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Sorrow spills from the sky above, piercing through the frigid air to soak a heap of silent, still skin. To drench it in despondence and mock in a macabre manner as if saying hence these tears that are shed, but are not for you. It lies there with limbs, loose, stretched across the paved pathway of a place constantly plagued by clouds of calamity, collecting as if carousing in days of downpour that are only ever in vain, not verve.The same city he seized a badge for and pledged to protect from graft and gloom.And yet here he stands, beneath the weight of the world's woe, overlooking another case of cruel misfortune; how when the rain rushes so relentlessly, surroundings seem to sit together and hold still harmoniously. The deluge only disrupts with dissonance. Like a heart beating, or perhaps a door in the way it bangs brutally, knocking, pleading to be let in. What a shame it is that the dumpster had gone about and muddled its musky scent into the most obnoxious of odors. How could such a stench be welcomed in--on and through?The body doesn't budge an inch. Not to shield itself from the ravenous rain gnawing at its figure, nor to scramble away from the reek of decay. The flesh of its pallid cheek, pure yet not pristine, almost seems to glow against the torrent-tarnished concrete. A mean clash of blue and purple fight on its featureless face, tossing, tumbling into a pit of acid green. He wonders how far down it stretches beneath the suit; how far along he let the bruises bloom. It doesn't blink. Eyelids are merely detached, no different than the parting of pale, cracked lips that hang there aimlessly. Slick dark strands stick and swirl about its forehead, the rest surfacing above a thinning pool of crimson. Once upon a time, it stood. There was an awkward shuffle in the way it walked, but it carried itself well. Prideful, almost, in its kempt appearance. Not a button of its blazer left undone, never a loose lace, and yet it always seemed to trip over itself. Fate must have faltered heavily at its foot for it to end up forsaken. He wonders if it thought the dumpster would make an appropriate tombstone. Would the rain, ravaging its remains with pits and patters, requite as a requiem? There is no response of affirmation in the way it lies there, limp, seemingly staring through the surface that sinks beneath the sky's sorrows. The rubble grinds beneath the scuff of his heel. He doesn't know which it is--a step back to retreat or forward to reminisce, but in the corner of an eye, he catches the minute of a movement. The flutter of a finger as if asking him not to go.
----- CHAPTER BREAK -----
The afternoon's rain falls as if free; a repertory rapping against pellucid panes in yearning for all the places it can touch but not torment. No matter how far off the sky stretches or condemned the city, there always seemed to be a space to secrete in. A solid slate to shroud beneath, unspoiled despite the unyielding efforts to search, to scour. The murderer of Thomas and Martha Wayne is not an exception. It only took a handful of empty leads and insufferable nights of stifling sleep to acknowledge the anomaly and all that it welcomed: not all things are delivered the fate they deserve. If Jim knew running in circles with a regularly inebriated partner who could never seem to keep his eyes on the road, Montoya and Allen's offer might have actually been considered.But there is still hope, as Harvey had called it. The Theatre District. In the way the world runs by through the window, dousing in despair, Jim finds that all prior anticipation has diminished.The neon glow of a fish dwindles in sympathy. Jim nods at the sign and questions, "This is it?"The tires screech above a roar of rain at the sudden squeeze of the car's brakes. Harvey slaps a hand onto the gear and switches it to park, moving almost mechanically when plucking out the keys and turning to tug off his seat belt. "Keep your head up, junior. These places are meant to make you look twice. Just wait till you walk in, you'll see. Fish is sharp, but she’s got class," Harvey reassures. Jim tries to ignore the overwhelming fact of familiarity. Something about the way Harvey speaks suggests that he and Fish, a criminal underboss of all people, may have connections that outstretch the bounds of business. With the tug of a handle, shove of the door, Jim takes a moment to relish in the sensation of a solid surface beneath the sole of his shoes. A not-so-sober partner behind the wheel had taught him the essence of gratitude, faith, and the miraculousness of miracles. The car door slams shut behind Harvey as if to shun the gesture. Jim stalks silently behind when entering the club. Aside from an abruptly misplaced staircase only inches from the doorway, a collection of shimmering chandeliers and polished well-worn wood pieces serve as a sophisticated welcome. Harvey strides across the velvet carpet--a smooth shade that reappears on curtains, cushions, leather, and lamplights. He halts at the foot of the bar and nods curtly to the spruced-suited man behind the counter. "Tell Fish I’m here."Jim exchanges a cautious look with the man before watching him disappear through another doorway. He takes a moment to scan the rest of the club and finds one too many exit signs hanging from above. Oddly enough, it feels reminiscent of a warning in some way, although he isn’t sure which.Past the vacant seating area sits a stage; three women dressed in nothing but lingerie and heels appear to be rehearsing for a performance. Before he can even think to consider specifications, a swathed scream sends him glancing in Harvey's direction, who meets his eyes with an easy look."Just a little white noise," he says. Such casual callousness from a man who could cry if he drank enough is unsettling. It doesn't sit right; how his shoulders rise and drop with an indifferent shrug; how he spins on his heel and slips away onto the foreground, leaving all sense of ethics and empathy back by the bar. Jim would like to blame the disregard for the dullness brought by intoxication, but Harvey walks in a straight enough line. Jim steps further inside to follow after him. It must be that earlier familiarity, then. Harvey is comfortable because he knows something Jim doesn’t—or rather someone. "Harvey."The name falls at the mercy of a silver tongue, strange in the way it splits through the silence softly, yet suggests subtly. "Fish."Jim can hear the smile in Harvey's voice. He turns his head just enough to catch the elegant frame of a woman strolling inside with arms outstretched. Fish hasn’t aged a day since her first debut in the papers. In that same suit of skin she wears as if it were silk and those calm yet conspicuous haircuts and styles, Jim notes that the black and white print in the morning papers only brought so much light.The bartender falls back in place behind the counter as he catches another young man following further inside; a civil, curious face that Jim doesn't recognize from the press or police reports. The folded umbrella in one hand does wonders in establishing his position, but the three-piece suit he dons dashingly is what reinforces the role."Where have you been?" Fish drawls.Harvey laughs, "Where haven’t I been?"Without even the slightest acknowledgment, she steps straight past Jim and leans into Harvey. They share a brief kiss that anyone could mistake for anything aside from the endearment he initially suspected it to be. Fish is remarkably relaxed with Harvey, enough to keep eyes interlocked and an unwavering touch for a moment too long. "Who's the friend?"Jim straightens his back and forces his face slack when answering, "Detective James Gordon, ma'am."The touch disconnects as Fish slowly pulls away. From a minute glance, he catches Harvey's unusually concentrated stare in his direction. It could be the awkward young man standing behind, but the way Fish looks him up and down suggests that he is indeed the object of attention. "Well, aren't you a cool glass of milk?" "Ma'am, was that screaming we heard back there?" Jim asks. Fish tilts her head with the snide remark, "A little noise bother you much?""Relax junior," Harvey cuts in. "Fish gets some leeway. Her staff are rough characters. Need firm handling."Jim nods to himself and wonders just how far she would have to go for Harvey to disregard intimacy and commit to his duty as a cop. Fish tramples over the thought with a hand to his chest, fixing her slim fingers around the dark leather of his coat as if to drag him closer. It must go beyond murder. "So, this isn't a social visit then?""Unfortunately not. Brass sent me by to talk to you about the Wayne murders."Fish shakes her head and eases, "Terrible thing."Another scream chimes out from behind the outdated wallpaper. Jim turns around in hopes of tracing the source, but the resonance disappears in a matter of seconds. The young man meets his cautious look with a wry smile in a poor attempt to reassure, Jim can only suppose. He finds Harvey, much like Fish who now lays a hand on his cheek, is completely unbothered."Ma'am, I don't suppose your men are doing anything illegal back there?""Listen, junior, if you're worried, why don't you go check it out?" Harvey mentions; his tone sits fabricated with care. "If that's okay with you, Fish."Fish forfeits her fixation with Harvey's blunt eyes to offer Jim a cold, hard glare. Newbie or not, he didn't need the tenure of a deciphering detective to tell that he had already gotten on her bad side. Jim can virtually read the irritation scribbled along the lines of her flat lips. He watches them detach, potent yet slow as if dreadfully. "Oswald, show this fine detective where we do our illegal business. No detours.""Of course, Ms. Mooney," he blurts whole-heartedly. Jim doesn't linger long enough to feel the edge of her glare. He turns on his heel and reluctantly nods at the young man--Oswald, he learns--to lead the way. He doesn't need an escort. Assuming the screams came from outside, which is where Fish must have been before, Jim could have easily retraced her steps to find his way.He can't help but feel ridiculed somehow, following after an umbrella boy with a head of hair that is almost uncanny in its resemblance to a bird's nest. It isn't until Oswald takes him back around the bar and through a doorway, out of sight, does he significantly slow down to speak."The Wayne murders, right? Terrible thing. I assume--""No need for small talk. Just walk."At the end of an abruptly brief hallway is a narrow, neglected staircase that sits in solitude. Jim stops for a moment to tune in; there is a faint sound of ringing as if something metallic were striking repeatedly--against a body, he assumes by the awful grunts and groans. Beneath that, Jim reunites with the rush of rain. Oswald shakes his head violently and waves a hand in defense of the rejection. He tries and fails horribly in matching a side-to-side pace when starting down the stairs. "Oh--no, this is by no means a pleasantry. You're a detective so you have the right to question. And I, as a citizen of Gotham, have a civic duty.""Then you can uphold that duty by telling me what the hell is going on out there," Jim sighs, annoyed.Oswald fumbles for a second to add, "I-I'm sure there are matters more worthy of your concern, but if you must know, Ms. Mooney caught one of her men stealing money from under her nose.""Hard to believe anyone would want to mess with a woman like her.""It isn't a very common thing, I assure you. Ms. Mooney is very protective of her assets, as you can see."At the end of the staircase, a sharp turn to the left, Jim finds himself beneath the sky's mask of murk once more. Where colors are mute and modest, and the bitter air bites at brittle skin--dry skin, he quickly realizes, at the mercy of an umbrella. Oswald must have unfolded it some point during their descent down the steps. He holds it out just far enough to cover their heads and a shoulder. Jim watches the rain droplets dampen the edge of the three-piece suit and thinks what a waste. Around the corner, a body slumps out back beside a collection of trash. Three men stand openly beneath the downpour, crowding around the fallen figure with a face painted in that velvet shade Fish shows to love so much. The metal bat in one man's hand, he notes, is only the means to an end.Jim takes a step forward, scraping the sole of his shoe against the wet concrete to attract their attention. They aren't exactly alert when spreading apart and turning to meet him. Confusion contorts along the lines of each face, more so than the hold of hostility."Who are you?" one man asks."James Gordon. GCPD."A man with a build Jim can't describe to be brawny or bulky, who also happens to be in care of the bat, nods in his direction. Oswald noticeably shifts at his side."You escorting cops now, Penguin?"Oswald glares at the man and seethes, "Don't call me that.""Ooh. Scary.""Relax. Both of you." Another man raises a hand as if to calm the situation. He dips his head toward Jim and smiles, "You came with Harvey, huh? Glad to know you, James. I'm Butch Gilzean.""A pleasure. Drop the bat," Jim demands, dull.The bat falls against the concrete with a curt clack. Butch drops his hand and offers a well-meaning, witty laugh. "Ah, come on now. We were just having a little fun with Raoul here. Right boys?""Yeah, fun."The mess of a man scrambled onto the ground struggles to his knees with a not-so-discreet shove. He throws up a trembling thumb and stretches his torn lips into a smile. From where he stands, Jim counts one broken and two missing teeth."No problem. F-Fun," he splutters.Jim stands there for a moment, watching the beaten man's grapple with gravity. Although he looks worse for wear, the likelihood of those trash cans assuming the role of his gravestone is next to nothing. Fish needs the man for her money. If he were to die beneath her hand or another's, then that money is lost. It isn't his place to pry.A simple beating for simple thief, as Harvey would say. Harvey would want him to leave it, and for the sake of a lead on the Wayne's case, he will. Butch shifts in the corner of his eye."You a new guy, huh? How do you like Gotham so far?" Jim offers, "Well enough. See you around."He shares another look with the three men before turning away. Oswald doesn't lag behind for even the slightest of seconds. He keeps in consistent pace with Jim until they are indoors once more, safe from torment brought by the rain's torrent. Jim takes the first step up the staircase while Oswald pauses to securely fold the umbrella back together."It's just as I said," he says when starting up the steps. "That's why you let it go--you believed what I had to say about him stealing money. I could have made it up." Jim pauses to hesitantly ask, "Did you?""Of course not! What good is there in lying to a cop? But, in regards to our duties, the Wayne murders. I assume you must have some type of lead to be questioning Ms. Mooney. Is that right?"As if to reinforce the urgency of his words, Oswald rushes over the remaining steps and nearly trips over himself at the top. Jim watches the stumble with an impassive coolness he must have gotten from hanging around Harvey almost all hours of the day. "That doesn't concern you," he settles."Y-Yes, it may not, but I can promise you the truth! We both have our--"An immediate, almost impulsive lurch in the opposite direction sends Oswald crashing into the wall only inches from the doorway. The fine fabric of his collar crumbles within Jim's firm grasp--trembling, he regrets, because he isn't entirely sure but has enough reason to believe. What better use for someone so expendable? "Do you really think I'm stupid?" he spits through grit teeth. "I'm a new face around here, right? You thought I'd fall easy. Fish put you up to this, didn't she? Trying to figure out what we have against her? Doesn't sound very sharp to me." Oswald shakes his head vigorously, stammering, "Wh-What? No! Of course not! I truly do want to help!""Shut up and walk."Every twist and turn of his expression screams sincerity; a guise of pure genuinity. Jim shoves him into the wall one final time for good measure before spinning around to pass through the doorway. He smooths the disarray creasing along the lines of his suit with a trembling hand and forces his face back into a fixed firmness. Fish isn't much of what Harvey claimed.It could just be his poor vocabulary to blame, but she isn't as sharp as she is sly. A spiteful woman who hides her true savageness beneath snide remarks and smiles. Jim would like nothing more than to withdraw and cruelly avoid Fish altogether. Doing so, unfortunately, would mean quitting the case and any string of chance there may be left. For Bruce's sake, he hopes that Harvey's fabled flirting skills have gotten them a lead to pursue. An awkward shuffle of a shoe falls behind when passing the bar. Jim doesn't bother to bat the bartender an eye. He walks straight into the foreground where Fish and Harvey are at a table, laughing and lolling."Oh, hey," Harvey calls as if surprised. "Everything all right back there?"The chair jars against the floorboards when he pushes it back to stand. Jim nods, almost ashamed in the way Fish stares him down, practically sneering. She draws away from her seat to lay a hand on a leathered shoulder."It's always good to see you, Harvey." She leaves him with a final kiss on the lips. Jim tries not to meet her glare when turning to follow after Harvey. He considers returning Oswald's prying eyes on the way out but decides against it. There wouldn't be any rhyme or reason to it, just like most peculiar things that happen in the streets of Gotham. The Wayne murders, for example. Harvey huffs out a long, worn sigh at the click of his car door. Jim finds it in him to joke, "No way in hell does she sleep with you.""You kidding me? It's just formalities. Fish's got her own lot to mess around with," he laughs."So. What'd she say?"Harvey throws his head back against the rest and silently stares through the window for a second too long. "Not much."