than half his weight class? Mickey grabbed onto his arm, begging like his life was on the line.

John knew that look. He’d seen it for years in Arkham - Mickey was scared out of his mind. “What did you do?” John whispered. Mickey was friendly with Devi, and seemed to keep his hands to himself. But that didn’t mean he was innocent.

“I just said that her art needed work,” he answered, his voice starting to waver. “She just…flipped out.” Mickey breathing awkwardly. “She just started yellin’, and…” His naturally tanned skin was paling more, shaken by the thought of it. “Don’t tell her I’m here. Please. ”

John didn’t have to. Hell, he could fake it and just let Karen look around all day long as Mickey found new, more entertaining places to hide.

But Mickey was clearly rattled. He hated loud noises and seemed to put up a tough-guy front with everyone. The fact that he was so scared of a middle-aged woman yelling at him that he ran away to hide suggested he might have a trauma surrounding such a thing.

If their situations were reversed, there wouldn’t be any promise of an eventual life with Bruce that would hold John back if Mickey let him be forced to confront his own traumatic experiences again.

Besides, saving him was the hero thing to do. And John could never be Bruce – not exactly – but somehow John was his hero, and who was he to let Bruce down?

“Go a few rows down and duck close to the stack,” John advised quietly. “I’ll take care of it.”

Mickey looked a little more confident as he gave a stiff nod and snuck away.

John put the map book back casually and stood, stretching his arms and craning his back like he’d been there for a while. Making himself as obvious as possible.

Sure as Batman stalked the night, John only had to turn like he was going to leave when he found Karen in his personal space, her beady eyes narrowed in determined dislike. “Where’s Mickey?” She asked, her French-tipped index finger pointing at his chin. “You know where he is?”

“Y’know, the first question really drove the point home, Karen. There’s no need to ask twice.”

Karen was trying to stand tall. Sort of hard, since she was almost two whole heads shorter than him. “Don’t get smart with me, John. Have you seen him or not?”

John gave a dramatic laugh, like he actually found the idea funny. (It helped that she was trying so hard to be fierce when John had faced the scariest people imaginable on a nearly daily basis.) It seemed to get her attention; her shrewd eyes were watching him carefully and she looked a little confused. “In here? You’re kidding, right?”

“Why would I be?” She asked haughtily, clearly thinking he was insulting her.

“The guy can barely read a street sign! He’s so macho-illiterate I doubt he knows what a library even is,” John lied, thinking back to one of the more feral inhabitants at Arkham. Karen didn’t have to know he was talking about a different guy. “He’s probably hiding out in the men’s room by the fitness joing. It’s closer to home and he’ll think you won’t have the nerve to go in there.”

Karen clicked her tongue and looked even fiercer. “Oh, I won’t have to go in to give him a piece of my mind…”

Not that you have much to work with, John thought with all the bitterness he was brewing away inside.

“Thanks,” she said dismissively as she stormed away on her pointless little mission.

“No problem,” John said with a cheerful little wave, “you stupid jerk,” he added quietly, unable to hold it in. He didn’t care if she heard or not, but they were in a library, and raising his voice any more than he already did would be rude.

Once the offending lady was gone, John strolled over to Mickey’s hiding place, finding him with his arms around his knees. “She’s gone,” he said simply. Mickey was not standing to leave. He was staring at the shelves across from him with the same sort of vacant stare that John instantly recognized as dissociative. It wouldn’t be good to just leave him there. He knelt down and waved his hand in front of his eyes. “You home in there?”

“Huh?” Mickey came back to reality. “Sorry. I…” He clammed up for a moment. “I’m not good with women.”

“Ha! You and me both, Mick’,” John joked, nudging him slightly. “You get along with Devi just fine, though.”

“She’s different,” he muttered. “She’s not like…that.”

Talk about vague. Still, if John had any guess he’d bet on… “Abusive?”

Mickey drew in on himself a little. “Yeah. She’s calm. Doesn’t yell. Doesn’t belittle anyone. Doesn’t laugh at people for nothin’.”

Ah. That explained a few things. “Sheesh, I’m two out of three, there. It’s a wonder you talk to me.”

Mickey stared at him firmly. “You’re different, too,” he stated. “And you’ve been there.”

John was perplexed, for once. He hadn’t mentioned anything of his relationship with Harley to anyone, much less in a place Mickey could’ve heard.

“I keep thinkin’ I’ll wake up and be back there,” he explained, running a hand through his short crew-cut and staring at his worn tennis shoes. “In that house. Like nothing changed…”

Ohh, that’s what he’d meant when he said he ‘got’ why John didn’t want to go back to Arkham. Mickey had lived in an abusive place he was forced to call home for a long time.

John wasn’t going to pry further. He didn’t need to. Mickey had finally cracked open like the other eggs at Arkham, and John could see the yolk swimming in its translucent goo.

Mickey was clearly thinking about that trauma now, seeing as how it was at the forefront of everything. It’s wouldn’t be very good of John to leave him on his own now, even if Karen didn’t come back.

But could he risk letting Mickey in on the big mystery? Mickey wasn’t the brightest crayon in the box, but he paid attention enough. A different point of view wouldn’t hurt, either.

“Well sitting there thinking about it all night’s not going to do you any favors,” John said with a nudge on his shoulder. “Trust me, every doc’ I’ve ever had tells me that! Ha ha!” Dial it back; that was too light-hearted. “I know something that will get your mind off it - always works for me, anyway: puzzles. And I’ve got one upstairs I could use some help on.”

“…okay.” Mickey stood by himself, clearly intent on leaving now. “I’ll get Devi, too.”

“The more, the merrier,” John shrugged. “Don’t wait up, I’ve got to make a call first.”

Mickey blinked, apparently examining him for any trace of a lie, and seemed satisfied. “Thanks, John.”

Finally, some decent recognition. “You’re welcome.”

Mickey stuck his hands in his hoodie’s pockets and walked away without another word or gesture that would indicate he had anything else to say.

So John did what he came there to do: he pretended to be looking for something in the back rows until he seemed settled on something, and sank to the floor with his phone out.

He had to share his findings with Bruce. He couldn’t keep the knowledge of Ian Coggs’ name to himself for another day – he needed more information, but Bruce needed it even more, and surely he’d be ever-so-grateful that John had tossed a nice bundle of intel’ his way that Bruce would heap some praise onto him in beautiful voice of his.

John stared at his last message from Batman’s number.

Checking out Sionis’ place. Wish me luck.

John, of course, had wished him the best luck accompanied by ten heart emoticons. But that was last night, and there was no news on Roman Sionis suddenly being arrested or disappearing or anything like that today. So more than likely, Bruce was still looking for him...

He scrolled up a little. Apparently the guy whose charge-card was used to book the hotel room from the latest serial murder was claiming it was fraudulent charges. Naturally.

John looked at his contact list anyway. Calling Bruce on the job via his cell might interrupt him. He could try the ‘office’ - aka the Batcave - and see if he could catch him early and get him to do a tiny little search.

But he also didn’t want to bother him too much. Bruce had his plate piled high like he had the last clean one at a crowded buffet.

He could call Tiffany. She might be mad at Bruce - and somewhat rightfully so - but it didn’t mean she wouldn’t cooperate if he dangled the right bait.

Not to mention, Tiffany was less likely to be busy. He doubted they made up yet, so she probably wasn’t at the cave. He chose her cell, deciding that if she didn’t pick up, he’d try the cave next.

One...two… John gave a low little whistle as it continued to ring, the little theme song cycling back around again. Five...six…

Rustle, rustle. “...hello?”

“Hi-ya, Tiff’,” he greeted, listening for anything in the background to give away where she was, “What’cha doin’?”

“Well I was eating,” she answered somewhat grumpily, sounding like she had her mouth half-full. “You better have something good to interrupt my biryani.”

He could hear a slight hum, like a high-powered fan on a computer. There was no echo - she wasn’t in the cave. Likely at home. (Didn’t Bruce mention her sharing an apartment?) “Can you do me a teeensy favor?”

“What kind?” It wasn’t dismissive, but it wasn’t curious enough. Still, he could run with it.

“The firewall-breaching and record-lookup kind. I’d do it, but I don’t have the skills to break into records on a cell.” He tapped on his knee, choosing his next words carefully. “Which is why I’m asking you - you could break into BlackGate’s network with a screwdriver and one of those vendor-locked phones for kids.”

“I’ll have to add that to my bucket list,” she joked. A good sign. “What are you trying to break into?”

“Whatever’s at 400 Wanda Way in Bludhaven.”

Click-click-clack. “Haven’s Helping Hand?”

“Ooh-hoo, sounds legit.” Which meant Ian picked the place. He probably never set foot in it, but it was worth a look just to make sure.

“...so, what’s this for? You got a lead on our Chandis killer?”

“I wish,” John huffed, “but it is related to it. Our resident flying mammal is running around looking for B.M. and his lackeys and hasn’t had any luck; I think I’ve found one of them.”

“What makes you so sure?”

“Well, since my friends here are working at places our main baddie has his sticky fingers in, I don’t think it’s a coincidence that mine was recently visited by someone who clearly takes orders from a boss; especially when I’m right down the street from the other little practices.”

“Wait, how’d you know Black Mask is involved with-?”

“Long story,” John interrupted casually, not wanting to delve into that, “Anyway, I also know the guy last lived at apartment 1105 at 511 North Blade Street. Since he’s definitely in Gotham there’s a chance he’d return to his old place.”

“Could be worth a look. Got a name?”

He couldn’t resist a good setup like that. “Why Tiff’, you know I’m called John,” he joked, giggling a little at how she must be pulling that annoyed face.

“...keep going like that and I’ll hang up on you.” She didn’t sound like she really meant it. John ticked off that little checkbox in his head.

“Okay, okay, sorry. It’s Ian Coggs - two ‘g’s.”

A bit of silence followed. John waited patiently, drumming his leg in the same rhythm as the old spy-show tune in his head.

“I’m surprised you’re not running to Bruce with this,” Tiffany mentioned.

“What, he’s not still out chasing the golden goose on top of our other two murderers’ shadows?” Of course he was. John felt it in his gut; Bruce was looking for anything, any shadow, any miniscule thing that might be a break.

“...probably.” It wasn’t quite a scoff - he could practically see her shrugging along like she was pretending very hard not to care.

“Besides, why wouldn’t I tell you? You were part of the team before me,” he said slyly.

Tiffany gave a little sputtering noise. “Doesn’t feel like it. If we swapped places, he’d let you do almost anything.”

That was a little true, but he wasn’t about to say that. He had the perfect opportunity sitting there and he wasn’t going to let it go. “Nah, he wouldn’t,” John answered, knowing there were several things he would absolutely not be allowed to do, “I mean, I might be ‘the adult’ but you’ve got more in the training department. And a better head on your shoulders; mine’s factory defective,” he finished with a giggle at his own joke.

She gave a sort of humph that he took to mean she was mildly amused. Bruce had done the same thing sometimes, with that little upturn in the corner of his lips. John wondered if it was something Tiffany had picked up from being around Bruce so often.

“Of course, you could always prove it to him,” John continued smoothly, pretending to be thinking it over, “If our guy coughs up enough, you’d practically be delivering B.M. on a silver platter.”

She was quiet; she was thinking it over. “You work near the docks; if he’s still in the Cauldron, it’d be a heck of a commute for him.”

“Hey, when the boss calls, you go anywhere.”

“True… I think it’s worth checking out.” John grinned and pumped his fist in triumph, tapping the floor with his shoes as much as he dared. Mission accomplished - he’d pulled the right strings, and now Tiffany was going to search the place for him! “Haven’s almost done cracking.”

John heard an annoying beep in his ear, souring his good mood a little; he pulled away, and sure enough the battery was at seven percent. “Hey, Tiff’, my battery’s dying and I get a pretty shitty signal everywhere else; you’ll have to text me what you find.”

“...it’s St. Dymphna, right? Which room are you in?”

Well, he didn’t expect that as a response. “Um, 308.”

“When’s lock-down?”

“Eleven...” He was pretty sure he knew what she was getting at. “There’s no fire escape or anything for you to land on, though.”

“But your window opens?”

“Yeah, a little...”

“Then it’s no problem. I can swing by in about an hour, hour and a half. I’ll be patrolling around there later anyway.”

“Well, uh, if that works for you…” He grinned to himself; a personal report, too? That could only mean he was growing on her, which meant more information on the goings-on, a happier Bruce, and one less stressful relationship for John to mull over.

Of course, she might just want to make sure he was behaving. Or seeing if she could gather any indication as to what he’d been up to and try to analyze him as much as he did everyone else… John shook the thought. Tiffany was a smart cookie, but she wasn’t on Iman or Bruce’s level of psychoanalysis. Even if she was trying to gather personal info’ on him, she wouldn’t know exactly what went on his head.

“See ya later, then, Tiff’,” he said simply, before remembering that Tiffany did not wear the same sort of armor that Bruce did, “And be careful; the guy packs heat on his right hip.”

“Thanks. Later.”

John hung up, feeling a sort of smug satisfaction. He’d be one step closer to delivering Black Mask to Batman’s doorstep and getting Dymphna cleared of any exploitive activity. And Black Mask himself would shed some light on whoever was pissed at him, solving the other puzzle that nagged at John’s already-messy mind.

Though, speaking of Dymphna and puzzles… John supposed it was time to get some other input.

*~*~*~*~*

“Look, it can’t be either of them, either,” John stressed, pointing to the map of Gotham he’d printed out a week ago on his wall, “Falcone’s dead, and when Maroni got shuffled off to the big house, half the city’s territory – these yellow flags – went up for grabs while their leftovers played follow-the-leader with a bunch of headless-”

“John,” Mickey interrupted, staring at him from John’s chair in the corner, “You’re doing it again.”

Devi flicked her butterfly knife open and closed from her spot on the floor, where she was sitting on several pillows she’d brought from her room. John likened it to chewing gum; just a little something to do to pass time. “He’s trying to say Macaroni and Fal-cone’s old running crews split up into their own groups, Mick’.”

“Then he should just say it,” Mickey muttered, crossing his arms and looking at his feet with an embarrassed scowl.

John resisted the urge to rub the bridge of his nose. “Devi, it’s Ma-roni.”

“I know what I said,” she smirked, flicking the knife open and closed again. “I like him better as a noodle.”

It was funny enough to make John chuckle, but it didn’t cool his temper. John was clearly not meant to be a teacher with how frustrated he was already getting. He didn’t know how Bruce had the patience for it. “Still. They’d normally be good contenders, but their groups are usually the kind to just get reabsorbed into other gangs, and our guy Black Mask-”

“Roman Sionis,” Devi stated, gesturing to the piece of paper John had taped up to the wall.

“- yes, him – likely picked most of the mafia’s less-loyal stragglers up. He’d provide the structure the need.” John circled the little areas he knew the loyalist parts were active in. “The ones who didn’t are a lot smaller in number now, probably still hovering around these little parts they used to haunt.”

“So what does this have to do with the ship?” Mickey asked, trying to follow John’s map marks. “You said that was Roman’s territory now.”

“That’s my point,” John huffed, deciding it was better to try and walk the annoyance out rather than say something he’d regret, “He’s got all this territory,” he gestured to the map as he made strides to their side of the room, “all these people under him, so why kill the informant? Why leave the drugs behind and make it so obvious that it was a hit when they could’ve just stolen the ship?”

“Woah, back up a sec’, hon’,” Devi interjected, leaning forward like she was interested. “You didn’t say anything about an informant.”

He didn’t? He could have sworn… Well, it didn’t matter. He’d explain it. “Ok, so – there’s five guys in the warehouse, right?” John held up his hand to gesture along, glimpsing the green nail polish still there. “Main guy, subordinate, two guards, and Muddy. Their van explodes – from the inside – and they all race out the one door with whatever firearms they have so they can escape. The shooter snipes the guards first, then the subordinate, but the de-facto leader gets the farthest away – the shooter had to get him in the leg first,” John emphasized with a gun motion at an invisible target’s leg, “then the chest. Muddy should’ve been out before the leader, but he’s captured instead.”

“So…Muddy planted the bomb?” Mickey asked.

“Yes!” John pointed at Mickey. “Exactly! He planted the bomb, he knew to leave last so he wouldn’t get shot up like the rest, and he knew when the ship was coming in!” He paced to them, thinking. “But that’s what I don’t get – if they had a guy on the inside high up enough on the chain that he was trusted with receiving that large a package, why did they kill him? Muddy could’ve provided all kinds of information in the long run - why rely on him for this one thing when he could’ve been their main plant in the whole operation? They could’ve found the Volto and Bauta heads and taken control of the area!” He smacked the map on the wall briefly, continuing to pace as his mind churned out everything he’d been mulling over. “And even if they were done with him, why not just leave him there with the rest?!”

Devi snapped her knife closed. “John-”

“Why make it an execution?! Why give him a gangster’s death twice?!”

“John.”

“And if it was all just revenge, why didn’t they wait until they could meet Black Mask personally to kill him, too?! Hell, blow his whole house up sky-fucking-h-!”

“JOHN.”

John suddenly found himself stopped in his tracks in the middle of the room with Devi’s hands on his shoulders.

“You’re ramblin’ again,” she said, smiling gently up at him and patting his shoulders. “Just take a breath, J’.”

He wasn’t rambling, he was just talking fast and trying to get all the thoughts out that had been piled in his brain for the past several days.

...but it wasn’t worth arguing over. Devi and Mickey didn’t have his sort of brain chemistry; they wouldn’t get it. It was easier to just ‘calm down’ even if it wasn’t necessary. It’s not like it would hurt.

John breathed in and out, clenching and unclenching his fists in time for several beats. Sure enough, he did feel calmer. Not that he wanted to, but...still.

“There ya go,” Devi soothed, patting him gently. “Better?”

“Yeah,” he lied. He wasn’t, he wanted to get it all out, just say everything that had been on his mind for the past several days. Wanted to just make them sit there, a captive audience, and ask everything even if he didn’t get an answer.

“Good. You’re onto somethin’.”

John blinked. “...I am?”

Mickey hummed to himself a little in thought. “I know why.”

John felt more confused. “Why what?”

“Why they didn’t wait to meet Black Mask. You said no one in his gang has seen his face - your guy has.” Mickey said with a little shrug.

Devi gave a little ooh. “Whaddya know, Mick’, we’re on the same page,” she said brightly with an impressed tilt of her head.

That would mean the killer knew Black Mask was Roman Sionis. “But why wouldn’t they just go directly to…” The second he said it aloud it clicked. It was why they left the drugs behind, why they drilled it home it was a hit – a herring in maraschino red. It wasn’t about strictly killing Roman, but eventually taking his place. “It’s an inside job.”

“Ya said it yourself, J’,” Devi shrugged, “Those gangs he picked up ain’t loyal. Besides, you crossed off everyone else.”

Of course. It wasn’t some rival gang, it was someone in his gang, leading them all to believe it was a rival to throw Black Mask off the scent! That stupid sign with the bodies was just another herring! John had been looking up the wrong thing for days, hunting for a shadow!

Ha ha ha ha ha!

He couldn’t help but laugh at himself. At the whole ridiculous thing. How utterly silly they’d been.

And he caught himself remembering that random laughter wasn’t something most people took kindly to a little too late. Devi was glancing between his eyes as if to guess if he was having a manic episode. Mickey was stock-still, watching him with something similar. “S-sorry,” he said, trying to cover the last bit, “It’s just funny how dumb I’ve been. I mean, really, really dumb.”

They looked a little more convinced.

John rubbed the back of his neck, trying to rub the awkward feeling away as he stared right back at Devi, trying to let her see how sane he was. “Really, I would’ve just kept going in circles without-”

John felt like everything in the world had slowed to a crawl: a dot of red rolled over Devi’s hair where her temple was, climbing up and disappearing like it had never been there in an instant.

It was like something in him woke up – he grabbed her shoulders and pushed her forward, hearing glass shatter before they even hit the hard tiled floor.

He felt the impact in his knees. Real.

Mickey tumbled out of the chair as Devi swore and John rolled away from her to force his back against the wall between them. He heard the thud of his shoulders hitting the wall. Real.

“What the hell-” she started, losing the rest as she spied the little hole in the wall where John’s head had been seconds ago. “Ohh, what the fuck.”

John was looking at the new shattered hole in the window, hearing his heart in his ears.

Someone shot at him. Someone had a laser scope and a long-range rifle. Someone was sitting out there, waiting for him to reappear, or waiting long enough to move positions and get him while they were sitting there.

“What do we do?” Mickey asked in a less-than-steady voice as he curled his legs to his chest. “What the fuck do we do?”

Devi shifted forward, looking like she was going to crawl for it. “We’re gettin’ the fuck out, that’s-”

John grabbed Devi’s arm and pulled her back with a hard yank. “NO!” She almost smacked back against the wall. “Look at the HOLE!” John gestured slightly to the bullet hole in the wall. “It’s lower than the entry one; they can see the floor!”

“Devi,” Mickey rushed, “You have a phone; you can call the cops!”

No, there was only one ofthose that could really be trusted -

“Are you kiddin’ me? You’ve seen how that shit goes! I’m black and John was tried insane – your half-Puerto Rican ass is the only one of us that can pass for one of their crowd! They’ll kill us just for sittin’ here!”

They could call Batman, but he was out chasing Black Mask, too far to -

“Well what the fuck are we supposed to do, then?” Mickey interjected too loudly, the sound breaking John’s already fragile grip on his temper.

“Will both of you just shut up and let me THINK?!” John shouted, slamming his fists on his bruised knees.

Silence settled in, but it felt like the thing inside of John was rattling the cage.

They felt it too, surely – the flight signal had been lit in their brains, but there was nowhere for them to go. John tapped his legs with his fingers one-by-one, feeling the material of his purple slacks as they made impact. Think, think, think – what do you know for sure, John?

There was nowhere to hide. Standing was out of the question. Crawling was just as deadly. They were all like carnival ducks stuck in their stall, brightly lit under a long fluorescent bulb, just waiting for the kid with the gun to aim just right.

They hadn’t been shot yet. Either the would-be killer was waiting for them, or changing position to the wall.

They couldn’t call out for help. Anyone who came in would be shot.

But they couldn’t stay there. If the shooter was smart, they would move after a bit to re-adjust.

So they’d have to throw him off.

John stared up at the long bulb, his mind whirling…

There was the obvious solution: one of them could risk running for the light-switch.

It was almost sickening how easily he could imagine either of them bleeding on the floor by the switch…

When he thought about it, he was used to being by himself, but he was never going to be used to being alone. With his psychosis’ voices blocked out through his anti-psychotics, he’d found he’d missed the constant company, even if they didn’t always make sense or play nice with his brain.

But here he was, with real every-day company again. The kind that did, in fact, play nice and make sense. The kind that didn’t play mind-games or threaten him or let him get too riled up just to see what he would do. The kind that wouldn’t try to kill Batman if the opportunity arose, or kill him if they thought it was necessary. They weren’t constant, but they were there, as real as he was – he could hear them breathing and feel their fear in the air.

He couldn’t treat them like they were just means to an end.

The looked at the large fluorescent bulb in the ceiling, wishing it would flicker for a few seconds like the old Arkham ones did, and felt his own lightbulb power on.

“I’ve got it!” He grinned triumphantly, slapping his legs and feeling the sweet sting it left, “We need to break the lightbulb!”

Devi shot a look at it, then at him. “With what?”

“Something hard enough to shatter the glass?” John suggested with a chuckle. He supposed they could toss her butterfly knife, but it might not be heavy enough; they’d have to hit the right point. “The chair would work.”

Mickey looked at the desk chair by his feet. He was clearly rattled, huddled in on himself and looking pale. “It’s kind of big.”

“Don’t tell me those biceps are for show,” John teased, poking his arm, “Even I can lift that.” Mickey didn’t seem convinced. “Look, Mick’, you’ve got the corner. There’s no way the shooter can see you. You just need to squat and flip it up like it’s a table,” John said, gesturing the up motion with his palms.

“Mick’,” Devi said, “he’s right. You’re closest.”

Mickey stared at them both, then at the chair, and sighed slowly through his nostrils. “I guess there’s worse ways to go,” he grumbled, pulling the chair towards him.

“You’ve got this,” John said, flashing him a thumb’s up.

Mickey sneered a bit, but he still squat down rigidly and flipped the chair up into the ceiling, hitting its mark – there was the tinkling crash of breaking glass and a buzz of shorted electricity, and John instinctively covered his head as glass rained down and the chair clattered to the floor.

When he looked back up, they were all sitting in the dark. It was almost like being back in the Old Five Point’s office, where he had hidden while the Agency poked their noses in places they shouldn’t have been.

But that was the old John. New John wasn’t scared. Angry, of course, but he was almost…

Thrilled.

Yes… Toeing the line of danger, on a rescue mission for himself and his friends…

John giggled, feeling ridiculous by how excited he was during such risky business. “Good job, Mickey. Got it in one.”

Glass shattered and a vwoop noise followed as the shooter fired again, causing Devi to push closer to him with a shout. The shot was a little closer to the edge of the dim light coming in through the window. A red dot disappeared, as if the shooter was turning the scope on and off.

A warning - they could still see in, they weren’t going anywhere.

Like hell they weren’t.

“Mickey, can you hand me my phone?” John asked politely. Mickey pulled it down by the cord, as if he thought the shooter could see it sitting there out of view of the window, and shoved it into John’s waiting hand. “Thaaank you!”

Tiffany was already on her way there - he could just tell her to hurry up. Or send that nice drone with the laser attachment.

John tapped his foot along with the rings. It was only three this time before Tiffany picked up, and she was clearly outside somewhere, because he could hear the wind rush by.

“Hey, how far away are you?” He asked quickly, keeping his eye on the window for any glimpse of the laser sight.

“A -” the voice cut off - “minutes. Why-”

“Okay, I can barely hear you, so long story short, I’m being shot at from someone on the building opposite me and would really appreciate some help.”

He could barely hear her over the wind and occasional break in the line. He was pretty sure it sounded like a surprised “what” and then something unintelligible.

“Yeah, so I still can’t hear you. I don’t know what they look like but I’m guessing they’re on the roof, the shots are angled down.”

Another shot came through the glass, closer to the corner.

“Aaand that’s our queue to leave! Hurry, okay?!”

John hung up, knowing she’d be there fast enough, but wondering if she’d be smart enough to hit them from behind or not. Unless they had a watchguard, which they could, depending on who they were…

There was no time for thinking about that. It was time to get out before the shooter decided to move enough so they could see them in the dim streetlamp.

They definitely couldn’t just run across. The pile of glass in the middle of the floor was a hazard on top of the fact they’d be seen. They couldn’t get around the little desk, either, since it was likely visible; they’d have to press flush against the wall to go under the window.

Or...they had to completely shroud themselves in darkness.

“None of you happen to have a stapler or somethin’, do ya?” Devi asked, holding something in her lap. “I’m tryin’ to think of how we can pin this to the window….”

John was impressed for a moment, having been thinking of somehow getting the sheet from his bed or the dresser to do it, but the feeling gave way to something more like a sinking stone plummeting to the bottom of his stomach.

She had been sitting on the blanket Bruce had gotten him when he was still in Arkham. It was the first thing he’d given him when he’d been put away; a green cashmere blend so soft that John almost wondered if it wasn’t made from clouds.

John yanked it out of her hands and clutched it to himself. “You were sitting on it?”

“The floor’s cold,” Devi stated plainly, not intimidated in the slightest. “Besides, you borrow my blanket when you sit in my room.”

That was true. He couldn’t resist covering himself in something as wild as neon-orange leopard with little skulls, even if it was only for a bit. But Bruce didn’t give that to her, she didn’t clutch it around her shoulders when she wanted to remember getting it, the cute look on Bruce’s face, the utter satisfaction John felt as he got under it for the first time and thought how finally, it was warm in Arkham…

He gripped it, telling himself that Bruce could buy a hundred more in as many colors and weights as John wanted when he got out. Enough to make the biggest blanket fort possible over the biggest mountain of blankets possible.

There was no stapler or anything handy, and he couldn’t shove them in the corners of the window… But someone could hold it.

John squinted at the window. He could stretch his arm across and cover it like a curtain; the pane and exterior walls were thick enough not to be pierced with bullets.

The chair was still on the floor. He was surprised no one had come running yet, with all the noise… There was a doctor underneath his room, gone for the day, naturally… But surely one of his neighbors might have heard.

Unless they just thought he was throwing a fit and didn’t want to get involved… Fine time for them to be ignoring him.

John rolled the blanket into a thin tube and swept it over the floor, pushing the shards of glass towards the chair as much as he could, flinching as another bullet pierced the wall.

He pulled the leg of the chair towards him by his foot, moving it slowly at first just to angle it right, and then yanked it towards him as another gunshot came through. Just as he thought, they were definitely targeting motion.

“Mickey, you’re gonna have to move.”

The burlier man eyed the chair warily. “I’m not standing up on that.”

John scowled as he stood to his full height, an urge to kick him only outweighed by the knowledge that one wrong move could hurt them both far worse. “For Pete’s sake, just move over next to Devi and stop acting like you’re going to die if you twitch out of line! I’m trying to save you, here!”

Mickey frowned, opening his mouth to retort, but closed it just as soon as he’d started, settling on just glaring back and doing as he was told, shuffling as John stepped over him to the corner.

“Now, don’t move until I tell you,” he emphasized, wagging a finger at both of them, “and when you do, crawl close to the floor.”

Once he stood (somewhat wobbly) on the chair by the corner, just barely out of sight of the window, John stretched out his hand in front of him, draping the blanket over it like he was pulling out the edge of a cape to do a dramatic reveal.

Pieces of glass wedged themselves in his bare arm. He could feel blood dribble out, feel the sting of cut flesh, feel a little spike in adrenaline and a familiar stir in his core that sent a tingle in his head…

Things looked clearer, somehow. His vision was always twenty-twenty, but somehow things felt sharper, and not just because little edges were digging into him. Without thinking, he knew all this, what he was feeling right now, was all very real.

He adjusted it to cover his arm with a little less glass-digging-into-skin, and upon draping it just right, it felt like he was almost a magician, covering the trick box from the audience’s view as the assistant did the rest.

“Ladies and Gentleman, the disappearing bullets trick!” John joked as he quickly shoved his arm over the top pane of the window.

It was just long enough to cover it completely, and there came a wonderful hush in the audience.

He could feel his heart in his ribs, pounding away like it was counting off beats, waiting, waiting, waiting…

Crash!

Crash-crash-crash-crash-!

Beams of light appeared one by one like tiny spotlights as the window. John barely flinched as he counted off the sounds.

At the count of ten, it went quiet.

John waited a beat, then two, and grinned wider. “And, ohh-ho, they’re gone!” John chuckled, “What a maroon... Okay, now you guys can go.”

“...what about you?” Devi asked, not moving.

“Just go,” John brushed off, not wanting to think about possible magazine refills, “Watch the glass.”

There were no more words, just the little thuds and occasional little crunch of glass telling them they were crawling as fast as possible. John held the blanket steady, thinking as he hoped the shooter didn’t decide to pack an extra magazine.

He could he risk peeking out across the way? Was the shooter keeping a few rounds in the chamber, waiting for his face to appear? Had they given up?

He might not see anything, but if he did, he would know at least the vague height of whoever was standing on the building three or four car-lengths away with a rifle, intent on killing him for whatever reason they had.

The door opened, letting in more light from the hallway, and Devi was the first to sneak through. John spied shiny spots of blood on her arms before she disappeared from view.

Mickey scrambled out after her, similar dots visible on his palms as he stood up.

John let the blanket fall to the floor as he heard them both call out for help. The noise faded into the background as he carefully took his phone out of his pocket. The little binocular lens clipped over the camera with a plastic snap, and John breathed in, smelling copper and the spring air of May, and slid his phone’s lens over the edge of the window, zooming in further on the building in the distance.

At first, he didn’t see anything. The camera was great, but it wasn’t exactly made for night use, even with the adjustments he made to the settings. Just black on a dark building, barely lit by the streetlamp.

But he moved it around a little, trying to get the exact angle the shooter must have been at, and he saw it.

A figure in the distance, barely seen at first, just a dark shape.

And then he spotted the drone with a spotlight, flashing over the figure’s back, and John pressed the record button just in time.

The figure whirled around with their long rifle in hand and smacked the drone right out of the air and to the floor, and seemed to hit it again, a flash of light showing off their silhouette again. One more smash seemed to satisfy them, but John could see them suddenly perk up straight, as if they heard something, and then they were gone, a black blob disappearing into the night with a whirl of a…

No. Not a cape. It was as if they were wearing a long coat.

He kept watching, almost hoping he’d see them come back so he could get a proper look at their face, but instead, he saw a figure glide down to the roof, too sleek to be Batman, and seem to rush to check if the shooter was still nearby, a second drone flying from their hip to scout ahead.

“John Doe?” A voice called from the hallway, light but smokey from years of tobacco use. An orderly - Todd something-or-other. “Are you still in there?”

“Yeah,” he called back, tucking his phone back in his pocket, “I am.”

“Keep away from the window. Police are on their way. I’m staying right outside this door, you just keep talking to me.”

“You don’t need to,” John answered, hopping off the chair and stumbling slightly, crunching over bits of broken glass here and there. “The guy’s already gone.” He pulled down the pages he’d taped to his wall, not wanting anyone to start thinking he was spreading some kind of conspiracy theory, and lingered on the piece he’d written ‘Ian Coggs’ visited Stitched Up Alt.’ on.

Something wasn’t right. The way Ian had looked at him that day, like he hadn’t expected him to be there. He seemed to have reported seeing him to Black Mask, but why would they go after him? Why would they care?

What was one mentally ill guy with a forgotten past to a guy like Roman Sionis?

*~*~*~*~*

John wasn’t sure what he had expected to happen after an incident like getting shot at by a sniper in the middle of the night, but he didn’t expect to be stuck waiting in St. Dymphna’s medical center. Devi and Mickey seemed adamant about not straying too far from him, despite the lengths the active officers on duty seemed to go to, shoving John in a corner bed as the nurse picked out the glass from his arm and they attempted to ask him questions while he repeatedly told them he wouldn’t talk until his lawyer arrived.

And good ol’ Reggie had practically come running on his short, square legs. He probably smelled a lawsuit waiting to happen. That, or Batman had ‘a talk’ with him about responding to anything to do with John as fast as possible after the whole thing with Dr. Crane.

John suspected it was a combination of both.

He was expecting Bruce, though, who hadn’t shown up yet. He didn’t mind if Batman didn’t make an appearance, but what felt like half an hour into the vocal probing, he found himself really, really wanting some comfort. There was only so many distasteful looks and thinly-veiled remarks he could take, even if they weren’t all directed at him.

“I told you, I’m not movin’,” Devi repeated for the third time, sitting quite still against the back of her own bed several spots over. She had the same sort of gauze bandage as him, only she had them on both arms, and some plasters under her short sweatpants where little glass pieces had stuck to her knees.

“If you’re sure,” Dr. Farms seemed to sigh, “Your sister said she’d be on the way. We’ll keep an orderly at the door in case there’s any trouble.”

Devi snorted. “These two aren’t trouble,” she said with a shrug. “I’m not wearing this t-shirt for nothin’, you know.” She gestured to the word ‘kickass’ spelled there in glittery cursive.

Reggie was quick-reading over the statement John had made, the end of his pen trailing underneath. John had left out the part of him using his phone, of course. He wanted to just grab it out from under his pillow and call Bruce himself. “And this is all correct?” Reggie asksed, tapping the fountain pen at the end of the pad of paper.

“Yup.” John swung his legs slightly over the edge of the thin mattress, gently digging his fingers into the fabric. He couldn’t do it too hard, or it’d attract attention.

“You counted fourteen shots?”

“Yuup.”

“...and how did you know when you could let the other two leave?”

“When no more shots came through. Isn’t that obvious?”

“Hm.” Reggie tapped the cap end of the pen against the paper. “This is acceptable.”

John couldn’t back the question burning in his head. The one he didn’t want a bad answer to. “So...what happens now?”

“Standard police procedure, they’ll investigate, ask follow-up questions - the usual,” Reggie answered, “As for your continuing treatment, I believe they’re still figuring out where you’ll be staying until the police clear this up.”

“What?!” Devi leaned forward, a few of her long thin braids falling over her shoulder. “You mean he’s not stayin’ here?”

“He can’t stay in an active crime scene,” the lawyer went on in his no-nonsense voice, “Especially not when he might have been the intended victim.”

“But he’s the reason Mick’ and I are even alive!”

“That doesn’t factor into the decision,” Reggie answered coolly.

“I don’t care,” Devi slid off her bed and joined John’s, crossing her arms and giving Reggie the stink eye, “I’m not lettin’ him go to one of those shitty state homes.”

“I’m afraid that’s not up to you. It’s up to St. Dymphna and the G.C.P.D.”

Them? They had a say in this?

No. No, no, no. He knew what they were going to do. What they wanted to do. He felt his lip twitch backwards and his stomach seize as something white hot hit him.

“I’m not going back to Arkham,” John said with all the restraint on the furious being under his skin he could.

Reggie’s fingers had twitched in a flinch, and he cast a look at John. “I’ll give this to Officer Hutton and remind him of that.”

Devi watched him go with a scrutinizing squint. “You doin’ okay, there, John?”

“Ha, no!” John answered honestly, finding no need to restrain his feelings any more. He felt the other end of the mattress sink; Mickey had sat down on his other side. “Just got shot at, interrogated unnecessarily, and now…” He crossed his arms, wanting to feel something remotely comfortable as the boiling point in his started to wind down to a simmer. “I’d rather have faced that sniper with nothing but a paperclip than go back to Arkham.”

Devi put her arm around his back, pulling him into a bit of a side hug. “I’ll kick their asses if anyone tries to put you in there.”

Mickey gave a chuckle. “Ditto.” He gave John a small smirk. “They’re gonna shuffle us ‘round to who-knows-where, but I’ll be damned if I let them throw you back. Not after you saved me twice in one day.”

John felt more of his anger ebbing away. He felt more grateful than anything, but there was that nice warm feeling that came with people doing genuinely nice things for him. “I’m sorry I yelled at you guys earlier.”

Mickey shrugged. “Better than losing my head.”

“Apology accepted. But it’s no big deal,” Devi said with a knowing little smile, “I’ve looked the devil in the eyes while only wearing a thong. It’s gonna take a lot more than that for you to get under my skin.”

John felt a giggle pass over him. “Better not let a doctor hear that - they’ve got scalpels.”

“That’s awful,” Mickey said with a shake of his head.

“Speakin’ of doctors,” Devi muttered, pulling out something from her pocket and sliding it into John’s palm, “Here.”

It was her butterfly knife. John had almost forgotten how oddly nice it felt to hold one. Light, dangerous, dexterous… The rainbow sheen on the metal was cute, but the fact that she was willing to just hand it to him, all trustworthy-like, was what made him smile, and made that warm feeling grow. “You’re giving this to me?”

“Doesn’t matter where you end up - Gothamites are bound to try somethin’ with you,” Devi said with a little shrug. “Besides, you could always pick a lock with it and run away, if you had to.”

“Run away to where?” John chuckled, “Bruce’s place is pretty far from all the funny farms.”

Mickey gave a short hum of thought and pulled a card out of his wallet. “Here.”

A key card for the Lucky Hotel.

“Better than nothin’.”

“You guys…” John almost felt like he was tearing up. No, scratch that, he was. “You guys are the best.” He put both gifts away (in separate pockets, of course) and laid back to grab his phone from under the pillow. The cops were all discussing matters amongst themselves, not even glancing their way. “You know what this calls for?” He pulled the camera app up and threw his arms around both of their shoulders. “A group shot!”

“Ooh, hold on,” Devi shifted, tilting her head just right for the camera angle, and smiled. “Okay, that’s better.”

Mickey shook his head, an amused smile on his square face. “I knew you two were crazy.”

“Ha ha, like you aren’t?” John ribbed. “Smile!”

A little click, and John thought it was one of the best he’d taken. Definitely one for the album.

And then, in the moment of silence afterwards, John heard it: the instantly recognizable voice that wove in and out of his dreams, good and bad, real and unreal.

Bruce passed through the thin wall of police and doctors with the unmistakable stride of Batman, the sight hitting John like a jolt to the heart. Confidence, determination, power – it all came through in his steps, as reassuring and steady as the sunrise. It didn’t matter if he was in street clothes or bearing a five-o’clock shadow, it was Bruce’s Batman politely telling the doctor in his ‘fuck you’ voice that he wasn’t letting him stay there a minute longer.

John felt a hand push on his back, and barely heard to little ‘go ahead’ Devi whispered to him.

He didn’t care what was in his way. He didn’t stop moving until he was right in Dr. Song and Bruce’s space, not taking his eyes off Bruce for a moment.

“John,” Dr. Song said with a slight cough, forcing his focus over to her, “Bruce has offered to take temporary guardianship of you while the state goes through its’ investigation. As you’re a ward of the state in our care, you don’t have to say-”

“Yes,” John said, noticing Bruce looking him over like he was thinking of possible injuries, “I’m saying yes.”

Dr. Song seemed to have expected that. “Your lawyer and his are talking, but I made it quite clear that your current treatment is to be followed to the letter. I still want you to report for our scheduled therapy, and you’ll still have to make the appointments set by Mr. Casselli and Officer Kane.”

“That’s fine.”

“Medicine has to be taken strictly by our current regime.”

“Of course.”

“Work hours will still have to be met, if possible.”

“Makes sense.” Dr. Song looked like she was trying to find any reason John wouldn’t agree with. “Really, doc’, you act like I’m not going to come back,” John said with a light chuckle, “I kind of need that certificate of sanity, you know.”

“I just want to make sure you know what you’re getting in to.”

Oh, believe me, I know, John thought to himself, not daring to say it aloud. “I’m sure I can handle it,” he said, sounding as confident as half of him felt.

She seemed a little more at ease. “I’ll draft up the prescriptions.”

The second she was turned away, John trapped Bruce in his arms, intent on feeling the warmth radiate from beneath his plain white button down into his chest, and suddenly felt more…vulnerable than before. He knew he was safe – he was with Bruce – but when Bruce lightly held him back and said ‘it’s okay’ in that soothing, meaningful voice, the little walls in John collapsed, and he found himself clinging onto him for life and falling for him all over again.

*~*~*~*~*

Notes:

Congratulations, John, you officially made two new friends!!! °˖ ✧◝(○ ヮ ○)◜✧˖ ° I’m so proud of you!!!

Thank you all for your continuing support!!! *.⋆( ˘̴͈́ ॢ꒵ॢ ˘̴͈̀ )⋆.* I hope you can feel my love radiate from the screen!

As you can tell, I had a heck of a time with this chapter. Sure, it’s almost a full week later than previously thought, but look how much stuff happened! It wasn’t originally planned to be this long - but hey, John needs to bond with people, so damn it, I’m gonna write it and make it believable! I had fun making use of the “camera feature” here and adding in investigation choices and a new time-out feature. And I had loooots of fun bringing out our vigilante!Joker in John throughout! I hope I did our boy justice! I reconsidered and rewrote a lot, but I’m pretty dang happy with how much I’ve laid out so far and what this chapter’s accomplished. Especially the little things I’ve hidden in here… Heheheheehheeh!

Next time we’ll return with Bruce, who seems to have a full colony living in his house as two sides of the mystery start to come together… See you in (hopefully) two weeks!

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