#gthambat

[rehiraeth]

      lost  prompt  in  the  depths  of  hell :        “ can  i  ask   ...   what  happened  ? ”        //        @gthambat​       ...

“  what’s  there  to  say  really ,  ”        [  flash  of  white :        and  she’s  right  back  in  perryopolis        IN  THAT  CAVE - LIKE  BASEMENT ,        panic  and  adrenaline  settling  in .  ]        clarice  is  making  eye  contact  with  a  spot  on  the  floor ,        instead  of  looking  at  bruce .        one  hand  playing  with  her  ‘ add - a - bead ’  necklace ,        which  the  other  tugs  at  a  small  piece  of  fabric  on  an  the  arm  chair .        another  flash  of  white ,     like  the  flash  from  a  nikon  d5     ——     CLICK ,     RECHARGE ,     CLICK  !        her  face  everywhere ,        buffalo  bill  silenced  !         fbi  agent  clarice  starling ,        reigns  as  hero  and  catherine  martin’s  harrowing  story  on  page  three .        another  bulb  of  light ,        and  she  cautiously  searching  rooms  for  the  perp .        which  a  dog  barks  and  a  young  woman  scream  out :        ‘ get  me  out  of  here  you  bitch  ! ’        starling  swallows  hard ,        the  stench  of  decay  eminating  from  one  of  the  rooms .        she  can’t  remember  much  of  what  happened  in  that  basement .        she  can’t  tell  you  how  it  all  went  down  verbatim .        mostly  because  her  memory  cut  that  part  out  in  her  life .     her  senses  however ,        THEY  REMEMBER .        fragments  of  that  time  flash  in  and  out  as  she  was  going  out  for  a  run .        just  because  she  was  out  working ,        doesn’t  mean  she  should  give  up  her  daily  routine .

it  seems  the  tattler  had  been  following  her  investigation        (   and  in  all  honesty ,        following  her  as  well .  )        clarice  is  used  to  it ,        used  to  the  shouting  of  her  name  at  random  times  of  the  day .        THE  INVASION  OF  PRIVACY .        the  reckless  way  journalists  and  self - proclaimed  journalists  sneak  their  way  to  get  a good  photograph .        they  even  followed  her  all  the  way  to  gotham ,        one  in  particular    ——    RAMSEY  SAINT - JOHN        [  right ,        clever  name   ...  ]        had  a  thing  for  her .        like  many  men  in  her  life ,        he  seeks  to  ruin  her  reputation .        he  thought  he  could  get  some  pictures  of  her  just  routining ,        the  flashes  from  his  camera  practically  blinding  her  to  a  point  she  tripped  over  something  and  hurt  her  knee .        well   ...        she  couldn’t  very  well  let  him  get  away  with  that .        so  she  smashed  his  camera  on  the  ground ,        shattering  it .        CLARICE  WAS  QUITE  PLEASED  WITH  HERSELF  THEN .        even  now ,        though  there’s  a  hint  of  reservation  brewing  inside  of  her .        “   guy  tripped  me ,        i  smashed  his  camera   ...        simple  as  that  really .   ”

[rehiraeth]

      lost  prompt  in  the  depths  of  hell :        “ i   ...   i’ve  hurt  people ,   before .   i  didn’t  mean  to .   but  i  did .   i  lost  control ,   and   ...   i  can’t  let  that  happen  again . ”        //        @gthambat​        ...

she  finds  that  she’s  easy  to  talk  to .        perhaps  people  think  she  won’t  judge  them        (  in  case  they’ve  done  something  that  they  should  be  judged  for .  )        or  maybe ,        SHE  HAS  ONE  OF  THOSE  FACES .        a  kind  face    ——    one  that  says :        c’mon  now ,        you  can  tell  me  anything .        better  than  having  a  face  stuck  in  a  scowl  all  the  time .        clarice  has  a  pre - disposition  for  empathy .        a  way  of  connecting  with  someone   ...        whether  they’re  living  or  not .        it’s  one  of  those  darn  feminine  qualities  that  people  look  down  on .        emotions  gather  up  the  worst  in  people ,        so  why  would  she  be  the  proverbial  emotional  sponge  ?        [  is  it  easier  to  listen  to  the  problems  of  others ,        and  feel  what  they  feel  ?        or  is  it  easy  to  listen  to  the  dead  ?  ]        "   well   ...        you  wouldn’t  be  the  first  one .        we  all  loose  control  sometimes  mr.  wayne .        no  matter  how  much  we  think  we’re  in  control .   ”        clarice’s  voice  is  husky ,        like  warm  whiskey  near  an  open  fire .        she  wonders  then ,        for  a  split  second  if  she  was  ever  in  control  herself .        lately  she  hasn’t  really  felt  that  much  in  control .        in  fact ,        CLARICE  FEELS  A  LITTLE  UNDONE .

the  fractions  of  starling’s  mind  is  held  together  but  will  and  determination        (  and  maybe  a  little  bit  of  gorilla  glue .  )        the  recent  case  which  has  sent  her  to  gotham  city   ——   a  city  that  is  no  stranger  to  crime  and  violence .        the  cityscape  is  a  palate  of  noir ,        browns  and  red .        it  only  seems  fitting  that  her  mind  replicates  the  mood  with  the  aesthetic .        “   i  guess  that’s  what  people  fear  the  most  right  ?        not  just  hurtin’  people ,        but  loosing  control .        we  feel  comfortable  most  when  we  know  what  we  can  control .   ”        head  tilts  off  to  one  side ,        “   human’s  are  a  violent  breed  after  all .   ”

[archiveshelassos2]

@gthambat​ said: ❝  i can’t move on. ❞

❛  Then maybe you don’t move on. ❜ Advice arises from her voice that required a moment to consider beforehand. For the most part, Diana chooses her words carefully before departing them. Except in those fiery moments of heated anger or irritation. This is one of those more common cases where Diana chews them, tastes them, before saying them. He’s deserving of that much. And the advice, if it can be called that, is genuine, honest. Just like she is. ❛ Maybe we put too much emphasis on moving on, ❜ she continues, truly mulling over the thought. It places such undue pressure on us all, does it not? The need to move on. As though the past can be forgotten as long as put we our minds to it. For Diana, the past, the history of it, composes so much of who she is. Indeed, who would she be if not still the princess of Themyscira? Her heritage of legacy is woven into her marrow, just like his heritage of anguish is woven into his. There’s no departing with the past, perhaps then it’s better to embrace the faulty shape of it instead. 

❛ But maybe what you can do, what we both can do, is move forward. ❜ She looks to the horizon then. Even in Gotham, the sun still rises every morning. Gotham, which is almost certainly this world’s version of Hell. Surely, there’s optimism to be found in this, surely there’s hope. It won’t be easy, she almost says. But then she looks back at him and thinks that she can offer him one better than that. A promise of sorts.  ❛ I won’t let you fall. ❜

[archiveshelassos]

DEATH IS A STINK in this city. Diana smells rotting flesh, even when the skin is attached to a living body. It seems like everyone in Gotham is living on borrowed time. On time that is set to implode at any given moment. Perhaps, then, it makes sense that she’s been thinking of her own demise lately. Nothing lasts forever, they say. But Diana hasn’t found that to be strictly true. Pain, longing, love, even hope. Those things can last. Do last. Those things can be forever. But that doesn’t mean she will be. When you’re a warrior, even of the Amazon variety, you’re always one opponent away from your end. All it takes is a second, less than a moment. A second when you’re not the cleverest. A second when you’re not the strongest. Not even Diana is immune to such a slip up. 

❛ Would you come to my funeral? ❜ The question is blunt, sudden, if you don’t know the inner workings of Diana’s mind. Which Bruce really doesn’t. She’s staring straight ahead. It’s not fear soiling her voice, but some variety of sorrow rather. Who would be left to mourn her? All her friends, her lovers, her family, either separated by death or an entire world. There would be no one to fill the pews if she died. No one who would know to cover her eyes with coins for the ferryman to collect. No one at all. But maybe him. Maybe he could. 

@gthambat​ , random line generator.​

[brutlist-archive]

     "     𝐘𝐨𝐮 𝐝𝐢𝐝 𝐚 𝐛𝐚𝐝 𝐭𝐡𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐟𝐨𝐫 𝐚 𝐠𝐨𝐨𝐝 𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐬𝐨𝐧 .     "

@gthambat​​ // asked “💬”

[rehiraeth]

water  leaks  slowly  out  of  a  faucet  in  the  kitchen .        the  bulb  of   a  camera  flashes  close  by ,        clarice  doesn’t  flinch .        vicap  and  other  agents  speak  among  themselves  while  the  rest  of  them        (   INCLUDING  HERSELF   )        stare  at  the  remains  of  a  new  victim .        the  level  of  detail  that  went  into  this  was  quite  impressive   ...        well ,        as  least  she  believes  so .        there  should  be  blood  splatter  everywhere ,        and  fingerprints  or  any  trace  of  the  killer .        however  the  crime  scene  was  pristine .        almost  like  the  killer  was  an  expert  cleaner  or  knew  exactly  how  to  remove  themselves .        green  eyes  blink  as  soon  as  a  dark  figure  comes  into  view  of  her  peripheral .        “   thought  you’d  be  here  sooner ,   ”        starling  doesn’t  need  to  guess  who  it  was ,        because  all  she  saw  was  a  black  shadow  looming  over  the  decaying  body .        it  takes  another  moment  in  order  for  her  to  fully  look  at  him  head  on .   

A  MOMENT  OF  OBSERVATION ,        as  she  stands  in  silence .        the  batman   ——   the  dark  knight .        “   she’s  been  dead  for  about  three  days ,        and  that’s  about  all  we  know  for  now .   ”        clarice  then  holds  out  an  evidence  bag   ...        small .        [  containing  black  roses  ]        “   these  were  inserted  into  the  mouth  of  the  victim ,        almost  like  they  were  booming  out  from  the  body .   ”

starter  call ,       ...       @gthambat​                                                                            (   int.   batman .   ) 

[archiveshelassos]

THOSE HANDS OF HIS are brutal creatures. His fingers are curled into malice-consumed fists which strike and strike against rupturing flesh. The eery sound of bones cracking are enough to stiffen Diana’s posture. Atop her perch on a city rooftop, she flinches every time bone meets bone. On her tongue does she taste life slipping away. Indeed, it has a taste, a sound, a smell. If the woman of wonder fails to intervene, the Bat will continue to hand out this misguided form of justice. No choice does Diana have than to grasp for the lasso at her hip, swinging the Golden Perfect into the crisp Gotham air. She glides to the pavement as the lasso spirals around the brute’s wrist. With her guidance, the gilded instrument guides him backwards, effectively ceasing his grasp on the man he has deemed a criminal. On the man who would seemingly face his demise at the discretion of one costumed man. 

❛ Bat of Gotham. No more. ❜ The conviction in her voice could sway mountains to move. Why, then, is she guessing the mountains are more obliging than The Bat.man? 

@gthambat​ , sc.