#GENUINE MISTAKE GUYS TT thanks for pointing it out!!

[mackerelbones]

welp barbie meme is ded but dusting this old doodle off for posting 🚓

[fordarkisthesuede]

The Tolls of Justice - Chapter 1

Thank you for all your kind words so far!!! （*’∀’人）♥ I'm slowly reading that nice pile of new TT works you all made! ♥♥♥ 

(And I’m sorry for the delay,

Important Spoiler Tags:  more talk of dead bodies, blood mention, mental illness

{Prologue} {Next Chapter}

Read on AO3 or continue below:

[Chapter 1:  A Different Ceiling]

John Doe stared wide-eyed up at the whitewashed ceiling, feeling his breath catch in his chest and release too fast. He could practically hear his heart thudding in his ears like the world’s worst wake-up call.

Where am I? He asked himself.

He turned his head as he tried to breathe slowly. Dull light streamed in through the thin chicken-wire over the window - a standard of mornings in Gotham. There was flat blue paint on the walls, a familiar photograph sitting on a nightstand, a clock (oh, it was 7:20, that was helpful) and a phone there that he wasn’t technically supposed to have.

He snatched the phone off the surface and swiped up, barely paying attention to the illuminated rollercoaster that was his lock-screen. A selfie of himself and Bruce Wayne greeted him, only partially obscured by a couple of icons. He’d taken the picture three days ago, during their last visit; he could see the phone’s little timestamp in the corner, underneath the clock. He took a deep breath and focused on Bruce’s face.

Bruce had worn that really good cologne that day. He could smell it lingering on his own shirt for hours afterward, bringing to mind memories of his short stay at Bruce’s house.

He felt his panic start ebbing away. He wasn’t in Arkham Asylum anymore. He wasn’t in the Old Five Points, either, or the abandoned Funhouse, or Ace Chemicals. He wasn’t dreaming or being delusional or…

John pinched himself and winced slightly at the sharp sting it made in his wrist. Nope, he wasn’t under any kind of drug-based hallucination, either. Just like the day before that, and the week before that, and the fortnight before that.

But his subconscious apparently hadn’t caught up with reality just yet. He kept dreaming of everything else. Everything that could have gone wrong, or everything that did go wrong, but amplified by twenty.

Things should be different now. They were different now. Bruce was fine. John was….well, here.

The halfway house he was in was one of the better ones in the city. It wasn’t the best, of course, considering John’s past...difficulties, but it was better than where he’d ended up last time. There weren’t any bars on his window, his room actually had some color in it that wasn’t just a stain, and the only rat he’d seen so far was outside of the building.

His thumb hovered over the messenger icon on the screen, and he looked at the little digital clock in the corner. Was it too early? Bruce had been on patrol, and he’d already bugged him after one nightmare.

But it was a different one. He’d only dived over the railing towards that bubbling vat of chemical waste before. He’d had that dream before, always feeling like he’d fallen onto his back on the mattress afterward; he was almost used to that one.

This time he’d been covered in blood. He could only see the Funhouse floor, the countless bodies there, forming a grotesque ring around him, staring at him with unblinking dull expressions...

John rubbed his forehead. He really didn’t want to think about it anymore. He wanted a distraction and comfort and Bruce’s soothing voice in his ear.

His phone buzzed in his hand, and the first line from Bruce’s text dropped down from the top of the screen.

John hit it like lightning and let his brain simulate Bruce’s voice.

I’m close by. Can I come see you before work?

Bruce was heaven-sent, surely. A gift from a god of some sort. An absolute treasure John didn’t deserve to even look at.

He hovered over the keyboard. Should he wait a minute? Should he just say yes with all the exclamation points he felt in his heart?

No, no - Bruce might want to see him to get comfort of his own. Which meant he needed to loosen up a little.

Ha ha, I knew you couldn’t resist me ;)

John waited a moment, his brain buzzing that maybe it wasn’t the best idea to joke with a man that might have stayed up all night again… Maybe he should amend it with a ‘j/k’?

What can I say, your raw animal magnetism has a tendency draws in bats.

John laughed to himself.               

Ha ha ha! I bet I can amp up the magnetic power to get you here *faster*!

No need. I’ll be there in 5 mins.

…you’re that close already?

How’d you know I’d say yes?

I had a feeling you would.

Plus this is important.

Important. So, a nine-out-of-ten chance it was about Bruce’s stakeout last night. John pushed aside the budding worry that something had gone horribly wrong - Bruce was talking to him. If he wasn’t fine (or at least Bruce’s definition of it, which was ‘alive and secretly hurting somehow’), he wouldn’t be speaking to him.

Unless someone had found out about his secret identity, knocked him out (or worse), stole his phone, discovered where John was staying, and was coming to kill him and taunting him about it by masquerading as Bruce...

...but that was a preeetty low chance.

Ok. Drive carefully, there’s a bunch of lunatics out there.

And I would know! Ha ha ha!!

I’m always careful.

I’ll see you soon.

Ten minutes, five minutes - hell, John could be ready to see Bruce in one minute. He threw on the closest things from the drawer, smoothed his hair back, and paced over the tiles a little, darting his eyes out the window towards the mediocre parking lot. It was funny how different it looked compared to Arkham. He still sometimes felt like he’d wound up in a different wing of it rather than a whole new place...

He blinked, remembering that St. Dymphna New Life Home had a somewhat different set of rules and that he could leave his room. And unlike Arkham, he didn’t have to ask or do someone a favor or play innocent. (Most of the time, anyway…)

He was already out in the hall, feeling like he should rush even though he knew he didn’t have to, passing other rooms, other snoozing patrons, turning a corner, and smacking right into Mickey.

Mickey Williamson had a serious case of ‘resting bitch face’. Well, that coupled with paranoia and aggressive issues.

“You trying to start somethin’, clown?” Mickey grunted, staring down at John.

From anyone else, it would’ve been a threat, but John had helped Batman take down Bane; this guy was a limp noodle in comparison. Still, picking a fight - even a verbal one - wasn’t a good idea. Neither was shrugging it off. “Only part one of my plan to brighten your day,” he joked. “I know you don’t like loud noises. How else am I going to get your attention?”

Mickey gave a short hmph, clearly satisfied. “...what’s the plan?”

He definitely wouldn’t buy that it was a secret. “A joke! Why are lawyers buried ten feet underground?”

Mickey looked up at the ceiling for a brief moment. It was hard to tell if he was rolling his eyes or thinking about it. “Okay, why?”

“Because deep down, they’re not that bad!”

Mickey gave a short, boisterous laugh that was definitely genuine-sounding, despite the smile slipping off his face shortly after. “Okay, that was much better than the one about the rotisserie chicken you told Chuck yesterday.”

“Yeah, I guess when there’s more than one meat that cooks like that it kinda takes away the punch…”

He crossed his arms. “So what’s part two of ‘plan’ of yours?”

“What, and ruin the mild surprise? Mickey, how long have we known each other?”

“Four weeks.”

“Exactly! And have I ever done you wrong in all that time?”

His jaw shifted slightly. “That green sauce you told me to use the other day made everything too spicy.”

“Okay, honest mistake on my part, I didn’t think you’d use that much… But that aside?”

“...no,” he admitted with a slight shrug.

“Mm-hm! So trust me - it’ll put a smile on your face!” John emphasized with a click of his fingers towards his bulky neighbor and a grin of his own as he slunk away. “Probably,” he muttered to himself, completely unsure of what he would do next. Mickey might not have been as scary as Bane, but John was constantly trying to be on his best behavior, so getting on Mickey’s good side - along with everyone else’s - was for the best.

John glanced briefly the camera in the corner of the open stairwell, seeing it still pointed down the hall. He knew from the angle and shape of the lens that the corner of the stairs was a safe place to talk if Bruce didn’t want his lips recorded.

The thought made him giggle a little to himself. It took two flights of stairs to get down to the welcome area, where’d he’d no doubt have to wait as Bruce signed more pointless pieces of paper and -

And there he was. Bruce Wayne, standing there, signing away another visitor’s form and chatting up the easily-charmed nurse for the sake of his public image.

He was radiant, even under the fluorescent lights. A gorgeous demigod - no, a hero, a warrior of the highest class, out to mingle amongst the common criminals without his armor. John felt like the atmosphere had shifted and grown warm, and there was something about the way Bruce’s flirtatious smile wasn’t reaching his eyes that made John’s stomach feel all light.

The real smiles were all his. His, his, his.

He knew he had to wait until Bruce passed through the little security check, but for what felt like for the hundredth time he just wanted to walk over it and ignore everything that stood in the way of them. His fingers itched to touch Bruce, grab his hand, his wrist, anything, and he couldn’t. He shoved his hands in his pockets and rocked on his heels, waiting, waiting, and smiling wider as Bruce caught his eye.

It didn’t matter how small the little smile back on Bruce’s face was, it was genuine. It made John chuckle:  that silly girl at the front desk thought she had half a chance with Bruce? Ha!

John barely heard the guard talking about how they should go to the visiting room a-s-a-p. He knew the rules - visits were a maximum of sixty minutes, they had to be conducted in the visiting room unless a doctor signed off otherwise, and if a therapy session, work, or a meeting with the social worker was scheduled John would have to go to that no matter what.

Blah, blah, blah. There was no rule on how long they could take to walk to the visiting room. And John was willing to bend and break rules into tiny pieces for Bruce any day.

“Hey, John.”

“Hey, Bruce,” he echoed back in the same tone, grinning just a little wider. “You’re earlier than I thought you’d be.”

“I drive fast,” Bruce shrugged with a small smirk. They left the guard to pretend he wasn’t listening or watching them leave in his peripheral vision. “You doing okay?”

“Is our new mayor crooked?”

“...possibly?” Bruce answered tentatively.

“Exactly!” John joked.

Bruce wasn’t keeping his eyes focused on the stairs. Cautious concern worked its way onto his face, which John felt simultaneously annoyed and relieved at it. It was amazing having him for support - every doctor he’d ever had stressed how important a good support system was - but sometimes it made John feel like he was being babied. “I’m not sure how to take that.”

“Take it any way you want! Doesn’t change the fact that I always feel better when you’re here.”

Bruce frowned slightly. “Is something wrong?”

John rolled his eyes. Bruce was toeing the line of babying. Why could he not take a good dark joke? “No, Bruce. I’m not being mistreated, I can take care of myself, and I’ve taken my meddies like a good boy.”

Bruce’s frown deepened, and he got that stern look that made John’s brain give a little burst of adrenaline. His more dominant side always made John want to challenge him...and swoon, usually at the same time. Bruce took hold of his arm, his grip firm but not entirely threatening, and pulled him discreetly underneath the camera so they wouldn’t be seen; both stood side-by-side with their backs against the wall, Bruce’s grip on his arm loosening. “You’ve texted me in the middle of the night several times this week. I know you’re not sleeping well.” His too-blue eyes searched him. “I won’t say anything if you’re not okay, John. I just want to know what’s wrong.”

John thought briefly about retorting with ‘you’, but that was so incredibly untrue that John couldn’t even try to lie with that sorry excuse. He couldn’t say he was ‘fine’, either, despite the habitual urge to. He wasn’t, Bruce knew it, and they did make that promise to be honest with each other...

“It’s just...you know, my brain, being...rude to me.” He knew that wasn’t a good enough explanation, but Bruce was giving his ‘I’m taking you seriously’ face. John always liked that expression. He didn’t see it enough on people. “I just keep having, you know,” John fumbled, rubbing the back of his neck to try and dispel some of the awkwardness, “bad dreams. I mean straight-up barbaric ones, Bruce,” he felt his lip curl in a sneer at himself, “My brain compacts all my garbage memories and twists it into something worse.”

Bruce took hold of John’s hand so smoothly it actually took him by surprise. John stared at him, wondering if he’d said something wrong. He should explain, shouldn’t he?

“I think… I’m still adjusting. Like, I know you’re here, and I’m here, but...it’s like my brain secretly doesn’t like the change and is punishing me for it,” John continued, giving a short, nervous giggle, “Which is ridiculous, because this is more than I could’ve hoped for in a lifetime!”

“Have you mentioned this to Dr. Song?”

“Umm…sort of?” John gestured with his free hand. “Sans graphic details, but, uh, yeah.”

“Is it why you’ve been texting me so late? You wake up from them?”

He didn’t quiiite want to put it like that. He didn’t want to keep thinking of those stupid dreams. “That, and I miss you,” John answered with a sly smile. Their fingers were entwined - he stroked the Bruce’s thumb with his own, feeling the old tiny scar there, slightly smoother than the rest of his warm hand.

The reaction was more of what he wanted to see right then - Bruce had that sweet longing look in his eye.

“I’m literally counting down the days, Bruce,” John purred, feeling much more confident as Bruce’s face flushed a delicate shade of pink. “I’d do anything just to kiss you right now.”

“We shouldn’t,” Bruce replied, looking like he was trying to talk himself out of doing just that.

“That’s not what you said last time,” John teased quietly with a grin, turning to lean his shoulder against the wall. The delicious aromas of expensive cologne and hair conditioner clung to Bruce’s collar, bringing to mind the more sordid details of that last visit. “In fact, I remember you pinning me to the wall and kissing me until you couldn’t breathe.” He’d give anything (any mild luxury, a whole week of visits, all the good night’s sleeps he had left) just have a room alone with him for a while. “I’ve had a hard time thinking about anything else since then.”

He could almost see the struggle between reason and desire in Bruce’s mind. He tried to hide his little shudder as John leaned in a little more; oh yes, John had him right where he wanted him. Bruce might as well have licked his lips.

“Or do you want me to do the pinning this time?” 

John considered just pulling him forward and kissing him anyway, but that would ruin their little game. He liked seeing how far he could push Bruce. He watched Bruce’s baby-blues flicker slightly between John’s eyes.

The admonishment in his voice was gentle, like the squeeze he gave John's hand. “We really shouldn’t.”

“Alll-riiight,” John said with a playful pout, “If you say so, Bruce.” He pulled away and crossed his arms, wanting something else to do with his freshly-warmed hands. “You got spooked when that door opened last time, huh?”

“It’s more like ‘I don’t want people to think you got out because of my influence’,” he retorted quietly with a slight smile.

“Well, they’re not wrong, Bruce. I wouldn’t be in here without you,” John pointed out with a shrug in the general direction of their surroundings. “But I get it. So, if you’re not here for a good ol’ round of canoodling, it must be work-related, huh?”

He looked slightly embarrassed. “I actually just wanted to see you.”

John felt his heart skip that middle beat. “Oh! I mean, when you said ‘important’, I thought… Oh, geez,” he blustered, tapping his thighs with his fingers, “You sure know how to make a guy feel special.” He brought his hands together, looking up at Bruce with his best puppy-eyed expression. “But you’ll tell me how last night went anyway, right?”

Bruce had that cute little smile perking on the corner of his mouth. “Of course.” The smile slipped away just as soon as it appeared. “Not well. The shipment coming in was sabotaged before it came into port; I found all the crew dead.”

“Uugh,” John grunted, putting his hands in his pockets. “Did you at least get B.M.’s guys?”

“No. Their van combusted not long after I boarded the ship. G.C.P.D. found three dead, the last one’s presumed missing. We think it’s a rival gang - C.S.I. was still examining the wreckage when I left.”

“Sounds like a rough night.”

“It was. I barely got a power nap in before-”

“John?”

He glanced down the stairs, towards the voice - Devi, one of the few women staying there. She’d been there for three months already, coming out of her second stay at the county clinic.

“What’re you doin’? We got work in five minutes.”

“...we do?”

“Yeah, it’s Tuesday, man. You comin’ or what?”

He didn’t want to, but he should. “If I don’t make it down there, hijack the bus to wait for me,” he joked.

Her face lit up. “Hey, an upside:  I can finally get one of Peralta’s Boston cremes in you.”

John grinned and gave a dramatic gasp. “Devi, you scoundrel, that’s dirty!”

“You’re the one makin’ it dirty, man!” Devi laughed, “I better see you down here in five, or I’m tellin’ the warden,” she teased as she turned the corner, her ponytail of tiny braids shifting as she walked.

Bruce had that calculating look. “I’m sorry, John, I didn’t know you had work today, either.”

“That’s okay, Bruce, I forgot entirely!”

Bruce looked far away, like he was thinking through something.

“Um, you okay?”

“...she didn’t question us standing here.” Bruce turned his gaze to him again. “Do you think she knows something?”

“Devi? Nahhh, she’s on the level.” Weeell… “Our level, I mean. Even if she ‘knows something’, she’s no rat.” Bruce still looked concerned, the big worry-wart. “Look, it’s fine - I’ll go get on the bus with the other crazies, go sit in a back-room sewing den where no one sees me for half the day, and text you if she tries to blackmail me so your other half can pay her a visit.”

Bruce’s little smile returned, making John want to just reach out and caress him like the treasure he was. “You don’t need an excuse to text me, John. You can do that whenever you want.” The sincerity made John’s stomach twist a little. “Just be careful. And have a good day at work.”

John wondered if everyone else in a relationship felt a little burst of joy at the simple well-wishing phrase. “Right back at ya, Brucie,” he said, nudging Bruce’s shoulder with his fist. He leaned in a little, lowering his voice just so Bruce could hear. “You know what I’ll do if anyone hurts you.”

Just as soon as Bruce got that complex look of desire-in-denial and mild alarm that John had wanted to see, John tossed him a wink and whirled around, leaving him to puzzle it out as he descended the stairs.

He grinned to himself, feeling much more relaxed and in-control than before. “Don’t stay too long, Bruce, or you’ll start thinking you live here!”

*~*~*~*~*

The Eastern harbor was one of the more seedy places in Gotham. Batman often fenced the place as part of his patrol, and John could name every mob that made a hit on the infamous 13th Street.

So naturally, it was one of the few sections of the city that would think of employing former Arkham inmates. It was a twenty-minute bus ride every morning to get to their respective jobs. Most of the residents in St. Dymphna were leased out to the laundromat or the incorrectly-named Lucky Hotel down the street. Occasionally one would go to the weird fish market to work in the back, gutting and descaling whatever was brought in. John was so far the only one to be placed in the Stitched Up Alterations joint next to the laundromat.

The bus was discreet, looking more like a white van with the city logo than a repurposed short school bus. It made John long for the flair of Lil’ Puddin’; it might have just been a stolen car he’d had repainted, but at least you knew who was coming.  

He gave a little wave to Devi as he passed her heading towards the laundromat, leisurely making his way to the back alley around the place. He passed the always-smelly dumpster and the brick wall covered with graffiti - grinning slightly at the ‘fuck the agency’ tag someone had made with a decent imitation of his clown-smiley-face - and entered through the back door.

It was a small space, crowded with giant spools of various fabrics in all kinds of colors and patterns. There was a little group of headless dress forms in a few different sizes that he had recently cleaned the dust off of, one of which had what might be a burnt-orange off-shoulder dress pinned to it, likely for prom. Or was it homecoming? John never really knew which was which, but summer was only a couple of weeks away, which meant it was likely for whatever the last dance of the year was, and it was definitely new.

Though the color really wasn’t in season. It put him in mind of the fall, of the range of makeup he’d been eying in his few hours of freedom in Gotham half a year ago... He touched it, feeling the synthetic satin under his fingertips. It hadn’t been there yesterday, but it was real.

He passed the shelf of jars filled with colorful buttons, and the rolls upon rolls of fabric, taking a moment to run his hand over the beautiful purple broadcloth he’d half-hidden in a stack, and checked his lonely workstation. A pile of pieces to work on, all folded and tagged, sat at the table by the sewing machine.

He flicked through the pile. Boring, mildly interesting tack job, ooh nice pattern, boring, and

S.Townsend. Beautiful calligraphy, almost like it was from someone with years of practicing their signature. (John would know – he had roughly eight years of practice and he knew his wasn’t anywhere near that pretty.)

“Why does that name sound familiar…?”

A quick search turned up a few results, but nothing recent stood out… There were too many famous S.’s with Townend, apparently – a musician, some newscaster miles away, a convicted murderer ten years ago, some yacht owner…

“Ah-haaa.” One of Gotham’s one-percenters. Sonja Townsend, the chairwoman of Wayne Enterprises. “Why would a member of Bruce’s round-table go here?”

The ticket was recent, made yesterday at closing and wanted in half an hour. An easy enough job - just adding a ticket pocket to a very new purchase. The tag for the jacket was still attached to the sleeve - on sale for fifty bucks, marked down from two-hundred.

“A big-wig who doesn’t always buy big, huh?”

That was...definitely strange. Suspicious, even, considering Wayne Enterprise executives made so much it was a surprise they didn’t try to declare themselves kings.

He unbuttoned it and checked the lining - there was a ticket pocket already there.  It was certainly a man’s jacket, just...very small. And they didn’t want it taken in or shrunk?

Hmm.

He took the seam-ripper and tore through the thin stitches holding the pocket closed, wondering if there was something inside.

Nothing.

“You’re being paranoid, John. Dr. Leland warned you about looking too far into things,” he muttered to himself, “Even if it isreally weird… There could be a decent explanation! But… Ugh, what would Bruce do?” his arms and staring at the annoying tag.

Bruce would question it, look at it from every angle… And research it.

John snapped a photo of the tag where The-Mysterious-Person-S had scribbled their signature and sent it to Bruce.

Hey buddy, does this handwriting look familiar?

  I can’t check right now. In a meeting.

Fair enough. Looking at it from other angles it was.

John pat the sleeves, the collar, turned the inner-pocket inside out, thinking about the tiny packets of drugs he’d seen exchange hands at Arkham when he found something in the outside pocket.

An ordinary USA Express. No signature on the back, and the black stripe was very worn, but the card wouldn’t expire until next month; the unlucky name on the front was Michael Hodgson.

Huh. Well…no, it wasn’t finder’s-keepers, and John had already been told off for petty theft during his trial, but…it could be useful. Door locks could be picked with a card. As long as he didn’t buy anything with it, it was fine, right?

Right.

John stuck it in his back pocket.

Just as soon as he did, the door to the front opened, and John sat and moved the shirt like he was doing ordinary work as usual, pulling out the boring fabric that someone wanted to turn into a very boring pillow.

The manager came through, hauling a grocery bag of more fabric.

“Oh, John – can you…take a walk for a bit?” The smaller man asked, his mild Thai accent slightly more prevalent than normal. It only seemed to happen when he was nervous. “I have a special order I need to do back here. It will take up the bench.”

“Uh, sure, if you want. How long will you take?”

“A while. Just make sure you’re back in half an hour; the social worker’s dropping by then,” he said with a wave of his hand, moving in John’s way to force him back up.

Mr. Prinya definitely wasn’t supposed to tell him that. Those were meant to be surprise visits, to see how John was coping. “This isn’t some kind of test, is it?” John asked with a nervous little laugh, “Like you’re seeing if I’ll take the opportunity to skip out and report me?”

“You ask a lot for a man who wants this job.” Mr. Prinya put the bag by the stack of orders. “You leave, be back in thirty, both of us live to work another day.”

Ah. He was moving something. His accent came in a little thicker with the light threat, and his little show of bravado made John think it was probably against his will. Probably. But John knew the score – he had more than his share of experience keeping secrets in Arkham. And time away was beneficial for both of them.

“Hey, no worries,” John answered with his best understanding smile and a raise of his hands, “I get ya. I’ll just leave this one on the outgoing rack, ‘k?” He emphasized, picking up Townsend’s jacket.

Mr. Prinya gave a stiff nod, taking a seat in John’s chair and fiddling with his phone as John put the jacket on the wire hanger and threw it on the ‘outgoing’ rack by the door. He clearly didn’t want John to know what was in the bags. Probably for the best.

John left through the backdoor and stepped back into the alley.

He wasn’t far from the harbor. He could easily go have a look at the crime scene from last night by warehouse twenty-two… It was best not to get too close to it, though, so strolling by the actual docks wasn’t the best choice. He could go the roof of one of the buildings close to it instead. John had managed to get a close-zoom lens for his phone’s camera a little while back; it was a tiny thing attached to the back of his phone’s case, plugged into the audio jack for safe-keeping - all he had to do was clip it in place and he’d be able to have almost-binocular vision.

He took a quick look at the back of the laundromat. There was a camera by the door, but if he went juuust wide enough, he wouldn’t be seen by it’s all-seeing-eye.

The wire fence was a little difficult to climb in his shoes (he missed those ankle boots Bruce had bought him last year, the slight heel dug into crevices nicely) and he was never a fan of the feel of metal digging into his hands, but he managed to climb over the fence with a swing over the top and a hop to the ground without any injury.

John straightened his shirt, feeling a little accomplished, and set off for the sets of buildings closest to the docks, passing by graffiti in the twisting litter-coated alleyway - there was a poor imitation of the bat signal that someone had scribbled over and written ‘fuck batman’ next to, standard gang tags, non-standard gang tags, an anarchy symbol, a giant cartoonish bat chasing people…

Actually, that was one for the album! He had to stop and take a picture; one of the people looked like the Mayor. He didn’t even care it had a few of the tags in it - it was part of the charm, really.

He passed by one of the partially-repainted dumpsters, wrinkling his nose and walking faster when he smelled rotting fish parts, and spotted the ladder for the fire escape next to it dangling down partway into the alley. John was tall enough to tug at the ladder, but it wouldn’t budge.

The windows were mostly blacked out by something or other. If anyone lived there, he doubted they were home. It would be a damn good view, and close enough that the journey back wouldn’t make him late.

“Hm, to use the smelly abyss as leverage, or risk a minor injury?” He muttered aloud.

The dumpster was ancient and rusting. Not worth it.

John bent and jumped up, grabbing hold of the bars on the ladder and swinging his legs out to keep balanced as he climbed the first few bars. He checked the window by the landing and wiped his hands on his pants for good measure. The room there wasn’t as empty as he thought - the window had been darkened by thin film, like the kind they used for quick-fix window tinting, and the inside had some bare battered furniture. He could see a duffel bag half-hidden by a table leg.

Probably another runner. It was no use pondering about what they were running from. In  Gotham, there were far too many choices.

The next two windows had curtains (or in one case, sheets that had been clumsily tacked on the panes that let John see someone watching bad on-demand porn) and the last one showed nothing but an empty room with an open doorway. “Man, how hard is it to get a little bit of human interaction around here?” He grumbled to himself. He’d at least like to see someone else properly for more than a minute. Or get an idea of them at least.

He looked out into the street below - three passers-by in matching grey-and-black hoodies, seeming to laugh it up as they passed. A street gang, maybe... They weren’t very observant, if they were; there was a perfectly good motorcycle just sitting at the end of the alleyway there. It couldn’t be too difficult to hot-wire. At least compared to a car.

There was one more ladder going to the rooftop - and upon poking his head over the top, John was unsure on how to feel.

Tiffany Fox stood near the edge of the roof, doing exactly what he was planning on doing - only she had a pair of real binoculars. And that tablet she used for her drones.

She looked different from the last time he saw her, too; she was dressed fairly professionally, making her look a little more mature despite the dark blue streaks littering the thick curls on the one side of her head.

He wished he had her number so he could just text her he was there. Sneaking up probably wasn’t the best thing to do, despite the little urge to spook her; she was being trained by Batman, after all.

Weird situations like this surely called for some playful banter. “What’s a nice girl like you doing in a place like this?” He asked with his best film-noir-detective voice.

It certainly got her attention. She whirled around looking like a frightened cat, reaching for her hip like there was something useful there. A taser, judging by the shape in the pocket. (John always wondered why women’s slacks had those terrible form-fitting pockets.)

The wary look on her face didn’t quite diminish when she noticed it was just him. Despite the better terms they ended on in the ambulance back in October, he didn’t completely blame her for distrusting him - they had matching scars, after all.

“John,” she said simply, “Don’t sneak up on me like that.”

“Ha, now you’re sounding like Bats, at least!” He chuckled, moving towards her to close some of the gap. He knew better than to get too close, though. He’d be the same way, if things were reversed; you never really knew what someone had hidden on them. “I would’ve thought you’d have developed that sixth-sense of his by now, after all you’re training, Tiff’.” (He made sure to keep of the ‘y’ he wanted to add. He remembered she’d said not to call her that; ‘Tiffy’ was reserved for brain-talk only.)

Tiffany’s expression shifted. She wasn’t just wary anymore, she had that little frown on her face that meant he’d crossed some unseen line. It couldn’t have been her name - was her training not going as well as Bruce had said? Or was it just one of those secretly-sensitive subjects?

“So… What’cha doin’?” He asked casually, stopping at the edge several feet away from her to look down into the street. “People watching, or crime scene watching?”

“Crime scene watching. Aren’t you supposed to be in that halfway house?”

He couldn’t decide whether the tone was accusatory or curious. It kinda sounded like both… Well, best to be nice about it. She had Bruce’s number on speed-dial, after all. “I am; I’m technically on a break from the mandated work. What about you, Tiff’?”

She raised a brow, and her tone was instantly recognizable; the same rebellious sort that came when someone nosy asked Harley what she was doing. “What about me?”

John fiddled with his phone, clipping on the magnifier lens to cover the camera. “Are you skipping work entirely, or just going in late?”

“Late. I would never skip.”

Really? Never-ever? He doubted that. “Eight hours a day, five days a week - and that’s not even counting your night gig. Doesn’t it wear on you?”

Tiffany didn’t quite seem focused on that tablet screen. “Sometimes. But last time I took time off, Bruce scolded me.”

“Do you mean he actually got angry, or he was he just like ‘Don’t be irresponsible, Tiffany. Just because my double-life allows me to up and leave work for as long as I can’t walk doesn’t mean you can take a break,’” John said in his best imitation of Bruce’s smoother-but-stern voice.

Tiffany gave a noise that might have been covering a laugh. He could see the smile on the edge of her mouth. “That does kinda sound like him.” She made a swiping gesture on the screen and looked over at him. “But it was more like he’s worried I’ll get too into the night job and go work on stuff without him.”

That wasn’t quite right. Bruce cared about people - more than likely, he just didn’t want Tiffany to get hurt or be in danger when Bruce couldn’t be around. John had caught sight of Batman staying outside of Arkham some nights when Bruce hadn’t stopped by in a couple of days, as if he was just checking up on things.

That was the type of person Bruce was - clearly it extended further where Tiffany was concerned, and she was clearly tired of hitting that ceiling.

“So, like you’re doing now?” John grinned, focusing the camera on his phone to try and zoom in as far as he could on the remains of the van in the distance. They were just high up enough to see most of the scene.

Tiffany was finally smiling. It was small and smug, but it was a definite change from the last time he saw her. It reached her dark eyes, lighting them up like a little candle in the dark. “Yup.”

John squinted at the image of the wreckage on his screen. “Yeesh, that was some firework they planted. Looks like the whole thing went up in smoke.” He zoomed in as much as he could. “Wow, the back doors are either open or gone on that thing.” The strangeness of it seemed to click the second he said it. “Or the explosion came from the inside.”

“That’s what the C.S.I. think, too,” Tiffany answered. “The glass all shattered outward; I think someone planted it there. That, or the dumbasses left the keys in the van.”

John giggled at that. “Mobsters leaving their keys behind? In Gotham? No way.”

“I wouldn’t be surprised if one of the more lunkheaded ones was in charge of driving.”

“No, no, you want the people with quick reflexes to drive, not the muscle. It’s why I was the designated chauffeur for the Pact,” he said somewhat proudly, “That, and Harley liked being driven around. Said it made her feel all fancy.” He scowled to himself as he felt his gut twist at the old memory. “Though Dr. Leland thought that was just another example of her using me for her own gain...”

“You don’t still miss her, do you?” Tiffany asked, the accusatory tone lacing in between caution.

John thought. He kind of did. Not the same way he missed Bruce - not by a longshot - or the same way he missed Dr. Leland.

He shot a look at Tiffany. Were they at the point of bringing up ‘personal’ stuff yet? They’d worked together before, and they were on the same team now… He supposed that there wasn’t a better time to find out than now.

“It’s...more like I miss the fact that I could talk to her. Being in her company was easy, you know? That sort of ‘natural connection’ thing. In hindsight, there were some red flags about our whole relationship...but I can’t just pretend everything that happened between us just never happened.” He breathed out through his nostrils, already angry even though there wasn’t even a Harley there for him to be angry at. “Even if she did try to hurt Bruce.”

“And left you behind several times, tried to kill me alongside Bruce, and took advantage of you at every chance,” Tiffany said pointedly, a sardonic sort of smile perking up. “You shouldn’t just value Bruce’s life that much - you’ve got your own, you know.”

John snorted. She sounded a lot like Leland, in her own way; neither of them really quite got his relationship with Bruce. “Not much of one.” Though… “I guess it is getting a little better.”

She had that sort of pitying expression on her face. He wasn’t really a fan of those. Sympathy was fine, empathy was better - but pity? He didn’t need that. He really, really wanted to just change the subject rather than deal with any conversation pertaining to that.

“Speaking of lives, though - any idea what happened with the ship? I can still kinda see it in the harbor.”

“...how did you know about it?”

“How else? Bruce dropped by this morning.” He saw the mild bewilderment there, and decided he might as well drive the point home and make her jealous at the same time. “He always shares his case details with me. Among other things,” he added slyly. “But I had to go to work, so the conversation got cut before I could hear the juicy details. You were on patrol with him, right?”

“I wasn’t there in person,” Tiffany grumbled, going back to tapping her tablet. (What was she doing on it, anyway?) “I was using my drone from the cave, before some trigger-happy asshole took it out.”

John remembered her father had made those; no wonder she was upset. He should offer comfort. Better comfort that the last time they’d spoken about her father. He’d learned what to say since then. “I’m sorry for your loss,” he echoed with all the sincerity he could.  

She looked more puzzled at that than anything, but she didn’t look more upset, so that was probably a good sign. “Uh, thanks… Anyway, Bruce saw everything - I only got the data feed from his drones.” She tapped something, and seemed to think. “You sure you wanna see this?”

“I wouldn’t have asked if I wasn’t.”

“They’re pretty bad.”

He didn’t care. It wasn’t the blood or wounds that got to his head the last time he’d seen carnage second-hand; it was the ferocity, the terror on the people’s faces, the familiarity of it all that brought back the memory of the manic episode that had spiralled him to his worst point, and it made him feel very...displaced. But it wasn’t video, and John’s curiosity and his drive to help Bruce overrode everything else.

He wanted to squeeze something. He settled for putting his hands in his pockets and feeling the back of his phone case. “I can handle it.”

Tiffany turned the screen towards him. “There were eight victims. Most of them were stabbed.”

There were two men sunken in plastic chairs in the ships kitchenette, each with one of their eyes gouged out.

It was the kind of thing to put a sharp thrill in his gut and made the neurons in his brain fire away; enough to make him smile. No weapons in the wounds, and from such fun angles! “You know, I’ve always wanted to see a knife-thrower in person. I wanna find out how they do that.”

When he looked back up, Tiffany’s nose was wrinkled in the kind of stern disgust that Bruce displayed at the sight of dead bodies - only she lacked the spark of intrigue he always had. (Guess she wasn’t as far along in the training as he thought…) “Knife-throwing, huh…”

“Yeah, with reeeally long blades - I mean, I think some butter knives are big enough to hit the brain, too, but they’re probably harder to aim just right.”

Her frown deepened. “I don’t want to know how you know that…”

“It’s kind of obvious,” he answered anyway, unsure of how else he would know, “I mean, look-” He spread his thumb and forefinger to measure and held it up against his head, “it’s at least three inches to the temporal lobe; butter knives aren’t that long! Unless it’s for the world’s largest stick of butter.”

He was clearly close… Just a scoach more, and she’d surely crack. Her frown turned upside down for a little bit, there. The wall was dropping, further and further - he had to time these things just right…

Tiffany swiped on the screen, her expression souring at the sight of whatever-it-was, and his tiny hope died like a butterfly caught in a snowstorm. That was too serious a look to run with.

So he dared to scoot a little closer and peer over her shoulder, catching sight of the overhead image of the ship’s storeroom.

Four unfortunate men were laying on their backs, positioned so their arms crossed their chests like they were newly-buried pharaohs. Their heads all touched, three nestled snug together at forty-five-degree angles while the last one touched them all in the middle; a three-to-one ratio.

John itched to just grab it out of her hands to have a better look. He clenched his hands once and released halfway, forcing the impulse to pass. He didn’t want to be rude, even if they weren’t on the best of terms; and she was clearly in a rebellious streak, so acting demanding was right out. “Can I see that?” He asked instead, as politely as possible.

“Please?” He continued, seeing the morbidly-curious look in her weirded out face, “Just to check something?”

She was more guarded than ever, looking straight at the tablet in her hands...

At her right hand, just briefly, thinking back to the knife he’d plunged into it that day months and months ago, debating on whether or not she could trust him with even holding one of her tools when he’d trusted her completely back at the skyrail station -

“Alright,” she said finally, holding it out to him and letting him take it without another word of protest. He could see the faded scar on her palm, not quite identical to his. Like fraternal twins. Just how deep does that parallel go, he thought. “What are you checking?”

“The shape,” he answered, pulling open the editing menu.

He started doodling over it, first in pink - red was too close to home, in this case. A large inverted triangle...

No…a trapezoid on top of a pole, perhaps?

He switched to neon yellow. A miniature upside-down triangle, with a point down. That looked better.

He switched to green, tracing a line over each body. A trident, maybe? Maybe.

It was… Something. He’d seen it before. Somewhere, sometime…

“Have you ever seen this before?” He asked, keeping the tablet flat in between them so they could both look.

“I dunno, gang symbols? There’s a lot of weird ones around,” Tiffany said. “I know someone in the Cauldron uses some weird triangle as their tag…” She looked at him, no more wariness or caution or anything negative in her expression. Just simple curiosity. “Does it look familiar?”

A phrase he’d heard a hundred times before. Always a no. Always followed with ‘are you sure’ and more no’s and follow-ups of ‘well what can you remember?’ in that same insulting tone that tried so hard to appear inquisitive...

John drummed his fingers against the tablet, feeling the material of the reinforced case under his short fingernails. He was talking to Tiffany Fox, on top of a roof, both of them taking time out from work to look into a crime scene.

He laughed at the ludicrousness of it - she could push him off the roof or tase him or escape with a grappling hook, and she was just here talking to him, like things were actually changing.

(They were, though. He could smell the smog and the harbor. It was real.)

John let the short laugh die out with a little cough as he saw the look at Tiffany’s face.  

“Sorry,” he said, being used to apologizing for causing any level of ‘disturbed concern’, “But, no, it’s, uh, more like a nagging feeling.” She didn’t seem to understand that; her brow was raised, almost skeptical instead of curious, and still unsure of him as a whole. “Déjà vu with no direction.”

Tiffany actually looked like she was thinking about it, pulling apart the words in her head… “That’s...a different way of putting it. So, you might have seen it, but you don’t know where or when?”

He rolled his eyes slightly at her. He wasn’t going to dignify that was a proper response.

“I guess I’ll look into gang symbols,” Tiffany said, carefully taking the tablet back. “I’ll go back a few years, see if someone revived an old gang or something…”

“Or they could’ve just stolen the logo,” John pointed out.

“True.” She stared down at the tablet, concentration furrowing her brow. “You know, you might be right… It is kind of that nagging feeling.”

“Speaking of nagging, you haven’t found out anything new about those Black Mask guys, have you?”

“Only that one is still missing. There weren’t any tire tracks or bullets casings left behind, so whoever killed them made a clean getaway…” She cast a look over at the crime scene in the distance. “At least until I get the footage back from the broken drone. It might have picked up something.”

John hummed. A rival gang on the hunt - they would likely send whatever pieces were left to Black Mask. “Were they found the same way?”

“No. The members we found were all shot.”

Interesting! “Head or torso?”

“Does that really matter?”

“Depends on how sloppy our killer was!”

“...I don’t know how you’re so enthusiastic about this,” Tiffany grumbled, eyeing him scrupulously.

“Oh, come on, Tiff’, crime’s my specialty! We’re investigating a potential gang war, here - if it’s mostly headshots, it’s professional executions, which means a rival mafia sending a message; if it’s torsos it’s more likely to be newbies.” he thought for a moment. “Unless it’s the Corazón troupe, of course. But I’m pretty sure they’re all dead. Or really old.”

It was clear to see she hadn’t thought of that. “I’d say it looked like upper-body shots from the pictures I saw last night. I don’t have those handy, though. I’ll bring it up with Bruce.��

Hm. Hm, hm, hm. The van exploding, the crew ending up dead with only one missing as a hostage or informant - it sounded too much like a professional job. Someone planned it carefully. So why did one group get stabbed, and another shot? And why were the knife marks so precise when the shots were… Well, they could be precise. He’d have to see the pictures. Or at least hear of it.

“Speaking of him, I gotta go. I don’t want to be too late,” Tiffany said, tucking her tablet away.

“Ooh, before you do-” John quickly opened a new contact page and pushed the phone at her - “here, I don’t want to have to surprise you every time I see you.” There was the small chance she’d take it and throw it over the building, or slap it out of his hand, or just give him that weirded-out look she got sometimes or -

Tiffany defied the anxious conspiracies his brain was spinning; she took the phone and dutifully punched the number in, handing it back without any kind of strange look. “I better not find myself added to any weird listings,” she said jokingly, offering a small smile. A peace offering.

“Not even cute cat videos?” He teased, adding the fox and computer emoticons to the end of her name.

“I’ve already got a playlist on UBox for that,” Tiffany shrugged, heading back towards the fire escape. “’Bye, John.”

“’Bye, Tiff’,” he echoed, thinking for a second, “I’ll let you know if I find anything.”

She blinked, turning for a moment, her hands already on the ladder railing. “You think you can find something from the inside of the halfway house?”

She was underestimating him. It was an advantage sometimes, but mostly it just annoyed him. He wasn’t anywhere close to Bruce – a man of the world in every sense – but he did have some physical power and brains and could put things together when they interested him enough. “You think that could stop me?” He answered, thinking back to every little secret he ever learned within the padded walls of his former home. “I’ve got my ways, Tiff’ – I have access to stuff you and Bruce could only dream about.”

He saw the wariness return on her face. She was unsure of what he knew and how he knew it, and just what he did to get people to talk, or what he did to take.

But like hell he’d tell her. She wouldn’t get it. Not now, at least. Maybe someday. “Be careful out there,” he added, letting the seriousness sink in before turning back into something more optimistic for both their sakes, “and have a good day at work!”

Tiffany left his view, and John cast one more look out at the crime scene in the distance.

At least he had some new things to think about at all hours of the day. Two groups of filthy criminals pitted against each other over their petty toys, unaware that Batman would be hell-bent on stopping it, using his loyal assistants who were waiting and watching from the shadows for help…

But the questions were what their precious toys were, and when and how Black Mask would get revenge – and figuring all that out would be easy once John could pinpoint who the rival group was.

How fun!

Notes:  Yes, Bruce might be the main character, but relationships work both ways - John is his own person regardless of what their relationship is like, so we get to see his life, too! (Yes, that means even if he’s a villain - though he’d probably start at a hideout rather than the halfway house, considering TT wouldn’t be likely to let him have any kind of redemption arc. But we have nothing to hold us back anymore! No bars, no chains, no gods, no masters!!! So villain!John can have a redemption arc too if you want, probably starting back in season 3 and continuing on here, because he’s an ill man who needs a support system and you can make it however you want!! Fight me, TT!!!! Oh wait, you can’t! Ahahahahahahaha!!!!!!)

(You’ll still be missed by us all. Thanks for the fun and new beginnings, TellTale… I hope you know my teasing comes from [mostly] love.)

Anyway, I thought it would be fun to have some new mechanics, so “drawing” and “photography” are now things “the player” can do practically free-style! And of course a big new addition is also “character perspective swap”, to focus on John for some of the time so “the player” can experience different sides of this story. And of course John’s choices affect the story, too! And depending on what you do with him…wait, that’s spoiler territory…I can’t tell you yet... You’ll have to wait along with me. But I pinky-swear it’ll be worth it. (｡•̀ᴗ-)b✧

I try to provide updates on tumblr/my Ao3 profile but nothing is guaranteed, so subscribing/bookmarking would be ideal for you to keep current! I hope to see you April 17 for our next look into this case!  (･ω´-ゞ)^☆

[todokori-kun]

WELCOME BACK!

 <3 I really missed you, and it’s so great to hear you had fun! (and omg yes so ready to see all those beautiful pics)

Yaaayyyy join me in MCU feels hell. And oooh, you have a ship for the fandom now! Like, Stoki’s still my favorite Steve pairing but Stony’s really cool too…you know I ship almost everything XD (also am I the only person who sorta hated almost everyone by the end of CW? Like, of course they’re still my favs and there are still some cinnamon rolls, but, come on. Why couldn’t you all just get along ;-;)

Speaking of Illumi, do you know that Hisoka/Illumi is an incredibly popular ship in the HxH fandom? Probably because both of them are so horrible that they have like 0 friends other than each other. Nobody else wants to hang out with these losers. (Chrollo tolerates Hisoka and the adults in Illumi’s family seem to spend enough time with him to give him orders, but that’s about it.) It’s a trash ship with two trashy people and tbh I love it XD

So continuing with the eye jokes, imagine. Hisoillu version of Helpless. Hisoillu version of Satisfied.

“Look into his eyes and the sky’s the limit”

“Intelligent eyes in a hunger-pang frame”

(I know you did thise one before but still) “But when I fantasize at night, it’s Illumi’s eyes”

just, I’m imagining animatics for this with the ‘camera’ zooming in on Illumi’s dead fish eyes every time the lyrics mention them. It’s hilarious and also mildly terrifying

(though I guess if we’re actually making a Hamilton AU Hisoka’s way more likely to do something like Say No To This…)

idk if I’d want to be a parent either really LOL. Kids are adorable but I don’t think I’ll ever be responsible enough to raise one…

If Ishida makes a plot twist or something about it being someone else pretending to be Hide I'm actually gonna get mad. Dude. Not only would that bring the Hide feels right back it’d just make absolutely no sense omg

(also you read the new chapter, right? So, let’s talk about Juuzou and that huge death flag)

I’ve heard of Soul Eater and considered reading it but it’s not really the kind of thing I’m into…artwork’s cute, though, and Death the Kid seems like an interesting guy so maybe someday XD

AGH I’M ACTUALLY SORTA JEALOUS BECAUSE WOW I HAVE ABSOLUTELY NO IDEA HOW TO WATCH THAT LEGALLY HERE IN KOREA. (unless I ask my dad for help but he doesn’t like manga/anime at all, so…) But yes, I’m really happy Lizzy finally got her moment this time! Now anime-only fans can’t complain about her being a ‘shallow’ character so hopefully there’ll be less fighting over Lizzy in the Kuro fandom :D

FINALLY. Fellow Death Note fan <3333 Who’s your fav? Do you have any ships? Are you done with the anime??? :D (also do you know…you picked a really interesting time to join the DN fandom. The American live-action movie just came out and it sucks so freaking bad, like I haven’t even watched it yet and just from the reviews/clips, here’s what I got:

-They turned Misa into this Harley Quinn-type character. Only without any depth.

-Light/Misa is an actual canon ship, like, it’s not abusive or one-sided like it is in the anime/manga, it’s just…a thing. Light loves Misa. Misa loves Light. It’s like every cringey high school romance movie ever, only with more murder

-They freaking bent the Death Note rules just so Light could get away with all sorts of ridiculous stuff

-L cries, L rants, L is overly emotional

-Light tells L where he hid a page from his Death Note. Light doesn’t deny being Kira. Light shows Misa his Death Note when they like barely know each other and she’s still a complete stranger to him. Light acts like an idiot.

-Oh sure, he’s Kira, God of the New World, but he still cares about going to prom with his girlfriend and making stupid faces as they pose for pictures

-So much unnecessary gore. Heart attacks are Kira’s thing, Light isn’t that emotional about his kills, he doesn’t care as long as the 'villains’ are dead, so why???

-Apparently Rem does not exist. Sayu doesn't exist either. Light’s mom is dead (probably so he can angst over her)

-Light Turner. Light TURNER. Out of all the surnames they could have chosen…

-And now, for the most unforgivable sin:

How dare they not include the Potato Chip scene)

And then random things: JJ and Light have the same voice actor. Yurio and Mello (imo…have you met Mello yet?) could be long-lost twins.

Also:

I’ve fallen into Steven Universe hell and now I’m imagining so. Many. Gem AUs. Have you ever heard of SU?

(look:

1- don’t stress about the messages, and come on, I’d never get mad at you over something like this! You’re way too awesome.

2-  I don’t really know what to say 'cause I’m bad at comforting people, but ugh, it sucks to hear that school’s tiring you out! Queen Luna’s gonna get through this, though. I mean, you’re great at so many things and you’re freaking smart and…this is awkward but maybe you understand Evans Language by now? XD Guess I’m just trying to say that I’m sure you’ll do great, and if you ever need someone to talk to I’m (almost) always free *hugs*

3- Um. So, other than tumblr, I think the only way I can talk with you right now is if we email each other? The email address I used this time is my real one (or rather, my dad’s, since I don’t have one of my own yet…) so maybe we can talk about this more through email and find a better way to contact each other? If that’s ok with you can you send me a message there?)

P.S:

I’ve started college and have no idea what I’m doing

*slams head against keyboard* guess who managed to get sick. It’s only been a week since school started. Whatever, I’m still going to school, but I woke up breathing like a fish on land, bc asthma. Yay.

I’m definitely gonna upload the pics today!!

Okay, but one thing I’m wondering about, is How? Not in a malicious way or anything, I’m genuinely curious to why you ship Stoki (and where it began). Was it that redemption fic you told me about or did you ship it before? 

Tbh, I didn’t hate the characters in CW, I hated the situation. Because there’s so so much pointless conflict that could easily be solved if everyone sat down and talked like normal people. But nooo we have to go around attacking each other. ((ALSO CAP’S LETTER TO TONY, I AM DEAD))

I’ve already learned (and experienced) that shipping is a very weird and unusual thing, so I’ll be honest and say I’m not even surprised that ship exists. At least it has some basis XD

I’m actually tempted to go through the lyrics of the whole musical and find every single eye line there is, only to replace it w Illumi’s eyes.

Not only zooming in on the eyes, the word itself is louder than the rest XD man if only I could draw…

Tbh I’d say I’m responsible enough (HA, that’s more or less a lie), but I’m honestly way too irritated with the little ones to be able to have one of my own. My cousin recently celebrated her 3rd bday and I was stuck looking after her during the party, bc all the adults were talking among themselves and I swear to god, I haven’t moved that much since I had to run 2km for PE. Where do they get their energy. Not to mention the adults thought it would be a good idea to leave me w her, because I’d already drunk 3 glasses of wine (i was bored and not allowed to do anything other than stare at emptiness or look after a 3yo). Turns out my tolerance isn’t that bad after all.

Lol let’s be honest, Ishida would totally do that. He knows the fandom would riot and that’s the whole point.

All the death flags. Tbh I don’t know how I feel about it. It’s obvious that either Touka or Juuzou are probably gonna die and I wan’t neither (If I have to choose tho, I’d rather Juuzou survives.) Also Naki. HNNNNNNGH

I think you’d actually like the manga? It takes a pretty dark turn compared to the anime and deals with lots of mental issues (the whole theme of the later volumes is Madness). Also, lots of death XD Well, the artwork changes drastically, so which one are you talking about XD

The girl in the coat (left first pic, middle 2nd) is the same person for reference. Death the Kid was one of my first anime crushes. The guy has OCD and is a total badass. 

MUHAHAHAHA I think someone uploaded the Lizzy fight to youtube so you can probably find it there, but I am in love. The animation is beautiful, so that’s also a huge plus. All in all, it was handled really well.

Death Note

So last I’ve watched is ep 25, aka the one WHERE L DIES. And i am not okay. I am nowhere near okay. Nope. Not at all.

Oh i’ve heard all about the adaptation. Tbh I find the whitewashing hilarious. Setting the movie in America removes so much of the series’s logic, so why? L being the way he is is probably my favourite mistake. They took the best character and ruined him completely.  POTATO CHIP SCENE NOOOO But my question is: did everything go just according to the keikaku?

Have fun w SU! I’ve watched it for a while, but gave up at some point. I might pick it up again if I have the time ^^ Word of advice, watch out for the fandom, they’re among the most toxic ones I’ve ever encountered. One time, they almost drove an artist to suicide because she didn’t draw Rose ‘thick enough’. So yeah.

What did I do to deserve you as my friend TT^TT Thank you so so much, those words mean more than you can imagine.

Um. Looks like we’ll be staying here, because I never, ever check my mail, despite getting school assignments there, so yeah. If we used mail, you’d probably get a response every leap year.

How does the education system work in Korea? Like, at what age do you start going to which school?

Also, I’ve told you about Mystic Messenger? I think you’d like the newest update, because damn, it’s creeping me out. Also, it’s in Korean, so + ((My thoughts during the prologue of the new route: Nani the fuck))

[diddlesanddoodles]

DARKNESS (G/T)

100 GT theme challenge

Continuation of Hide. 

Warnings: Brief and mild mentioning of lady products. And some smoking. Don’t smoke, kids. It’s bad for you.

Gabby was restless, feeling overly warm and sweaty in her cargo pants and navy blue jacket. The night was mild and rather pleasant, but her layers were making her feel overheated and constricted. Trapped. Very trapped. Or perhaps it was simply her own nerves. Probably nerves. Nerves over her situation. Her...stupid and bizarre and very frightening situation. She gulped at the air as she tried to keep the every growing probability of a panic attack at bay, though she had managed some form of dignity throughout the day. From the bizarre meeting with the giant-not-giant-man-guy-thing-dude who called himself Elliot – even though that wasn’t his real name – to the weirdest trip to the grocery store ever, wherein the only items she purchased were a bulk case of tampons, three king sized chocolate bars, a bottle of ibuprofen, and five rolls of aluminum foil. The last one being a suggestion from Elliot.  

Her backpack was stuffed to bursting with her newly purchased wares in addition to her clothing – several shirts, a pair of shorts, two pairs of pants, and five rolls of socks – all expertly rolled up into small tubes so as to make room for as many items as possible. Then there was the mini first aide kit, a pocket knife, a stick of deodorant, her hairbrush, travel sized toothbrush and toothpaste, as well as a bar of Irish spring soap. She had debated rigorously about packing shampoo and conditioner, but a vague recollection of a camping trip in middle school decided her. The last thing she wanted to have to endure on top of all of the craziness was washing shampoo out of all her clothes because the bottles burst. But then of course, she also remembered her wallet. It was a small red faux leather square with only enough room for a few credit cards, some pennies, and a few bills. Made more for ease, style, and size than for practicality. But it held a small family portrait taken just the year prior not long after she had graduated high school. And she was loathe to leave without it.

The address on the business card that Elliot had given her, after a quick google search, revealed itself to be an old bus depot at the edge of Bridgewood. It was away from the bulk of the town, closer to the railway yard. From her spot on the old wooden bench, Gabby could hear the grinding of many wheels and the sound of a train’s horn echoing across the depot like a ghostly wail.

It was late, it was dark, and she was alone. Waiting for someone – or some thing – to come collect her. As quickly as the notion came to mind, she banished it away just as fast. She required no reminding of the circumstances that landed her in such a mess. She attempted to placate herself by drawing circles in the sandy dirt that had long ago broken up the concrete sidewalk. Without a watch or her phone, she was at a loss to tell what time it was. The card instructed her to be at the meeting place at 10:00 PM sharp and once she was packed and ready to go, Gabby was loathe to linger around the sorority house where her state of dress and mood was sure to garner attention and questions.

Best if they know nothing, she reminded herself. Elliot said he would be handling her...disappearance. Or rather, her death. Even though she was remiss to understand how he was going to fake her death if there was no body to…

...oh god she hoped there wasn’t going to be a body.

No, no there would be no body. He had promised her. No one was going to get hurt. Besides, where was the logic in him setting this whole thing up if he was just gonna go kill some random person to stage her death? He was only doing this to keep her from being killed. Her. A total stranger who just happened to have witness him change into a very tall giant-man-dude and then kill a guy. Troll. Troll-guy. Troll-guy-dude. She was beginning to wonder if she had made some horrible mistake by believing Elliot. What if this whole thing was a set up? Oh god...

As she pondered such a horrible notion, the sound of a bell striking startled her from the miasma of her mind. In a panic, she leaped to her feet and jerked her head about every which way in search of the noise’s source. But all she saw was darkness and the orange haze of the town street lights off to her right. She waited with bated breath for the bell to ring again, but when there came no such sound, she carefully eased herself back down onto the bench.

Beside her, the darkness shifted.

“You the kid?” came a gruff voice from the empty darkness.

Gabby squawked indignantly and fell away from the voice and off the bench. Her backpack followed after her. Looking all around, she saw only darkness. Wait...what was that smell? Cigar smoke? Scared and now confused, Gabby began to ease herself up out of the dirt and happened to glance up. There was a dot of orange light, the end of a lit cigar, high above her head. The paltry light of the cigar gave off just enough light to illuminate the face of the being puffing at it. The very large face. The very large face very far up. Gabby opened her mouth to scream, but before she could do anything but squeak, the creature repeated its question.

“So, you the kid or what?”

She choked on her own scream and gaped, unsure how to – or if she should – answer the question. Inanely, she asked. “Uh...kid?”

“Yeah,” replied the giant’s gruff voice, slightly muddled by the cigar between his lips. “The kid.”

“What kid?” she asked.

“The kid kid,” replied the giant impatiently in a voice that sounded vaguely north eastern and pulling the cigar from his mouth. He tapped the end to knock off a wad of ash and tt fell not but a foot from where Gabby lay sprawled in the dirt. “The human kid. The kid I’m waitin’ for. Elliot’s goof up.”

“Oh,” she answered stupidly. “Um...yeah. I guess that would be me.”

“Fantastic,” the giant replied with mock enthusiasm. “Well, let’s get on with it then.”

With that, the giant leaned down and plucked Gabby off the ground as easily and effortlessly as someone picking up a barbie doll. This time, she did scream.

“Oh, whoa! Hey, now!” snapped the giant in confused annoyance. “Stop with the squeakin’ already, kid. This is supposed to be a covert operation, don’tcha know?”

Faced flushed with equal parts fear and mortification, Gabby squirmed around thick digits holding her.

“Dude! Warn a person before you get all grabby and shit!”

“Ah, can it. I ain’t hurin’ ya, sweetheart.”

“Don’t call me sweetheart, jerk face.”

“Well don’t be callin’ me jerk face then, pop-tart.”

“Don’t call me –! Wait, did...did you just call me a pop-tart?”

“Yeah,” replied the giant, one eyebrow arched. “Ain’t that an insult here or somethin’? Thought I heard that once.”

“No. It’s a...uh, type of food.”

“Ah. My bad then,” the giant replied, almost genuinely apologetic. “Just, try to keep yer squeaker on mute, huh? Gonna get us both caught at this rate. And I’m gonna level with ya kid. No ways am I gonna go to the slammer on account’a one’a Elliot’s charity cases.”

Charity case? Well. Gabby would have been offended if she did not think the description apropos. But still.

“How about a trade then,” she offered, a little winded. “I won’t scream as long as you don’t grab me like that again. I can’t help it if I scream when someone I don’t know – a very big someone – suddenly grabs me up in the middle of the night in a very dark abandoned bus depot. Today has been beyond stressful and I am running on almost 100% animal instincts at this point, dude. Er, sir. Dude, sir. Sir dude.”

The cigar light was enough for her to pick up on the slight twitch of the giant’s mouth, an amused smirk. “Got yerself a deal there, sweetheart.”

“Don’t call me sweetheart,” she growled and the belatedly added, with a little more sincerity. “Please.”

He huffed a laugh. “Well, gonna tell me what I should be callin’ ya or should I just settle for pop-tart?”

“Oh. Um, my name,” she stammered, recalling what Elliot had said about names. She had worried  about picking a name that fit both the requirement of being easy to remember and being a name she would instinctual answer to. After a few minutes of deliberation, the answer came to her in a stroke of deceptively brilliant inspiration. Her mother’s name. “It’s Allison. Or Ally. Y’know...for short.”

“Seems to me like yer short enough as it is,” chuckled the giant. “But whatever ya like, kid.”

“So what happens now?” she asked tentatively, swallowing nervously. The shock of abruptly being swept up off the ground was fading and she was beginning to grow acutely aware that she was high up. Being held by a person. A very tall person. A very tall-has-no-business-existing-type-person.

“I do my job,” the giant replied simply.

“Which is…?” she pressed nervously.

The giant’s eyes moved to pin her with a look and Gabby – no, Ally – was aware that perhaps she was pushing her luck.

“A word of advice, Ally,” said the giant, chewing at the end of his cigar. “Don’t be askin’ so many questions. One day you might get an answer yer not too keen on. I do my job, you keep all yer limbs, everyone’s happy and none-the-wiser fer it. That’s all ya gotta know.”

“O-okay,” she replied, trying valiantly to ignore the portion of that statement involving losing limbs. Her limbs. “S-sorry. It’s my first time...being a witness to...stuff. And I’m still kind of freaking out...a little?”

“Just so long as ya keep it down, freak away, Ally.”

“Oh...um. Thanks?”

“So,” said the giant, using his free hand to reach up to his face and pluck the cigar out from between his teeth. “Best we be getting gone before any scabs show up and ruin both of our nights.”

Without another word and without ceremony, he flicked the lit cigar out into dark. It fell in lazy an arch to the ground where it crashed, scattering sparks and ash. The little flecks of orange light failed to settle and fade into the darkness. Instead, they began to dance and swirl around in odd geometric patterns fast enough that their wake created lines that Ally’s eyes could follow. The wind began to pick up and the smell of cigar smoke filled her nostrils and made her cough.

“Wow. That’s...that’s pretty cool,” she said absently, eyes transfixed on the lights. “Really cool.”

The giant chuckled. “It’s just a door.”

“But...it’s all glowey and...how is it doing that? I mean – I know you said no questions, so just mark that a rhetorical. But really, that’s cool. How can you think that isn’t cool? How is that not cool?”

He shrugged. “Ya seen one door, ya seen a million. Oh, that reminds me. Elliot told ya no gadgets right?”

“Gadgets?”

“Yeah. Gadgets. Trinkets. Whatcha-ma-whosits and diddley-bobbers,”At her blank expression, the giant sighed heavily. “That weird metal and glass stuff you humans obsess over.”

“You...you mean technology?”

“Yeah. That stuff. Ain’t got none of that nonsense on ya do ya?”

“Uh, no. Elliot told me to leave it.”

“Good.” When the giant took a step towards the embers, she called out to him. “Oh, wait! My bag!”

“Hm?” He looked down and spotted the sad fat little backpack. “Oh. Sure. Gimme a sec.”

Ally’s entire world tilted and fell as the giant bent down to retrieve the wayward thing and her stomach seemed content to stay nearer the ground when he straightened back up. “Now we good to go?”

“Y-yes. Thank you.”

“Good. Cause I had plans fer t’night before Elliot loaded this mess on me,” said the giant as he stepped into the hectic swirling maze that was the dancing embers.  “So if we’re quick about it, I still might be able to salvage what’s left of it.”

Before Ally could formulate any sort of response, the orange lights began to dance faster and fast, the burning of their lights growing brighter and brighter, banishing away the thick darkness of the night until all she knew was orange light and the overwhelming smell of cigars.