Terra Firma

Cosette

"I win. Ha."

"Wait... what?"

"I win. See?"

"You.. No. No. You... did?"

I laughed, sweeping the cards off the table and ruffling Riddle-boy's hair. I backed away quickly at his compulsive sneer and suddenly tensed body posture, looking down at my feet like a kid who's been forced to read a letter to his crush in front of the class, wiping his snotty nose and stuttering the words, barely audible among a group of snickering schoolmates. Had I really just done that?

(you chased after him with his own cane you're crazy duh)

"Sorry." I mumbled, ignoring this voice, "I don't have my meds... Haven't had them in a while and..."

His nostrils flared and his eyes sparked, and my words died off. I was shocked. Usually I was so good with my words. But those eyes were like cat eyes--they caught your tongue and kept it there. They were his most clever trap, clenching my jaw with an invisible lock and key.

He seemed to be holding in some inner anger. He smoothed back his hair and drummed two fingers on the nightstand. This calmed him, it seemed, but did not calm me. This situation could be potentially bad, I warned myself. When you hold in an emotion as strong and passionate as anger

(and love don't forget love or whatever that is you're holding in)

it could be painful or even fatal, like a stomach ulcer or cancer or pus-filled scab, infecting the mind till it exploded like dynamite.

He got up quickly, pursing those perfect lips and reaching for his suit jacket again.

"It's quite late, and I'm growing quite tired of playing card games--"

"We played one game, you idiot." I was mad then, for I knew he was just jealous that I'd won a game.

"DON'T CALL ME THAT!" His dimly lit room seemed to darken with his screaming tone. It wasn't quite like my father's--his was snarling and you could barely pick out the words he roared. My mother's was always beautiful and sing song, almost mocking the men that dared try and defy her. But Riddler's... Riddler's was a boom of thunder combined with the hissing smoothness of a green snake, crawling on his belly and slinking smoothly like water across rocks.

His voice became overly bright and light-toned again as the dark side in him faded, "I'll be... going out. If you should need anything at all, ask Two-Face. But do not go into his room..."

"Wh--"

"If you do, dear friend, I will kill you. Brilliance or none."

And he left. Not even a little wave of the hand passed in my direction as he grabbed up his cane and little bowler hat.

I felt disappointed in myself, disappointed that I would end up being killed by a man who was afraid of me touching him, as well as feeling a connection to him. Disappointed that I could not bring myself to mention that I just happened to figure out who he really was, after all these years. Disappointed that after all the years and the changes and the fact that he'd only given me sickness and bruises, I still felt a twinge of worry as he left. Where I knew he'd go to kill another woman in the streets.

I wished I could be like Ivy in that moment--wrap him up and shake him up and be immune to something as mundane as a cold. I wish I could hate him and make him want to love me at the same time, in that flawless way. But I was not Ivy. I was Cosette, still a child and Daisy at the core.

So instead, I would sit in that room and make up stories about the whores that used to live here--about their lives, their conflicts and worries and unrequited loves. I would sing dumb songs and just lose myself, as I often did back when I was a teenager, waiting for The Joker and Poison Ivy to come and rescue me. My vision sluggishly fading, my lungs slowing and my yawns growing persistant, as I welcomed the haze of sleep and the blurred reality of imaginative dreams.

We never grow up, the things we do only warp slightly over time.

Angel

Inside I was screaming.

I was so afraid. It didn't matter that this woman had a supposed soft side for women and children, or that she'd spoken to me in such a friendly voice in the asylum, didn't matter that she was no doubt weak and groggy as she opened her bright green eyes, dripping like molten leaves in the sockets.

I screamed because I wanted out, I wanted my brother, I wanted my friends. I screamed because I'd been living a life of being the meek voice and patient ear of wisdom my whole life, and now saw what position it had gotten me in. I was screaming for I realized, in that moment of looking at her, that no matter how many times a woman in this town built herself up, she would go tumbling down slowly into the black quicksand in this town called madness, without a helping hand or even muddy stick to assist her out.

But outside, I was upright and composed, watching the killer woman with steady eyes.

The ivy had completely returned to it's relaxed state, resting sweetly on her forearm. She was wearing a floral sundress, something she was known for. She sat rigid for a few moments, staring tiredly at the white sheets of what I presumed was "Two-Face's" bed. Her face quickly regained its sharp, intelligent expression, and her eyes set on each point in the large room. Her hair was twisting up into that crazy style again as her eyes settled on me and I backed even more towards the wall despite my calmness. I was certain if I backed away anymore I would fall right through the wall.

"I said... I said horrible things to him." Her voice whispered and her eyes became distant, and I knew instantly she was talking about Jack. She cringed slightly as she lifted her arm, which I suppose had been the wound Two-Face got all hot and bothered about, yelling at some other idiot henchmen I supposed, while I hid in the bathroom. The wound was no longer visible, however, and she seemed to recover from the flicker of pain quickly.

She mumbled, tugging her hair in frustration, "I yelled and left and I said those things... I SAID--"

I rushed over to her, covering her mouth with my hand. I knew, judging by the conversation earlier that night, that Two-Face wanted her. I assumed he wanted to kill her. So to buy her more time, I sent that universal and very nessecary signal for her to be quiet.

Her eyes looked at me with confusion and anger, but calmed after a few moments and I let go, shrinking to a sitting position on the bed, knees tucked in primly underneath me. She crossed her legs and crossed her arms, still surveying the place.

Then she spoke in a hurried rush, as if her mind was working too quickly ahead for her to process.

"I don't remember too much. This your house? This happened before you know... Why am I here? What is this? What was the secret? Why'd Rachel go...?"

I only watched and listened, something I'd been trained to do as a psychologist. She turned and faced me directly, staring into my eyes, saying the one thing that could break me in that moment.

"Where's your boy?"

I could feel my face twist as something deep within my soul cried out desperately. I don't know what it was exactly: perhaps a cry for help, frustration, anger, or just purely stress related.

I screamed.

Jay

If you ever chose to look up 'trainwreck' in the dictionary, I'm betting The Joker's picture would be right next to Gotham's Edition.

I stood in the doorway as the two goons stood over him, pinning his legs and shaking his shoulders. I could only gape, watching. I'd never seen him in person without the makeup--only file photos when he was first admitted into the asylum and they'd washed his face and snapped a picture, placing them right next to his painted photos from the police station. On top of that his shirt was off, revealing a network of ragged scars all over his upper body. It reminded me of a road atlas--a network of violent lines interconnecting into one another in confusion, as if to mock you and dare you to try and find the destination you wanted to reach. No wonder it'd taken so long to peice the few parts of his past we had together. The scars on his torso were like the physical manifestation of his twisted little stories he made up--so skewed and so many that he probably couldn't remember which were real and which were fake.

"I'M THE BEAST I'M THE DOG I'M THE MOTHERFUCKING PROBLEM OKAY YOU'RE A GOON WHAT'S A GOON TO A GOBLIN NOTHING NOTHING AHA! AHAHAHAHAHAHAHA! I'll show you. I'll show all of you!" He shrieked deliriously, giggling as his two buddies held him down for what I was guessing the hundredth time. I could tell if they weren't there he'd probably hurt himself.

I cringed, suddenly reminded of Cosette and her fits.

I was missing Cosette. Missed drunk dailing her at 3 am because I knew she'd be up watching a stupid film on her big screen TV or scratching away at that old legal pad with a green pen.

I suddenly got a vision from one of my more recent calls...

"Yeah, Yeah, Yeah. Did I tell you?"

"Tell me what?"

"Some redhead was found in a dumpster this morning..."

The redhead turned out to be a prostitute. Along with several others we'd found around town, all blunt trauma to the skull, all bloodied faces with scraps of paper in the hands.

Prostitutes. ...Prostitutes.

We'd better solve this case.

Somebody had to have seen the guy. Prostitutes here often worked together, were often peas in a pod. There had to be someone with a little information, some kind of clue...

I rubbed my bald head, tapping my lip with my finger. A habit I'd developed whenever I got an idea I was dead set on.

I began to head to the door. The ridiculously tall man turned slightly, as my new boss giggled stupidly and began to pass out from exhaustion and all the stress.

Enough stress to kill a man, I imagined.

But he was stubborn as a cockroach, with the survivalistic instincts of a hound dog, it seemed.

"Where do you reckon you're going?"

I turned, smiling geniunely for the first time since entering that place.

"Gonna solve this case."