the worst part about ocd and ocd-like tendencies is that you think hyper-analyzing your thoughts and constantly psychoanalyzing yourself will fix you but that's actually part of the disorder. it's the disorder. disordering.
my therapist suggested i imagine my intrusive thoughts in the voice of donald trump bc i do not possess an ounce of respect for him or trust in his competence. going thru it today so i made this. hope this helps
In this part I thought she maybe was teasing Jisuk, but she hits hard when it comes to comfort her friends 😭
(second panel is from ep. 215)
in case someone wonders what she is saying. She also feels the gap between them and Jiwoo (power wise) is increasing, and that's frustrating her too; but Jisuk shouldn't leave without talking to Jiwoo after he almost died for him.
Of course she had to hit him physically right after, because the no violence treatment only applies to Jiwoo.
Description: You had always been taught to avoid trouble in Gotham. But what happens when trouble looks you in the eye?
Author's Note: First fic on this account!! This has been swimming around in my brain for a while, so let me know if anyone is interested in a part twoooo. I love working on this when I have time. (Divider by @b3oo tyyy)
Gotham was a difficult place to live, but it was all you knew. Gothamites took an almost sick pride in the instinctual swivel programmed into their heads. You certainly did. Your comfort level with the city and its numerous…issues…would be considered disturbing to the rest of the nation, but all you had to do was follow some of the simple rules your parents once taught you:
One, watch the news, it was the easiest way to know what psycho was free and who you didn’t have to worry about. Two, watch your mouth; you never know what someone might have in response to a so-called disagreement. Three, watch your back, not all crime in Gotham involves the theatrics of the biggest baddies. In fact, most of it was petty and organized crime that lay active underground. Even when you think you’re in the clear, there is always a chance you’re not. Stay aware. Stay in your lane.
For the most part, following these tips kept you out of trouble. Living in Gotham your whole life, it would have been impossible to avoid it completely. It was rare, but not unheard of, that you’d be sitting at the bar, only to hear commotion outside. The crashing sound of cars thrown into a building, maniacal laughter in the distance, only to be followed by the whirring and clank of a grappling hook.
You never had a direct encounter with The Bat, and that was a good sign. Interacting with him in any way put a target on people’s backs; even worse was actually being saved by him. The best way to survive Gotham if you weren’t some sort of vigilante or criminal was simple: lay low.
Thus far, you had done a great job at doing just that. Unremarkable best described your movements in the world, and that was a status you were content with. That’s not to say you had no achievements, but the scale in Gotham skewed to more extremes than most places. You got good grades in school and made it through four years at Gotham University. You managed to snag a job right after in the court archives and started a Master's program to stay in the archival field.
It was good, honest work. And more importantly, it was safe. No one really had an interest in the court archives. Half of your job was digitizing court records for cases that had already passed, making them available and free online. While the archives were open to be accessed to the public, most opted for a quick online search. With that, you typically didn’t work on anything with classified cases. Those jobs were reserved for people who already had those advanced degrees you were working towards. Maybe one day you’d expand your horizons, but for now, you were content.
Another prominent upside to this job was the hours. Head out when it’s light, leave work when it’s light. You never risked taking public transport after dark, even taking it during the day was risky as it was. You were home by six at the latest on most days, which made it easier to avoid the nightly patrols of Gotham's vigilantes. You had grown up more than well aware of the Bat. He’d been lurking in the shadows for as long as you had formed memories, but he was no longer the sole protector of the city.
The Red Hood was a name the older generations of Gotham were familiar with. A notorious gang that stalked the streets, committing crimes with that signature red fabric draped over their head to obscure their faces.
The new generation of Gothamites had a new Red Hood, a single person using the moniker. No one knew exactly what to feel about him. To fear? To venerate? No one was entirely sure; his presence felt gray. You knew the kids tended to like him; they looked for the gleam of crimson from his helmet whenever they’d find themselves on the streets too late. Many wore little charms of his mask; they said it showed he protected them. If it made them feel safe, who were you to judge?
At the same time, the rumor mill swirled in all directions. Word on the street was that this new Red Hood had single-handedly taken over the underground crime rings. The Prince of Gotham. Some said he had been buried alive and single-handedly clawed his way out of the grave. A Dead Man Walking.
He used guns. He left people dead. He was none of your business.
But a slow day at the courts meant your mind wandered, and some sick part of you couldn't be content with daydreaming about being a movie star on a talk show like normal people; you were thinking about him. You knew nothing but the rumors, but your mind kept wandering to what this guy was about. Why did he want the Gotham territory? Why hadn't The Bat taken him down? It was almost like he wanted him around.
The voice of a young man startled you out of your daze. Playing Sherlock would have to wait for now.
“Excuse me, I sent in a request file with a scan of my passport a few weeks ago about a case, but they said the case didn't exist… but I have all the paperwork from when it happened.” The man rocked back on his heels, sheepishly handing you the paperwork for the prior court proceedings.
You took the paperwork and his passport, typing away at the filing systems to try and find this case: TS-7386-GT. Half the time, it's an incorrectly filed case number or an incorrect form submission. As the page loaded (believe it or not, Gotham’s public records were not the most up-to-date technologically), you took a look at the files he provided you. Civil case, damages to a vehicle post Joker attack… chose not to file charges but wanted compensation for popped tires. This was a simple case, so there should be no problems-
Interesting
In the court records, this case did not exist. Case TS-7386-GT did not exist. But that made no sense; you had the paperwork right here. You had everything that proved this case happened, but in the court records, it was nonexistent.
“I guess at this point you have to talk to the classified court archives… I don’t… maybe there was a mix-up in filing here, tell them I sent you.”
Rubbing your face tiredly, you scribbled down the case number of his paperwork on the legal pad that had lain dormant on your desk for months. Then, with a similar flick of the pen, you wrote your name and signature on a sticky note, handing it over to the now defeated-looking young man, who takes it and rushes from the room.
“It's the building across the street!”
You called out quickly, sighing in defeat. Fingers skimming across the legal pad, you looked up at the screen again. The case wasn’t in the classified archives; the system would have told you as much. You just couldn't crush his hope like that; it couldn't be in your hands. The case number simply vanished, the only evidence of its existence being the papers he provided you. Official court documents, your eyes had been trained to verify at a moment’s notice. Cases don’t just disappear like that.
But you lived in Gotham. Things like this happen. The most confusing part was the fact that it was a civil case. Who would want a civil case to be scrubbed from the records? The insurance companies? But there were dozens of civil cases with almost identical information. Was it something about the guy? He was so mousey, and the passport looked legitimate. Playing Sherlock was fun when it was about the vigilantes you never saw. Playing Sherlock was not fun when it actually had to do with your job.
You looked over at the clock: 3:15.
Shit.
It was a perfectly responsible time to start a new task. To get your ass up and look through the physical records. Your hands dragged down your face, and you groaned with frustration. It was less the prospect of actually doing work, and more the knowledge that something weird was wrong and you had to be the one to investigate.
Tearing the dusty page from the legal pad, you stood up and made your way to the office door, turning the silly sign that read “Out for Lunch.” The stairs down to the physical records were actually quite cozy, the warm lighting in the staircase making it feel like a pleasant dream of hidden libraries. The archives were almost fun to explore. A scavenger hunt for the one right thing, it tickled the detective itch in your head… without life or death stakes.
You looked down the seemingly endless rows of bookshelves, taking a deep breath and preparing for your quest.
“It’s one file, shouldn't take more than half an hour.”
With that, the search began. You glanced at the folded legal pad paper and started to walk deeper into the shelves, weaving in and out of the forest of files. Fingers reaching up and tracing the bronze placards, identifying which files were where for easy retrieval. The lights flickered, but you were on a mission that couldn't be stopped. This was the fun part, this was the little adventure you got to go on.
The lights shut off as you approached the shelf it should be on, damned old Gotham structures. Did this place really need historical protection?
Without hesitation, you took out your phone and turned on the flashlight, muttering the file name under your breath like a prayer. You went on your toes as you looked on the highest shelf for the file, but it wasn't there. TS-7386-GT was not there. You saw TS-7385-GT and TS-7387-GT lay right next to it.
“What the hell is going on here?”
You murmured, looking around at the neighboring files for the case. But it wasn't misfiled, it wasn't there… it didn't exist.
You felt your heart beating deep in your chest, and your mind raced, thinking of all the possible reasons this file could be gone. It had to exist; you had the proof it existed, but as far as the courts were concerned, it did not.
In trying to wrap your head around the disappearance of the files, you barely registered the footsteps approaching behind you.
An arm wrapped around your waist, pulling you tight against an unknown body. Another hand wrapped itself tightly around your mouth, a leather-gloved hand which reeked of gun powder and motor oil. Your eyes widened before straining, trying to see something, anything in the dark room, but your phone had flown across the aisle, tumbling out of sight. All you could make out was a faint glow coming from the body restricting you. In vain, you tried to push your arms out, squirming and trying to budge out of this iron clutch. It was useless, you knew that, but you had to try.
You felt the person behind you shaking their head, a chiding “tsk tsk tsk” grumbling out from his chest. His voice wasn't natural; it was modulated, robotic, with something inherently human in its teasing.
“Do you want to tell me why you’re being nosy? There are sayings about that, you know.”
The voice teases, squeezing you tighter to emphasize just how helpless you were in his grasp. He knows you can’t respond. The hand over your lips pressed in so hard it was practically in your mouth. Your chest heaved, eyes darting around, trying to find anything to focus on, something to distract from the completely inescapable situation you were in.
“No one’s been down here in weeks, you know, all that dedication to digital. I’ve always found that there’s nothing better than cool paper in my hands.”He purrs, almost directly in your ear.
All you could ask yourself is what to do. What do you do in a situation like this? He’s so much stronger than you; he snuck up on you, no one goes down here.
And you didn't tell anyone you were going down. You usually did, just a polite “going to the archives, be back soon,” but this had thrown you for a loop; you had forgotten, and now no one would be looking for you.
“I’m going to let go of your mouth, if you scream… don’t find out what I’ll do if you scream, we both don’t want that to happen. I’m going to let go of your mouth, and then you’re going to tell me why you’re being nosy, understood?”
He asked, and you nodded your head as best as you could. What do I do? You asked yourself again, feeling his hand loosen from your mouth.
In a moment, you went limp.
You didn't pass out, not for real. But hopefully, if he couldn't get information from you, he would leave you alone. You were just a civilian, you didn't do criminals or kidnapping or real mysteries. Of course, it would be a normal thing to pass out at the shock, right? As your body let out, you noted he still had you snug against him with one arm. Yeah, you weren't fighting your way out of this one, you thought to yourself.
“Come on…”
The eyeroll was almost audible. He jostled your body a few times, but as stubborn as you were, you remained limp.
“Soft thing, probably has no clue what’s going on.” He scoffed, laying your limp form on the ground with a surprising level of gentleness considering he just had you locked in his arm moments ago. His gaze pierced your limp form. Your eyes closed, breathing soft and slow as you played dead. You heard his footsteps retreat quickly, in the opposite direction of the staircase, and the lights flickered on once more.
You didn't move. Not for a long time. He could still be there, waiting for you to wake up. When you finally did get up, the first thing you did was find and grab your phone.
4:24 It's been over an hour.
You took a deep breath before jogging back towards the stairs, going up as fast as you could. Your head was on that swivel programmed deep into your soul as you went up, fearing the unknown man could reappear at any moment. Bolting into your office, you shut the door, not bothering to flip the sign.
You were out of his arms, but the same question kept pounding in your head: What do I do?
You opened your phone, and your heart dropped. When you dropped your phone, it had taken a photo during the tumble. You saw your restricted self with the mysterious form behind you. The mysterious form with two glowing eyes made just enough light to reflect the crimson color of the man’s mask. You slammed your phone down on the desk and stared into the wall.
“Fuck my life…”
Watch the news, watch your mouth, watch your back.
Stay aware, Stay in your lane
You couldn’t do that anymore. The Red Hood knew who you were.
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