Coffee Republic

Avery wasn't quite sure how to react to what had happened on Sunday.

For the past few days she had been holed up in her little apartment, reluctant to step outside but desperate to hear news. The reports on the internet were brief, as they usually were with Gotham-related crimes - 15 dead, countless injured. Mayor Garcia escaped with a few second degree burns. The Joker nowhere to be found.

With an impatient sigh, Avery closed Google and leaned back in her creaking chair, staring blankly up at the cream ceiling. The fan above her thrummed lazily, warm air brushing a few strands of dark hair away from her face. She blinked. A yawn pulled at her lips, like a loose thread unravelling a ratty sweater.

It was Wednesday - probably - and at this time she should have been dragging Microsoft Word out of her desktop. She could vividly picture how she would spend her afternoon - a plain cup of coffee steaming by her side, fingers poised over the keyboard as she tried to dredge up some inspiration.

But the coffee had gone cold and her inspiration had spiralled down the drain a long time ago.

Oh, who cared about all that? The huge crack on the ceiling was looking particularly attractive today. Avery snorted, tearing her eyes away from the crack as she slid out of her seat.

A faint ringing sound could be heard, growing louder as she ventured futher down the short corridor in her apartment. Her mobile had been smashed, but her landline was still intact - unfortunately. Now she wasn't protected from her mother's incessant calls.

The television was murmuring in the background as she padded into the living room, and a quick glance told her that it was merely a gameshow host, and not the news reporter she had been expecting. Recently, her television seemed to be permanently glued to Channel 47, Gotham News.

Ring, ring, ring.

Avery muttered obscenities under her breath, grabbing the chunky black phone and stuffing it under one of the sofa cushions.

She really didn't want to speak to anyone. Despite being a citizen of Gotham, she hadn't experienced any explosions or robberies, or met any criminals first hand. Meeting the Joker was like dunking her in the deep end when she hadn't properly learnt how to swim - and at that point she felt like she was drowning.



Tap, tap, tap.

Her routine had been postponed, but it was still the same as ever. Microsoft Word open on her desktop, scalding coffee by her side, fingers clicking away furiously over the keyboard. Only rather than clicking away in a frenzy of inspiration, Avery was simply letting her anger and frustration spill out through her fingertips.

She had chosen to write about Harvey Dent - or, more specifically, Harvey Dent Day. And it hadn't started out all that bad either. Something about him being a figurehead, or a symbol. But she had only managed to produce three decent sentences before her writing declined, and she found herself just repeatedly typing fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck.

Even when she deleted the swearing and focused on those three sentences, they seemed forced. Like she had stuck her fingers down her throat and spewed nonsense all over her computer just for the sake of it.

The frustration was almost unbearable - she was teetering off the edge of the cliff, and yet she couldn't do anything to save herself. Avery needed to write - not even just for financial reasons, like affording the rent on her stupid house. She needed to write for her peace of mind, and right now her mind felt like it was going to explode.

Pinching the bridge of her nose with one hand, she used the other to highlight the three pathetic lines of text and delete them, sighing heavily when she did.

Writing anything would be helpful right now, but unfortunately that wasn't all she had to do. As an ex - journalist, she had to write something that captured Gotham's attention. Something exciting, something they hadn't read about before. The first thing that cropped up in the back of her mind was, of course, Harvey Dent Day. The sudden appearance of The Joker was a massive occurence. But then again, it was Wednesday - dozens of articles had probably already been printed out and sold to the public. Nothing new, nothing alien.

Her fingernails clicked against the scratched wooden desk, replacing the tap tap tap of her keyboard. Avery's face was set in a pensive expression. Her light brown eyes focused on the plain white mug, resting next to her mouse.

Steam poured invitingly out of her coffee and curled its way up to the ceiling fan, and it was at that point that an idea curled its way into her head. The moment it was acknowledged Avery almost recoiled - it felt wrong, somehow. Like she was violating something.

She could write about the encounter she had.

Avery's face crinkled up at the memory of that barrel pressed against her forehead, about how much of a coward she had been. The fear had swelled up and swallowed her, to the point where she had whimpered. Like a dog.

Something sparked inside of her and her fingers twitched, itching to start filling that blank page up with neat print. For the past few days, she had been trying to pinpoint what exactly she was feeling, and why she was so void of any reasonable reaction - but now, the shock had slipped away and cleared her head. She was angry, that was it. Furious.

A muscle in her jaw tensed, and with a deep inhale she stretched out her fingers and began typing, ignoring the tightening in her chest as she did so.