A hurricane between his temples roars, prickles up through the overload of shock and
demands attention – the storm’s already been given a name and he mulls over the
very real possibility that this just might be the o n l y reward that he gets. When he
inspects it closely in the mirror and can’t bring himself to stop touching it — that’s
where he leaves his mark: where Jim can’t even see it.
That abrasion can, and will, scab over and give way to n e w skin, and at an optimal
outcome there will be a lighter hue to it, a gentle raised streak over his nose where
he’s brutalized him. His mind – the limbic system, will bag and tag these unconventional
c o n f l i c t i o n s that he’s processing, store them away while the noose secures itself around
his jugular. Jim Gordon cannot escape him, even if he’s cold inside of a body bag.
There are suspicions of where those reflexes come from, how sure of
himself Jim seems to be when his fists come up, but he can only speculate that he’s been
through formal training – an advantage that doesn’t go unnoticed.
The white knight of Gotham rises, up and on his feet like s t u r d y s t e e l,
but if he pays close enough attention he can see every last sway and fault.
There’s no easy way out of this and no ordinary bargaining tactics are going to
make it appear as if there is; Arkham’s seemingly founded on this insufferable
and impossible scheme, a constant reminder that they’re stuck in cages like
rats. No, there’s no mistake to be made on whether or not Jim will bring pain in
his direction, though the severity and brutality will surely vary as well as the
punishment that will follow.
❝Was thereever any other way to do things?❞ if he hadn’t killed his mother,
if she hadn’t pushed him, if he had been more convincing, if he didn’t want
to watch the w h o l e world burn and all the little people in it, ❝Not really in my
nature,❞ there isn’t anything else for him to be, never a scholar or a father,
he’s an animal, especially when confined to these walls,
The youth rests his shoulder blades against the door, the one exit, he wants
for the detective to go throughhim with all of the animosity that he’s gritting
out through his teeth, ❝–Besides, where’s the fun in that?❞
The PAIN from the physical blow was the easiest part of this game but the MESSAGE behind it was much harder to ignore. Blue eyes STEAL to the doorway, the only CHANCE that Jerome has to be spared… from him.
“ I’m NOTHING like you, ” he says lowly, taking steady
steps toward BOTH the exit and the rabid animal that
spat out UGLY TRUTHS.
His fists lower but they never unclench, hanging at his side and FORCED to stay there. Jim would always deny it but there’s a side to him that no one knows about, the “WAR HERO” in him that everyone praised, who really, has a higher body count compared to the kid in front of him. Somehow, Jerome could SEE it, past the mask of a HERO to the blood splattered face of the SINNER.
“ And you have NO idea who you’re dealing with. ”
It’s a desperate SCRAMBLE to keep the bloodlust down. He’s gotten BETTER at it since coming to Gotham but there were times, SO many times when it almost broke free. It’s getting HARDER to suppress with each passing day and sometimes, JUST enough gets through the cracks that he lashes out in an ALL consuming anger. And Jerome can somehow FEEL that weakness, CIRCLING and waiting for that small lapse in self control, ENCOURAGING it. He STOPS just short of the doorway, GLARING up at the taller teenager with ironclad hues of ice, fingers flexing, TEMPTED to the brutal intentions that he quickly SHOVES out from his mind.
It’s almost incomprehensible, more GROWL than word but it was a command nonetheless. At the same time, a TWISTED phrase, ONE final dare. He knows what Jerome’s like, what he won’t do and yet, he throws the bait AS IF he wanted the teen to PUSH him over that inevitable ledge.
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