Hi! I'm Alex, and I'm a Tumblr vet of too many years, refreshing with a new blog. I may write some fanfiction, I may just lurk and reblog here, I don't know exactly what I'm going to do with this account, but I'd love to make some friends and just casually and not so casually enjoy some media.
Lately, I've been digging Invincible, DC Comics (Bat Family), and Campaign Four of Critical Role.
This is always subject to change and shifts, so this post will usually be updated with my most recent fandom affiliations.
Friendly reminder, you can choose what you see and what you don't. Don't be afraid to block tags or even me if you're not a fan.
Author's Note: Part twooo baby! I also wanted to note that my depiction of Jason and Red Hood is more heavily inspired by his pre-New 52 anti-hero leaning villain self so he's a little more aggressive and villainous for now but who loves a goody two-shoes? Hope you enjoy and like and reblog if you do :))
{Divider by @b3oo}
In front of you at your desk lay three things: A desktop fifteen years older than it should be with a blank black screen, a bunched-up legal pad paper with a case number that didn’t exist, and your phone face down on the table, hiding a photo of The Red Hood temporarily holding you hostage.Â
This is what happens when you go poking your nose where it doesn’t belong. But technically, it was the job. You were asked about a file, and you went to check on it. You went to check on a file… that computers said didn't exist. Not in public or confidential records. The file that had no indication it existed, other than one scared guy giving you the paperwork from the case. The file that had you helpless in someone’s arms while he threatened you.Â
The worst part was that it wasn’t just anyone. It was The Red Hood. Not the Batman, The Red Hood.Â
4:40, you could start to pack up now, that should be okay. Not that you had much to pack up, just your water bottle and the laptop you brought, the one you always told yourself you’d do more work on. No one really supervised you here; you could just leave, and no one would say a word. But would it be safe to do that?Â
You had been restricted and threatened not even an hour ago. You didn’t watch this guy leave; for all you knew, he could still be in the building. A part of you felt silly thinking that you could be so important as to be targeted by one of the city’s newest vigilantes.Â
Well… you already had been.
Maybe the sillier thought was that this vigilante would target you more than once.
You looked at your now mostly clear desk, pinching the bridge of your nose. This file was not going to stop bugging you. This whole day was destined to play over and over again in your head, with new questions emerging when given enough time to be pondered.Â
Logically, you knew you should drop it. Leave work at work, go home, and forget today had ever happened. But things always haunted you. You knew you couldn’t let it go.Â
You took your trusty stack of sticky notes and started to scribble the little bits of information you did know. You went through the drawers and found a package of unopened push pins. Surely you could find some sort of use for them. You shoved everything into your work bag and hoisted it to your shoulder before booking it out of the office and towards the trolley station.Â
Trying to relax was futile. Heading home already required you to be on high alert, and the events of the day had thrust your mind into overdrive.Â
Every passerby: a potential threat. Who knew what they had in their pockets, who knew what they had in their minds. They could tell you knew something you shouldn’t. They all knew. You didn’t mind your business, and you wanted to keep digging deeper. Curiosity killed the cat, and there was no guarantee of satisfaction bringing you back.Â
There was no breath of fresh air once on the trolley. How could there be with your head on a nonstop swivel? The sick pride of every Gothamite was now too real. It wasn’t just caution keeping you on the lookout; it was real fear. The ride home only took a few minutes, but today it felt like hours.
You practically bolted out of the trolley once it got to your apartment. Gaze swerving behind you as you fumbled with your keys, unlatching the door and barricading yourself inside. Without a second thought, your hands flew up to the locks and bolted all three shut.
Deep breath in, Deep breath out.
You slid off your shoes by the shoe rack, not bothering to put them up on the wood rods. Padding deeper into the apartment, you tossed your bag onto the kitchen counter.Â
You threw your bag and picked out your stolen supplies, bunching them in your hands as you went into your bedroom, picking up a basket of yarn.Â
Clutching the stolen push pins and balls of yarn from knitting attempts long forgotten, you looked around your bedroom for a blank wall. This felt insane. But you had to map out what you knew; it was too much to try and sort mentally.Â
You could try to map it out on the computer, but you recently learned that things could be deleted from even the most encrypted of programs. And someone, at least one person, knew you were on this trail. Writing things down on one sheet of paper could work in theory, but this was the kind of thing that grew. Things could change with a moment’s notice, and nothing was more of an eyesore than eraser smudges.Â
So the classic corkboard and twine method it was. Nothing sticky notes and push pins couldn’t deduce. You sat into your hip as you looked around, the only space blank enough was the bedroom door, right across from the window. And yes, there were curtains, but you didn’t need a nosy neighbor to peek in and decide you were crazy. You felt it, but that was your self-diagnosis.Â
Walking deeper into the room, you sat with the thought of having to look at your psychotic mystery corkboard while trying to sleep. You were already doubting your ability to rest for the evening, and doubted that staring at your findings would do any good in lulling you to sleep. To your left was your closet door, covered in decorations. You reached out and opened the closet door, the inside blank and white.Â
“I guess this will have to be the workspace.” You murmured to yourself, writing down the man’s name, the case number, and all the little facts you knew… which was essentially nothing. You stuck them onto the closet door and dug the pins into them for good measure, security deposit be damned.Â
You placed each sticky note a good distance away from each other (that’s what they did in the movies, right?) and started to tie the yarn to the pins. For a while, it felt more like an art project than an active investigation on your end. But deciding what each color meant was so much fun.Â
Once you had the basic information strung out, you closed the closet door. Now was the time for deeper research. You walked out of your room, leaving the door open just a crack as you passed through into the kitchen, popping open a bottle of wine and pouring a glass for yourself.Â
You lifted the glass and sighed, humming a quiet cheers to yourself.Â
“To the one time I don’t mind my business, to it not biting me in the ass,” you mumbled before taking a long sip. Sitting at the kitchen island, you grabbed your laptop and started to look deeper into what you knew.Â
This guy, Chris Coughlin, was no one special it seemed. Went to high school in Metropolis before moving to Gotham to work as a train operator (you heard they got good benefits). The fact that a train operator got his car ruined in an attack felt poetic in some way you couldn’t quite put your finger on.Â
But he seemed clean. His family connections were all in Metropolis, no ties to Gotham criminal ventures. His address seemed to make sense with the amount of money he would be making as an operator, no suspicious penthouses to speak of.Â
This was also a very welcome reminder to search your own name online. If you could find all of this about a stranger, who knew what could be on there about you.Â
But Chris seemed to be a dead end. Onto the next. Â
As you began to start researching the incident which caused the court case, the Joker attack, you paused. The hairs on the back of your neck stood at attention.Â
You could have sworn you heard a creak in the floorboards. Your fingers found their way back to the wine glass, lifting it to your lips for another sip before finishing the cup. Before going to walk towards your front door, your eyes dart around towards the living room. When you were pretty sure you didn’t see anything, you made your way slowly down the hallway to your front door.Â
Once you got close to your coat closet, you opened it to reach for a baseball bat you kept, just for moments like this. You were in Gotham after all. You closed your hand around the handle as you snuck closer to the door, double-checking the locks and the dead bolts.Â
Solid.
You look another moment to look through the peephole in the door.
Empty
Paranoia was starting to set in. The thought that every little creak was something new lurking in the shadows, waiting to snatch you away like that man did in the archives. Maybe it was nothing, maybe it was just in your head. It’s been a long, stressful day; no one would blame you. No one even knew.Â
Deep breaths, you straightened your spine and looked up at your slightly cracking ceiling. Tracing the dark lines with your eyes to try to settle your nerves.Â
Creak
It was a door inside your house. It had to be.Â
Maybe it was drafty?
There was no breeze
Maybe you made it up?
If you kept doubting your senses you’d find yourself in more danger.Â
You settled the bat on your shoulder and started to creep back into your home, looking at each and every door in your house.Â
Coat closet door: ClosedÂ
Bathroom door: Open
Bedroom door: Still cracked open
Maybe you really did make it up.
Or someone opened the closet door in your bedroom.
“This is actually pretty cute, you have the different colored string and everything,” a familiar voice chided from your room.
As you slowly approached the bedroom door, fists clutching the baseball bat. Pushing the door further open with your shoulder, bat ready to swing, you paused when you saw…him. The Red Hood stood looking at the inside of your yawn-covered closet.Â
It felt almost intimate, not just the fact that he was in your room, but the way he was looking inside your closet.Â
Something flared inside your chest, some sick mixture of fear and embarrassment. It was too vulnerable; you were too vulnerable in your own home. You took several steps forward, winding the bat further back before making your swing at him.
He was like lightning; in less than a second, he turned to face you, grabbed the end of the bat, and pulled it from your grip with one hand. Swinging you with the bat’s momentum, his free hand moved forward to shove you onto the bed. The push was strong, but it's obvious he’s held back the majority of his strength.Â
He flips the bat, catching it in his gloved hand with ease. He tilts his helmeted head towards you, a low chuckle rumbling in his chest. “Look at that, you like me. If you didn’t like me, it would have been the kitchen knife. Not the nice set, one of those old ones you keep outside the wooden block.”
As you gained your bearings from being pushed, your eyes widened. He was taunting you. He was telling you he knows what you have in the house. He’s telling you he’s not afraid.Â
You took a deep breath, the air normally full of the sweet aroma of vanilla and florals, now full of the stench of gunpowder and motor oil. It was starting to become all too familiar. As you gathered the courage to say something, anything, he held his hand up to pause you.Â
“Same rules I gave you earlier apply. Don’t find out what happens if you scream.”
His words were quick, cutting. The teasing tone he used earlier erased in an instant. His free hand was hovering at his hip, his holster.Â
“Why did you delete those files, and where did you take the physical copy?”
The world stopped for a moment.Â
Why did I delete them?Â
Did he seriously think that you had something to do with the disappearance of those files? You?
Your body jolted, your hand flying towards your mouth as you stifled a laugh, a real laugh.
“You think that I have the ability to hide files? Aren’t you people supposed to be detectives?”
His head tilted towards you as he walked towards the bed, boots that somehow got into the apartment silently now making heavy thuds with each step.
“Watch the sass before I do something you don’t like… clearly, this struck a nerve with you. Or do you make movie-ready crime webs for every issue you come across?”
He sat on the edge of the bed, close… too close to you. A gloved hand reaching towards your ankle. Almost on instinct, you bucked at him, only for that gloved hand to grab your ankle tighter and yank you closer to him. He dropped your leg to place an arm beside you, caging your body in his.
You could actually see him now, his built physique obvious through the leather jacket he sported. Sweat glistened in the few spots you could see his bare flesh. He was a beast of a man, and he had you pinned.
“Don’t get too excited, or I’ll send you to sleep again. And I won’t be as gentle as last time. You’re gonna tell me everything you know, and you're not gonna pass out on me again.”
He growled, leaning in so the crimson of his mask almost touched your nose. You could almost make out his real voice before it was distorted by the modulator.Â
“All I know is that the file is gone. Both the actual physical file and the digital versions, I just heard about it today, honest, scouts honor, whatever!”
You growled back, but remained unmoving, unsure of what he would do if you tried to resist at this point. You locked your eyes against the impersonal white eyes of the mask, hoping he could tell you were being honest.
“I don’t trust it… it's Gotham, but things like this shouldn't happen, especially-”
You began before he pushed his hand against your mouth. You were getting too familiar with that feeling too.
“Save your oh so righteous bullshit. If you don’t know, fine. Maybe I believe you. But mind your business, or the wrong people will come crawling through your window.”
He stands up from the bed and approached your bedroom window, letting the bat clatter to the floor.Â
“You’re going to look up some more files for me. That's not a request.”
He says coldly and opens the window.
“You wanted to be the little investigator, now you're really in it. You don’t get a choice.”
He starts to exit out your window, almost completely out, before he turns back to you.
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.Â
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.Â
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.Â
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.Â
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.Â
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.Â
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.Â
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?Â
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.Â
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.Â
The voice of a young man startled you out of your daze. Playing Sherlock would have to wait for now.Â
“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.Â
“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.Â
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.Â
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.Â
“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.Â
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.Â
“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.Â
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.Â
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.Â
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.Â
“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.Â
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.Â
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.Â
“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.Â
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.Â
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.Â
“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.
Author's Note: Part twooo baby! I also wanted to note that my depiction of Jason and Red Hood is more heavily inspired by his pre-New 52 anti-hero leaning villain self so he's a little more aggressive and villainous for now but who loves a goody two-shoes? Hope you enjoy and like and reblog if you do :))
{Divider by @b3oo}
In front of you at your desk lay three things: A desktop fifteen years older than it should be with a blank black screen, a bunched-up legal pad paper with a case number that didn’t exist, and your phone face down on the table, hiding a photo of The Red Hood temporarily holding you hostage.Â
This is what happens when you go poking your nose where it doesn’t belong. But technically, it was the job. You were asked about a file, and you went to check on it. You went to check on a file… that computers said didn't exist. Not in public or confidential records. The file that had no indication it existed, other than one scared guy giving you the paperwork from the case. The file that had you helpless in someone’s arms while he threatened you.Â
The worst part was that it wasn’t just anyone. It was The Red Hood. Not the Batman, The Red Hood.Â
4:40, you could start to pack up now, that should be okay. Not that you had much to pack up, just your water bottle and the laptop you brought, the one you always told yourself you’d do more work on. No one really supervised you here; you could just leave, and no one would say a word. But would it be safe to do that?Â
You had been restricted and threatened not even an hour ago. You didn’t watch this guy leave; for all you knew, he could still be in the building. A part of you felt silly thinking that you could be so important as to be targeted by one of the city’s newest vigilantes.Â
Well… you already had been.
Maybe the sillier thought was that this vigilante would target you more than once.
You looked at your now mostly clear desk, pinching the bridge of your nose. This file was not going to stop bugging you. This whole day was destined to play over and over again in your head, with new questions emerging when given enough time to be pondered.Â
Logically, you knew you should drop it. Leave work at work, go home, and forget today had ever happened. But things always haunted you. You knew you couldn’t let it go.Â
You took your trusty stack of sticky notes and started to scribble the little bits of information you did know. You went through the drawers and found a package of unopened push pins. Surely you could find some sort of use for them. You shoved everything into your work bag and hoisted it to your shoulder before booking it out of the office and towards the trolley station.Â
Trying to relax was futile. Heading home already required you to be on high alert, and the events of the day had thrust your mind into overdrive.Â
Every passerby: a potential threat. Who knew what they had in their pockets, who knew what they had in their minds. They could tell you knew something you shouldn’t. They all knew. You didn’t mind your business, and you wanted to keep digging deeper. Curiosity killed the cat, and there was no guarantee of satisfaction bringing you back.Â
There was no breath of fresh air once on the trolley. How could there be with your head on a nonstop swivel? The sick pride of every Gothamite was now too real. It wasn’t just caution keeping you on the lookout; it was real fear. The ride home only took a few minutes, but today it felt like hours.
You practically bolted out of the trolley once it got to your apartment. Gaze swerving behind you as you fumbled with your keys, unlatching the door and barricading yourself inside. Without a second thought, your hands flew up to the locks and bolted all three shut.
Deep breath in, Deep breath out.
You slid off your shoes by the shoe rack, not bothering to put them up on the wood rods. Padding deeper into the apartment, you tossed your bag onto the kitchen counter.Â
You threw your bag and picked out your stolen supplies, bunching them in your hands as you went into your bedroom, picking up a basket of yarn.Â
Clutching the stolen push pins and balls of yarn from knitting attempts long forgotten, you looked around your bedroom for a blank wall. This felt insane. But you had to map out what you knew; it was too much to try and sort mentally.Â
You could try to map it out on the computer, but you recently learned that things could be deleted from even the most encrypted of programs. And someone, at least one person, knew you were on this trail. Writing things down on one sheet of paper could work in theory, but this was the kind of thing that grew. Things could change with a moment’s notice, and nothing was more of an eyesore than eraser smudges.Â
So the classic corkboard and twine method it was. Nothing sticky notes and push pins couldn’t deduce. You sat into your hip as you looked around, the only space blank enough was the bedroom door, right across from the window. And yes, there were curtains, but you didn’t need a nosy neighbor to peek in and decide you were crazy. You felt it, but that was your self-diagnosis.Â
Walking deeper into the room, you sat with the thought of having to look at your psychotic mystery corkboard while trying to sleep. You were already doubting your ability to rest for the evening, and doubted that staring at your findings would do any good in lulling you to sleep. To your left was your closet door, covered in decorations. You reached out and opened the closet door, the inside blank and white.Â
“I guess this will have to be the workspace.” You murmured to yourself, writing down the man’s name, the case number, and all the little facts you knew… which was essentially nothing. You stuck them onto the closet door and dug the pins into them for good measure, security deposit be damned.Â
You placed each sticky note a good distance away from each other (that’s what they did in the movies, right?) and started to tie the yarn to the pins. For a while, it felt more like an art project than an active investigation on your end. But deciding what each color meant was so much fun.Â
Once you had the basic information strung out, you closed the closet door. Now was the time for deeper research. You walked out of your room, leaving the door open just a crack as you passed through into the kitchen, popping open a bottle of wine and pouring a glass for yourself.Â
You lifted the glass and sighed, humming a quiet cheers to yourself.Â
“To the one time I don’t mind my business, to it not biting me in the ass,” you mumbled before taking a long sip. Sitting at the kitchen island, you grabbed your laptop and started to look deeper into what you knew.Â
This guy, Chris Coughlin, was no one special it seemed. Went to high school in Metropolis before moving to Gotham to work as a train operator (you heard they got good benefits). The fact that a train operator got his car ruined in an attack felt poetic in some way you couldn’t quite put your finger on.Â
But he seemed clean. His family connections were all in Metropolis, no ties to Gotham criminal ventures. His address seemed to make sense with the amount of money he would be making as an operator, no suspicious penthouses to speak of.Â
This was also a very welcome reminder to search your own name online. If you could find all of this about a stranger, who knew what could be on there about you.Â
But Chris seemed to be a dead end. Onto the next. Â
As you began to start researching the incident which caused the court case, the Joker attack, you paused. The hairs on the back of your neck stood at attention.Â
You could have sworn you heard a creak in the floorboards. Your fingers found their way back to the wine glass, lifting it to your lips for another sip before finishing the cup. Before going to walk towards your front door, your eyes dart around towards the living room. When you were pretty sure you didn’t see anything, you made your way slowly down the hallway to your front door.Â
Once you got close to your coat closet, you opened it to reach for a baseball bat you kept, just for moments like this. You were in Gotham after all. You closed your hand around the handle as you snuck closer to the door, double-checking the locks and the dead bolts.Â
Solid.
You look another moment to look through the peephole in the door.
Empty
Paranoia was starting to set in. The thought that every little creak was something new lurking in the shadows, waiting to snatch you away like that man did in the archives. Maybe it was nothing, maybe it was just in your head. It’s been a long, stressful day; no one would blame you. No one even knew.Â
Deep breaths, you straightened your spine and looked up at your slightly cracking ceiling. Tracing the dark lines with your eyes to try to settle your nerves.Â
Creak
It was a door inside your house. It had to be.Â
Maybe it was drafty?
There was no breeze
Maybe you made it up?
If you kept doubting your senses you’d find yourself in more danger.Â
You settled the bat on your shoulder and started to creep back into your home, looking at each and every door in your house.Â
Coat closet door: ClosedÂ
Bathroom door: Open
Bedroom door: Still cracked open
Maybe you really did make it up.
Or someone opened the closet door in your bedroom.
“This is actually pretty cute, you have the different colored string and everything,” a familiar voice chided from your room.
As you slowly approached the bedroom door, fists clutching the baseball bat. Pushing the door further open with your shoulder, bat ready to swing, you paused when you saw…him. The Red Hood stood looking at the inside of your yawn-covered closet.Â
It felt almost intimate, not just the fact that he was in your room, but the way he was looking inside your closet.Â
Something flared inside your chest, some sick mixture of fear and embarrassment. It was too vulnerable; you were too vulnerable in your own home. You took several steps forward, winding the bat further back before making your swing at him.
He was like lightning; in less than a second, he turned to face you, grabbed the end of the bat, and pulled it from your grip with one hand. Swinging you with the bat’s momentum, his free hand moved forward to shove you onto the bed. The push was strong, but it's obvious he’s held back the majority of his strength.Â
He flips the bat, catching it in his gloved hand with ease. He tilts his helmeted head towards you, a low chuckle rumbling in his chest. “Look at that, you like me. If you didn’t like me, it would have been the kitchen knife. Not the nice set, one of those old ones you keep outside the wooden block.”
As you gained your bearings from being pushed, your eyes widened. He was taunting you. He was telling you he knows what you have in the house. He’s telling you he’s not afraid.Â
You took a deep breath, the air normally full of the sweet aroma of vanilla and florals, now full of the stench of gunpowder and motor oil. It was starting to become all too familiar. As you gathered the courage to say something, anything, he held his hand up to pause you.Â
“Same rules I gave you earlier apply. Don’t find out what happens if you scream.”
His words were quick, cutting. The teasing tone he used earlier erased in an instant. His free hand was hovering at his hip, his holster.Â
“Why did you delete those files, and where did you take the physical copy?”
The world stopped for a moment.Â
Why did I delete them?Â
Did he seriously think that you had something to do with the disappearance of those files? You?
Your body jolted, your hand flying towards your mouth as you stifled a laugh, a real laugh.
“You think that I have the ability to hide files? Aren’t you people supposed to be detectives?”
His head tilted towards you as he walked towards the bed, boots that somehow got into the apartment silently now making heavy thuds with each step.
“Watch the sass before I do something you don’t like… clearly, this struck a nerve with you. Or do you make movie-ready crime webs for every issue you come across?”
He sat on the edge of the bed, close… too close to you. A gloved hand reaching towards your ankle. Almost on instinct, you bucked at him, only for that gloved hand to grab your ankle tighter and yank you closer to him. He dropped your leg to place an arm beside you, caging your body in his.
You could actually see him now, his built physique obvious through the leather jacket he sported. Sweat glistened in the few spots you could see his bare flesh. He was a beast of a man, and he had you pinned.
“Don’t get too excited, or I’ll send you to sleep again. And I won’t be as gentle as last time. You’re gonna tell me everything you know, and you're not gonna pass out on me again.”
He growled, leaning in so the crimson of his mask almost touched your nose. You could almost make out his real voice before it was distorted by the modulator.Â
“All I know is that the file is gone. Both the actual physical file and the digital versions, I just heard about it today, honest, scouts honor, whatever!”
You growled back, but remained unmoving, unsure of what he would do if you tried to resist at this point. You locked your eyes against the impersonal white eyes of the mask, hoping he could tell you were being honest.
“I don’t trust it… it's Gotham, but things like this shouldn't happen, especially-”
You began before he pushed his hand against your mouth. You were getting too familiar with that feeling too.
“Save your oh so righteous bullshit. If you don’t know, fine. Maybe I believe you. But mind your business, or the wrong people will come crawling through your window.”
He stands up from the bed and approached your bedroom window, letting the bat clatter to the floor.Â
“You’re going to look up some more files for me. That's not a request.”
He says coldly and opens the window.
“You wanted to be the little investigator, now you're really in it. You don’t get a choice.”
He starts to exit out your window, almost completely out, before he turns back to you.
Walked into the Comic book store today and was gawking at the Absolute Robin Variant covers in person only to be shot in the heart at the fact that Steph’s pile was the least sold
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.Â
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.Â
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.Â
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.Â
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.Â
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.Â
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.Â
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?Â
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.Â
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.Â
The voice of a young man startled you out of your daze. Playing Sherlock would have to wait for now.Â
“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.Â
“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.Â
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.Â
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.Â
“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.Â
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.Â
“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.Â
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.Â
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.Â
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.Â
“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.Â
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.Â
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.Â
“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.Â
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.Â
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.Â
“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.
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.Â
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.Â
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.Â
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.Â
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.Â
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.Â
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.Â
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?Â
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.Â
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.Â
The voice of a young man startled you out of your daze. Playing Sherlock would have to wait for now.Â
“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.Â
“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.Â
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.Â
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.Â
“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.Â
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.Â
“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.Â
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.Â
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.Â
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.Â
“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.Â
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.Â
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.Â
“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.Â
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.Â
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.Â
“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.
