#Hire Cloud engineer

[hiringjournal]

How to Effectively Interview and Hire a Cloud Engineer for Your Company

As an increasing number of businesses are shifting to the cloud, the reliance on cloud engineers is pacing forth. It has become vital to ensure seamless integration, management, and optimization of cloud services. 

From enhancing security to improving scalability with reduced costs, the need to hire cloud engineers is evident. However, the challenge lies in effectively interviewing and selecting the right candidates, which is why this article will serve as your solution.

What Questions Should You Ask in a Cloud Engineer Interview?

Let’s outline the key questions you must ask in a cloud engineer interview for a streamlined selection. 

How do you approach cloud security?

In cloud computing, security is paramount. The candidate ought to be able to talk about best practices, including how to use encryption, network security, and identity and access management (IAM). Their method of cloud data and application security is essential for safeguarding your company.

Can you state your experience with cloud platforms?

This fundamental question enables you to ascertain the candidate's level of practical familiarity with AWS, Azure, and Google Cloud. Examine their degree of knowledge on services they have used, such as virtual machines (VMs) for Google Cloud or AWS's EC2.

Describe a complex cloud architecture you have designed?

This question when hiring cloud engineers aids in evaluating their background in developing secure, scalable, and effective cloud infrastructures. It also demonstrates their capacity for critical thinking and problem-solving, both of which are crucial when recruiting a cloud engineer for your organization.

Can you walk me through a time when you resolved a major cloud related challenge?

This behavioral inquiry is intended to show how the applicant responds to difficulties that arise in the actual world. You can learn more about their approach to problem-solving, resilience, and capacity for work under pressure from their response.

How do you manage cloud costs?

For many businesses, cloud cost control is a big challenge. Techniques for optimizing cloud resources, like rightsizing instances, automating resource shutdowns when not in use, and utilizing cost monitoring tools, should be covered by an experienced cloud engineer.

Empower your business with the cloud by hiring expert cloud engineers for the following results:

Closing Remarks

To effectively interview and hire a cloud engineer requires a thorough understanding of the skills and attributes that align with your company goals. The right mix of technical and strategic questions can drive your cloud initiatives forward. 

[qset-solutions]

If You Want To Bring Your Mobile App Vision To Life, Hire A Mobile Application Developer From QSET

Transform your mobile app dreams into reality by hiring a dedicated Mobile Application Developer from QSET. Our developers are experts in crafting innovative, user-friendly, and high-performance mobile applications across the iOS and Android platforms. With an in-depth understanding of programming languages, design principles, and the latest mobile technologies, our developers are equipped to create custom solutions tailored to your specific requirements. Whether you are a startup with a groundbreaking app idea or an established business looking to enhance your mobile presence, our developers can deliver exceptional results.

By hiring a Mobile Application Developer, you gain access to top talent committed to delivering projects on time and within budget. They will collaborate closely with you to ensure your app not only meets, but exceeds your expectations. Elevate your mobile app game and provide your users with an outstanding experience – hire a Mobile Application Developer today!

[softexer]

Hire Cloud Engineer at SOFTEXER & get your work done.

[jarrodcummerata]

Key Benefits of Hiring Offshore DevOps Engineers for U.S. and European Businesses

Discover the advantages of hiring offshore DevOps engineers for your U.S. or European business. From cost savings to access to global talent, learn how offshore teams can enhance your development processes and drive efficiency. Explore the benefits today!

[softweb-solutions]

Unlock the power of cloud technology with our certified cloud developers. We offer comprehensive cloud consulting services across AWS, Azure, GCP, and hybrid cloud platforms, delivering scalable, secure, and cost-effective solutions tailored to your business needs. From designing cloud architectures to executing data migration strategies, our expert cloud developers provide flexible engagement models, including fixed price, dedicated teams, and time & material options. Our efficient hiring process ensures swift access to top-tier cloud professionals, enabling seamless integration and customized solutions that drive your cloud success. 

[codeexpertinsights]

Automation's role in protecting and monitoring security measures is becoming increasingly important, as customer errors are believed to be the cause of 99% of cloud-related security problems. DevOps is the second most sought-after tech expertise in 2023, according to Statista, therefore hiring a DevOps & Cloud Engineer became a top priority as efficiency worries grew. Driven by the need for agility, teamwork, and faster delivery in today's competitive market, it's becoming more and more obvious that, in addition to hiring a DevOps Engineer, you also need to create an effective recruitment strategy to find the best candidate in order to stay current with emerging development practices.

[techno12-12]

Are you looking for the best IT professionals in Cloud Engineering?

Cloud Engineers are IT professionals who design, develop, modify, and manage cloud-based systems. Cloud Engineers from Techno Kryon are ready to serve your organizational needs as our engineers are experts in handling the cloud and finding solutions to your needs. Work of cloud engineers: 1. Designs the Cloud 2. Develops and maintains the cloud 3. Introduce modular cloud-based systems 4. Guaranteeing effective data storage 5. Maintain security and respect the security guidelines 6. Support cloud as per the requirements of the clients 

Cloud engineers are responsible for building up secure cloud management. Techno Kryon’s cloud engineers often review their existing system and try to modify it with improved technologies to make it more secure and maintain its standard position in the cloud. Cloud engineer's main role is to recognize, assess, and fix infrastructure weaknesses and application deployment problems. How to become a Cloud Engineering expert? • Completing certifications in Azure, AWS, and GCP • Must have work experience as a Cloud Engineer or in any related positions. • Must be strong in communication skills • Feel free to work with other teams of experts • Must have training in Cloud Engineering Techno Kryon and Cloud Engineering Techno Kryon is one of the leading software company in Chennai who has come across various projects in different sectors and different countries proving the stability of our engineers. Cloud Engineering is one of the most important parts of information technology where the data are created, stored, and retrieved securely based on the needs of clients. Cloud engineers from Techno Kryon have vast knowledge in Cloud Engineering as we completed 100+ projects in different countries such as India, Canada, USA, Australia, Singapore, and UAE. They had nearly 7+ years of experience in handling cloud data. We support the system with high-security maintenance and maintain its speed and stability. Our developers often review and update new technologies for the improvement of cloud management. Why choose Techno Kryon? • We provide assured and highly performing services maintain and valuate the speed periodically • Maintain highly secured performance services at a valuable cost • We have experts to provide instant solutions • Responsible and trustworthy engineers • Deliver services before the time of delivery

Hire Cloud Engineers from us to get trustworthy services. We are ready to Hire developers from Dubai, India, Australia, USA, Canada, and UAE as we have experienced experts to give solutions for your needs. We support you to get valuable services on time that could compete beyond your thoughts.

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[giuseppe-yuki]

I just had a stupid thought, just imagine somwone maybe new at Mercedes was bitching at kimi and hia huge tiger girlfriend sitting behind them just waiting for them to finsih and everyone around them snickering

no thought is a stupid thought! i love to receive asks from readers :)

lord help the soul who thinks he’s “better” than kimi just because he’s older and has more “experience” in the field of racing.

kimi antonelli x tiger shapeshifter!gf

kimi nods, trying to be be polite as the man in front of him elaborates on his skill and practice on the sim brig.

“…since i was literally a baby,” the engineer points out, exaggeratedly gesturing with his arms. “that’s why i know for a fact that you should not be turning like that on turn 4- you should take the outside line.”

scrunching his eyebrows in confusion, kimi blinks at the man in confusedly. “um…okay.”

your boyfriend swivels around on his chair in the garage, trying to end the conversation. however, being too polite to just walk away, he has no choice but to sit there, enduring the ‘words of wisdom’ from this newly hired engineer that everybody knew gave out the most bullshit advice. several long-term engineers shoot him looks of pity at their desks after seeing him trapped in the impractical conversation.

that’s why he brightens up like the sun peeking out behind a cloud when you flounce into the garage in the following moments, pressing a kiss onto his cheek when you reach him.

“hi kimi,” you giggle, ruffling his curls with your hand. “working hard?”

he smiles at you, nodding. “yep! i’m designing mercedes’ next championship winning car,” he jokes.

you laugh, before a voice behind you speaks up. “do you mind? i was just giving him tips on how to drive better out there. it’s simple, really.”

whipping around, you come face to face with a rather young looking lad, who you suppose to be the infamous new-hire that everyone despises.

“oh, sorry,” you say, not feeling sorry at all. “did i cut you off from your conversation with kimi?”

“yeah,” the engineer says, with an air of confidence around him. “i was informing him on the many things he should do better on next time on track. i’ll have you know i have years of experience.”

the gall of this man, you think. that’s no way to talk to my boyfriend.

and when you thought the engineer could be even more repulsive, he opens his mouth yet again.

“by the way, i don’t know how you even got in the garage, but fans are supposed to stay in the paddock,” he sniffs, as if repulsed by the thought of a random kimi enthusiast in the mercedes garage.

even the nearby merc employees raise an eyebrow to the overly-cocky engineer’s comment. it was pretty much common knowledge of your position as kimi’s girlfriend in the paddock, showing up to nearly every event to support him. besides, you literally just gave your boyfriend a kiss on the cheek- a fan couldn’t have possibly done that.

your boyfriend jumps off of his seat, ready to defend you.

“hey! this is my-“ he begins, but you cut him off, squeezing his arm gently.

“really?” you gasp, eyes wide with faux surprise. “i am so sorry! i just wanted a signature from kimi- i had no idea!”

giving you a look of disgust, the engineer gestures behind him towards the exit. “yeah, yeah, dumb mistake, whatever,- just go that way, and make sure to read the signs next time.”

ignoring kimi’s look of surprise and the snickers of knowing engineers, you take your leave from the garage. behind you, you hear the engineer snort. “eugh, fans these days…always so overeager to meet their idols, am i right?”

yeah, someone should really stop you before you bit his head off.

you pad back into the garage several minutes later, in your tiger form. you had to teach this stupid guy a lesson. gingerly stepping around tires and spare parts, you weave your way through groups of merc employees and engineers. of course, being used to your presence, they give you a few pets on your head.

you hear the engineer’s voice before you see him.

“i also want to say, your tyre management is- how do i put this nicely- horrible.”

turning the corner, you spot a miserable looking kimi picking at his fingernails as he half-listens to the arrogant man in front of him.

at the sight of your aggressive figure- a total 180 from your usual shyer demeanor, the employees surveying the scene start to quietly snicker again.

hearing the laughs, the engineers mistakenly believes that they are laughing with him instead of at him.

“see, even they agree with me,” he chuckles at kimi. “you really should be working on managing your tires on track.”

unable to take it anymore, you sprint towards kimi, purposely nudging the engineer’s chair, knocking it off balance by a little. you nudge your large head underneath kimi’s hand, demanding pets.

the egotistic engineer yelps, almost falling off the tall stool. somehow being the only one not having seen kimi’s ’pet tiger’ before, he stutters out, “a-a-a- tiger!” before fleeing to the opposite of the garage.

you growl at him, purposely flashing your sharp canines at him. it makes you feel smug when he shrinks back even more, cowering behind a spare tire.

kimi rolls his eyes at the man’s extreme reaction. “maybe,” he says pointedly to the engineer while stroking your fur, “instead of you giving me pointers on how to do my literal job, i should be giving you pointers how to control your emotions. like, what are you so scared of? it’s just a tiger!”

when you roar again at the engineer to emphasize kimi’s point, you are pretty sure the engineer nearly pees himself.

[sophaeros]

arctic monkeys for q magazine, june 2011 (x) (x)

ARCTIC MONKEYS: Inside Alex Turner's Head

Words Sylvia Patterson Portrait John Wright

The day Arctic Monkeys moved into their six bedroom, Spanish-style villa in the Hollywood Hills, where the first-floor balcony looked over the patio swimming pool, they knew exactly what to do.

"From the balcony, you could get on t'roof and jump in't pool," chirps the Monkeys' most gregarious member, drummer Matt Helders, in his homely Yorkshire way. "We looked at it and said, That's definitely gonna happen. So by the end, we did a couple of 'em. Somersaults in t'pool, from the roof. At night time."

In January 2011, as Sheffield and the rest of Britain endured its bitterest winter in a century, Arctic Monkeys capered among the palm trees, eschewing hotels for a millionaire's Hollywood homestead as they recorded and mixed their fourth studio album, Suck It and See.

The four Monkeys, alongside producer James Ford and engineer James Brown, lived what they called the "American man thing": watched Super Bowl on giant TVs, played ping-pong, hired two Mustangs, cooked cartoon Tom And Jerry-sized steaks on barbecues on Sundays, had girlfriends over to visit, all cooking and drinking around the colossal outdoor kitchen area featuring a fridge and two dishwashers. Living atop the Hills, they could see the Pacific Ocean beyond by day, the infinite glittering lights of downtown LA by night.

Every day, en route to Sound City Studios, they'd travel in a seven-seater four-by-four through the mountains, via bohemian 60s enclave Laurel Canyon, blaring out the tunes: The Stones Roses, The Cramps, the Misfits' Hollywood Babylon. For the sometime teenage art-punk renegades whose guitarist, Jamie Cook, was once ejected from London's Met Bar for refusing to pay €22 for two beers, the comedy rock'n'roll life still feels, however, absolutely nothing like reality.

NICK O'MALLEY: "It were really as if we were on holiday. When we came back it's the most post-holiday blues I've ever had!"

JAMIE COOK: "It's hard to comment on that. It were just really good fun."

MATT HELDERS: "We always said, As soon as things like that feel normal, we're in trouble. But it's just funny. You might think it would get more and more serious as you get older but it's getting funnier. We've done four albums now and I'm still only 24, I'm still immature to an extent. So who cares?"

Alex? Al? Are you there?

ALEX TURNER: "Yeah, it were good times. But we were in the studio most of the time. So there's no real wild Hollywood stories. Hmn. Yeah."

Wednesday, 16 March 2011, Strongroom Bar, Shoreditch, East London, 11am. Alex Turner, 25, slips entirely alone into an empty art-crowd brasserie looking like an indie girl's indie dream boy: mop-top bouffant hair which coils, in curlicues, directly into his cheekbones, army-green waist-length jacket, baggy-arsed skinny jeans, black cord zip-up cardigan, simple gold chain, supermoon sized chocolate-brown eyes.

Almost six years after I Bet You Look Good On The Dancefloor became the indie-punk anthem of a generation (from the first of Arctic Monkeys' three Number 1 albums), and nothing prepares you for the curious phenomenon of Alex Turner "in conversation". Unlike so many of the Monkeys frenetic early songs, he operates in slow motion, seemingly underwater, carrying a protective shell on his back, perhaps indie rock's very own diamond-backed terrapin. The most celebrated young wordsmith in rock'n roll today talks fulsomely, in fact, only in shapeless, curling sentences punctuated with "maybe... hmn.. yeah", an anecdotal wilderness sketching pictures as vague as a cloud. He is, though, simultaneously adorable: amenable, gentle, graceful, and as Northern as a 70s grandpa who literally greets you with "ey oop?".

"People think I'm a miserable bastard," he notes, cheerfully, "but it's just the way me face falls." Still profoundly private, if not as hermetically sealed as a vacuum-packed length of Frankfurter, his fante-shy reticence extends not only to his personal life (his four-year relationship with It-girl/TV presenter Alexa Chung, whom he never mentions) but to insider details generally. Take the Monkeys’ Hollywood high jinks documented above: not one word of it was described by Turner. Before Q was informed by his other Monkey bandmates, Turner’s anecdotal aversion unfolded like this:

Describe the lovely villa you were in. AT: "Well... we certainly had a... good view."

Of what? AT: "Well, we were up quite high."

The downtown LA lights going on forever? AT: "I dunno. It was definitely that thing of getting a bit of sort of sunshine. Is it vitamin D? If you can get vitamin D on your record, you've got a bit of a head start. So we'd get up and drive to the studio."

What were you driving? AT: "Nothing... spectacular. But yeah, we'd drive up the studio, spend all day there and sort of, y know, get back. To be honest... we had limited time. So we spent as much time as possible kind of getting into it, like, in the studio.

So your favourite adventures were what? AT: "Well, they were really… minimal. We were working out there!"

Any nightclubs or anything, perhaps? AT: "You really want the goss 'ere, don't you?"

Yes, please. AT: "I could make some up. Nah!"

And this was on the second time of asking. It's perhaps obvious: Alex Turner, one of the most prolific songwriters of his generation (four Monkeys albums and two EPs in five years, The Last Shadow Puppets side-project, a bewitching acoustic soundtrack for his actor/video director friend Richard Ayoade's feature-length debut Submarine), is dedicated only to the cause – of being the best he can possibly be. He simply remembers the songs much more than the somersaults.

Throughout 2009, Arctic Monkeys toured third album Humbug – the record mostly made in the Californian desert with Queens Of The Stone Age man-monolith Josh Homme – across the planet. While hardly some cranium-blistering opus, its heavier sonic meanderings considerably slowed the Arctic Monkeys' live sets and on 23 August 2009, Q watched them headline the Lowlands Festival, Holland and witnessed a hitherto unthinkable sight – swathes of perplexed Monkeys fans trudging away from the stage. With the sludge rock mood matching their cascading dude-rock hair it seemed obvious: they'd smoked way too much outrageously strong weed in the desert.

"Heheheh, yeah," responds Turner, unperturbed. "That's your theory. You probably weren't alone."

Back in the Strongroom Bar, Turner's arm is now nonchalantly draped along the back of a beaten-up brown leather sofa. He ponders his band's somewhat contrary reputation…

"I think starting the headline set at Reading with a cover of a Nick Cave tune perhaps was a bit contrary. D'youknowhat Imean?! But to be honest, that summer, at those festivals, we had a great time. And I know some fans enjoyed those sets 10 times more. And you can't just do, y’know, another Mardy Bum or whatever. Because how could you, really?"

With Humbug, notes Turner, "I went into corners I hadn't before, because I needed to see what were there," but by spring 2010 he wanted their fourth album to be "more song-based" and less lyrically "removed". He was "organised this time", studied "the good songwriters" (from Nick Cave, The Byrds and Leonard Cohen to country colossi Johnny Cash and Patsy Cline), discovered "the other three strings" on his guitar, and wrote 12 songs through the spring and summer of 2010, mostly in the fourth-floor New York flat he shared with Chung before the couple moved back to London late last summer (the New York MTV show It's On With Alexa Chung was cancelled after two seasons). The result: major-key melodies, harmonised singing and classic song structures.

At the same time he revisited the opposite extreme: bands such as Black Sabbath and The Stooges ("we wanted a few wig-outs as well"); he was also still heavily influenced by the oil-thick grinder rock of Josh Homme, who is clearly now a permanent Monkeys hero. After four months' rehearsals in London, on 8 January the Monkeys relocated to LA for five swift weeks of production and Homme came to visit, singing backing vocals on All My Own Stunts. Tequila was involved.

"Tequila is probably me favourite," manages Turner, by way of an anecdote. "But it takes a certain climate... It's not the same... in the rain. Yeah. [Looks to be contemplating a lyric] Tequila in the rain."

Vocally, he developed the caramel richness first unveiled on The Last Shadow Puppets' Scott Walker-esque The Age Of The Understatement, finding a crooner's vibrato. "Everything before was so tight,” he notes, clutching his neck. "Probably just through nerves. That's just not there any more." Suck It and See contains at least four of the most glittering, sing-along, world-class pop songs (and obvious singles) of Arctic Monkeys' career: the towering, clanging She's Thunderstorms, the summertime stunner The Hellcat Spangled Shalalala, the heavenly harmonised title track and the Echo & The Bunnymen-esque jangly pop of closer That's Where You're Wrong.

Elsewhere, in typically contrary "fashion", there's preposterous head-banger bedlam (Brick By Brick, the rollicking faux-heavy rock download they released in March "just for fun", featuring vocals by Helders; Don't Sit Down 'Cause I've Moved Your Chair, and Library Pictures). News arrives that the first single proper will be Don't Sit Down 'Cause I've Moved Your Chair. Q is perplexed. Brilliantly titled, certainly, but arriving after Brick By Brick, the new album will appear to the planet as some comedy pastiche metal album for 12-year-old boys.

You've got all these colossal, summery, indie-pop classics and you've gone for... The Chair? AT: [Laughing uproariously] "The Chair! I'm now calling it The Chair, that's cool. Well for once it weren't even our suggestion. It was Laurence's (Bell, Domino label boss). And I were, Fucking too right! He's awesome. It'd be good to get a bit of fucking rock'n'roll out there, won't it? It's riffs. It's loud. It's funny."

If you don't release The Hellcat Spangled Shalalala as a single I'm going round Domino to kick Laurence's "awesome" butt. AT: "I think it'll be the next one!"

The record's title, meanwhile, could've been more enigmatically original than the un-loved phrase Suck It and See. The band, struggling with ideas due to the opposing sonic moods, invented an inspiration-conjuring ruse: to think of new names for effects pedals in the style of Tom Wolfe, Turner being long enamoured with the American author's legendarily psychedelic books The Electric Kool-Aid Acid Test and The Kandy-Kolored Tangerine-Flake Streamline Baby, "cos that just sounds awesome".

"There's the Big Muff pedal," he elaborates, "That’s the classic. I've got the Valve Slapper. And there's the Tube Screamer. So we came up with the Thunder Suckle Fuzz Canyon. And… wait till I assemble it in me mind… em��� it'll come to me… The Blonde-O-Sonic Shimmer Trap. So we were going for summat like that."

A wasted opportunity?

"Nah. Because some of those things ended up in the lyrics anyway. Suck It and See was just easier."

Alex Turner, rock'n'roll's premier descriptive art-poet, still writes his lyrics long-hand in spiral-bound notebooks. "Writing lyrics is a craft that I've practised a bit now," he avers. "In me notebook it looks like sums. Theories. There's words and arrows going everywhere. There's always a few possibilities and I write the word 'OR' in a square."

For our most celebrated colloquial sketch-writer of the everyday observation (all betting pencils, boy slags and ice-cream van aggravations) the more successful he becomes, the less he orbits the ordinary. "I'm not struggling with that, to be honest," he decides. "In fact I'm enjoying writing lyrics much more than I did. Stories. Describing a picture. Um. There's quite a bit of weather and time in this one. Which is probably not reassuring. 'Oh God, he's writing about the weather.' Maybe leave that out!"

There are also some direct, funny, romantic observations: "That's not a skirt, girl, that's a sawn-off shotgun/And I only hope you've got it aimed at me..." (from the title track).

Some of your romantic quips, now, must be about Alexa. AT: "Right. Yeah. Definitely. Well... there's always been that side to our songs, when we weren't writing about... the fucking taxi rank. It's kind of inevitably... people you're with." [At the mention of Chung's name, Turner is visibly aggrieved, head sliding into his neck, terrapin-esque indeed.]

It must have been very grounding being in a proper relationship through all this madness. Because if you weren't, girls would be jumping all over your head. AT: "Em. Hmn. Well, of course that helps you to... I don't really know.. what the other way would be."

Does Alexa wonder if the lyrics are about her? AT: "Oh there's none of that. Yeah, no, there's no looking over the shoulder."

She must be curious, at least. "Maybe."

Did you ever watch Popworld? AT: [Nervous laughter] "Em! Now and again."

Did you ever see the episode where she helps Paul McCartney write a song about shoes? AT: "Ah, yeah I think so, maybe I did see that."

Well, if I was you, I'd have been thinking, "She's the one for me." AT: "Well. Yeah... maybe that would've... sealed the deal! Hmn. But maybe that wasn't when i got the ray of light. When was? Nah [buries head in hands]. I might have to go for a cigarette..."

Q can't torture him any more and joins him for a snout. Turner smokes Camels from a crumpled, sad, soft-pack and resembles a teenager again. As early song You Probably Couldn't See For The Lights But You Were Staring Straight At Me says, "Never tenser/Could all go a bit Frank Spencer…”

In January 2006, when Arctic Monkeys' Number 1 album Whatever People Say I Am, That's What I'm Not became the fastest-selling debut in UK history, inadvertently redefining the concept of autonomy and further imploding the decimated music industry (& wasn't their idea to be "the MySpace band", it was their fans': the Monkeys merely kick-started viral marketing by giving away demos at gigs), the 19- and 20-year-old Monkeys were terrible at fame. They weren't so much insurrectionary teenage upstarts as teenage innocents culturally traumatised by the peak-era fame democracy.

To their generation (born in the mid-'80s) fame was now synonymous with some-twat-off-the-telly a world of foaming tabloid hysteria where renown and celebrity meant, in fact, you were talentless. Hence their interview diffidence and receiving awards via videos dressed up as the Wizard OfOz and the Village People. Which only, ironically, made them even more celebrated and famous. (“That were a product of us just trying to hold onto the reins," thinks Turner today. "Being uncooperative.")

Q meets The Other Three one morning at 11am, in the well-appointed, empty bar of the Bethnal Green, Bast London hotel they're staying in (all three live in Sheffield, with their girlfriends, in their own homes). First to arrive is the industrious, sensible and cheerful Helders, crunching into a hangover-curing green apple. He has recovered from last year's boxing accident at the gym, which left his broken arm requiring a fitted plate. Now impressively purple-scarred, the break felt "interesting" and the doctor couldn't resist the one-armed drummer jest: "D'you like Def Leppard?"

Currently enjoying an enduring bromance with Diddy, he still doesn't feel famous, "it just doesn't feel that real, there's no paparazzi waiting for me to trip up." He and Turner, during the four-month rehearsals last year, became an accomplished roast dinner cooking duo for the band. "I reckon we could have us our own cookbook," he beams. "Pictures of us stirring, with a whisk."

O'Malley, an agreeable, twinkly-eyed 25-year-old with a strikingly deep voice and a winningly huge smile, is still coyly embarrassed by the interview process. A replacement for the departed original bass player Andy Nicholson in May 2006, he went from Asda shelf-filler to Glastonbury headliner in 13 months and still finds the Monkeys "a massive adventure". His life in Sheffield is profoundly normal – he's delighted that his new home since last October has an open-hearth fireplace: "Me parents had electric bars." He has also discovered cooking. “I’m just a pretty shit-hot housewife, most of the time," he smiles. "I cook stews, fish combinations, curries, chillies. I made a beef pho noodle soup the other day, Vietnamese, I surprised meself, had some mates round for that."

Recently, at his dad's 50th birthday bash, the party band, made up of family and friends, insisted he join them onstage "for ...The Dancefloor. So I were up there [mimes playing bass, all sheepish] and it were the wrong pitch, they didn't know the words or 'owt, going, Makin eyes... er..." He has no extra-curricular musical ambitions. "I'm happy just playing bass," he smiles. "I've never had the skill of doing songs meself. It'd be shit!"

Cook, 25, is still spectacularly embarrassed by the interview process. He perches upright, with a fixed nervous smile, newly shorn of the beard and ponytail he sported in LA: "Rockin' a pone, yeah, because I could get away with it." With his classic preppy haircut and dapper green military coat (from London's swish department store, Liberty), he looks like a handsome '40s film star. (Turner deems Cook "the band heartbreaker" and had a word with him post-LA: "I said to him, Come on, mate, you've got to get that beard shaved off. Get the girls back into us. Shift some posters.")

His life in Sheffield is also profoundly normal. He still plays Sunday League football with his local pub team, The Pack Horse FC (position, left back), remains in his long-term relationship with page-three-model-turned-make-up-artist Katie Downes and "potters about" at home, refusing to describe said home, "cos I'll get burgled".

A tiler by trade, he always vowed, should the Monkeys sign a deal, that he'd throw his trowel in a Sheffield river on his last day of work. "I never did fling me trowel," he confirms. "Probably still in me shed." He's never considered what his band represents to his generation. "I'd go insane thinking about it, I'm pretty good at not thinking about it… Oh God. I'm terrible at this!"

Back in the Strongroom Bar, Alex Turner is cloudily describing his everyday life. "I just keep meself to meself," he confounds. He mostly stays indoors and his perfect night in with Alexa is "watching loads of Sopranos. And doing roast dinners".

No longer spindle-limbed, he attends a gym and has handsomely well-defined arms – "You have to look after yourself."

Suddenly, Crying Lightning from Humbug rumbles over the bar stereo. "Wow. How about that? I was quite happy the other morning cos Brick By Brick were on the round-up goals on Soccer AM. It's still exciting when that happens. It was like Brick By Brick is real."

He spends his days writing music, "listening to records", and recommends Blues Run The Game by doomed '60s minstrel Jackson C Frank ("who's that lass?... Laura Marling, she did a cover recently), a simple, acoustic, deep and regretful stunner about missing someone on the road.

Lyrically, he cites as an example of greatness the Nick Cave B-side Little Empty Boat [from ‘97 single Into My Arms ], a comically sinister paean to a sexual power struggle: "Your knowledge is impressive and your argument is good/But I am the resurrection babe and you're standing on my foot."

"I need a hobby," he suddenly decides. "I'd like to learn another language." Since his mum is a German teacher (his dad teaches music), surely he can speak some German? "I know how to ask somebody if they've had fun at Christmas." Go on, then. "Nah!"

Where Turner's creative gifts stem from remains a contemporary rock'n'roll mystery; he became a fledgling songwriter at 16, after the gift of a guitar at Christmas from his parents. An only child, did his folks, perhaps, foresee artistic greatness? "I doubt it!" he balks. "Cos I didn't. I wasn't... a show kid." Like the others, he doesn't analyse the past, or the future.

"You can't constantly be thinking about what's happened," he reasons, "it's just about getting on with it." The elaborate pinky ring he now constantly wears, however, a silver, gold and ruby metal-goth corker featuring the words DEATH RAMPS is a permanent reminder of he and his best friends’ past. The Death Ramps is not only a Monkeys pseudonym and B-side to Teddy Picker, but a place they used to ride their bikes in Sheffield as kids.

"Up in the woods near where we lived," he nods. "Just little hills. But when you're eight years old they're death ramps." The ring was custom made by a friend of his, who runs top-end rock'n'roll jewellery emporium The Great Frog near London's Carnaby Street. Ask Turner why he thinks the chase between his writing and speaking eloquence is quite so mesmerisingly vast and he attempts a theory.

"Well, writing isn't the same as speaking," he muses. "Not for me. I seem to struggle more and more with... conversation. Talking onstage... I can't do it any more. Hmn. I'll have to work on that."

The ever-helpful Helders has a better theory.

"Since he's been writing songs," he ponders, “It seems like he’s always thinking about that. So even when he’s talking to you now, he’s thinking about the next thing that rhymes with a word. Even when he’s driving. We joke he’s a bad driver, his focus is never 100 per cent on what he’s doing. Which is good for us cos it means he’s got another 12 songs up his sleeve. I think music must be the easiest way for him to be concise and get everything out. Otherwise his head would explode.”

The Shoreditch.com photo studios, 18 March. Alex Turner, today, is more ethereally distracted than ever, transfixed by the studio iPod, playing Led Zeppelin, The Rolling Stones, a version of I’d Rather Go Blind. Occasionally, he’ll completely lose his conversational thread, “Um. I’ve dropped a stitch.”

The first to arrive for Q’s photoshoot, he greets his incoming bandmates with enormous hugs (and also hugs them goodbye). Today, Q feels it’s pointless poking its pickaxe of serious enquiry further into Turner’s vacuum-packed soul and wonders if he’ll play, instead, a daft game. It’s called Popworld Questions, as first posed by someone he knows rather well.

“Oh, OK. Let’s do it,” he blinks, now perched in an empty dressing room. He then vigorously shakes his head, “Um…I’ve gotta snap back into it.”

Here, then, are some genuine “Alexa Chung on Popworld” questions (2006-2007), as originally posed to Matt Willis, Amy Winehouse, Robbie Williams, Pussycat Dolls, Kaiser Chiefs and Diddy.

Why do indie bands wear such tight jeans? AT: “Um. I supposed they do. They haven’t always. When we first were playing I was definitely in flares. You need to be quite tall to get the full effect, though. So, that's why this indie band wears such tight jeans, cos we've not got the legs for flares."

What makes you tick in the sexy department? AT: "Wow. Pass. What do I find most attractive in a woman? Something in the head? That's definitely a requirement. Well... Hmn. I'm struggling."

Tell us about all the lovely groupies. AT: "No!"

If dogs had human hands instead of paws, would you consider trying to teach them to play the piano? AT: "Absolutely. I'd teach Hey Jude."

How many plums d'you think you can comfortably fit in one hand? AT: "They're not very big. [Holds small, pale, girly hand up for inspection] It's a shame. Probably three. Diddy only managed two? Maybe not then. I can carry a lot of glasses at once, though. If they're small ones I can do four."

Are you cool? AT: "Not as much as I'd like to be. There's this clip where Clint Eastwood is on a talkshow and he gets asked, Everybody thinks of you as defining cool, what d'you think about that? And he gets his cigs out, takes one out, flicks it into his mouth, lights it and says, I have no idea what you're talking about."

Here, Turner locates his Camels soft-pack and attempts to do a Clint Eastwood. He flicks one upwards towards his mouth. And misses. Flicks another. And misses. "Third time lucky?" He misses. "I'll get it the next time." And succeeds. "Hey. Fourth time. Don't put that in! So there you go. I'm four steps away from where I wanna be."

Thank you very much for joining me here on Popworld, here's my clammy hand again. There it is, let it slip, hmmn. You can let go now. AT: "OK! Were you a Popworld fan, then? It was funny. Cool. What were we talking about, before?"

Blimey, Alex. What must you be like when you're completely stoned out of your head? AT: "Stoned? What d'you mean, cos I seem like that anyway? Yeah. A lot of people... tell me I'm a bit... dreamy. But I like the idea of that. Of being somewhere else."

Two days earlier, Turner had contemplated what he wanted from all this, in the end. Many seconds later he gave his deceptively ambitious answer.

"I just wanna write better songs," he decided. "And better lyrics. I just definitely wanna be good at it. Hmn. Yeah.”

—

RUFUS BLACK: AKA Matt Helders, on his ongoing bromance with Diddy

Matt Helders has known preposterous rap titan Diddy since they met in Miami in 2008. “He goes, Arctic Monkeys! Then he said summat about a B-side and I was like, He's not lying! I just thought, This is funny, I'm gonna go with this for a while." Last October Diddy texted Helders, suggesting he play drums with his Diddy Dirty Money band on Friday Night With Jonathan Ross, to give his own drummer a day off. “I were bowling with me girifriend at the time. In Sheffield, on a Sunday." On the day of recording, says Helder, "We had a musical director. That were one of the maddest times of my life. Next day Diddy said, Why don't you just stay? Come along with me. So I went everywhere with him." Diddy had "a convoy of cars" and made sure Helders was always in his. "He'd stop his car and go, Where's Matt? You're coming with me! So I'd get in his car. Just me, him, his security, driver." Diddy, by now, had given him a pseudonym - Rufus Black. "He kept saying, I don't wanna fuck up your image. And I'm, I don't think it's gonna do me any harm!" He stayed in Diddy's spectacularly expensive hotel. Some weeks later, Helders almost returned to the Dirty Money drumstool for a gig in Glasgow. "But we were rehearsing in London. I were like, I might come, how are you getting there? And he were like, Jet. Jump on t’jet with me. But I had to stay in Bethnal Green instead.”

Love’s young dream: Diddy (left) with Helders

[mostlysignssomeportents]

Monopoly is capitalism's gerrymander

For the rest of May, my bestselling solarpunk utopian novel THE LOST CAUSE (2023) is available as a $2.99, DRM-free ebook!

You don't have to accept the arguments of capitalism's defenders to take those arguments seriously. When Adam Smith railed against rentiers and elevated the profit motive to a means of converting the intrinsic selfishness of the wealthy into an engine of production, he had a point:

https://pluralistic.net/2023/09/28/cloudalists/#cloud-capital

Smith – like Marx and Engels in Chapter One of The Communist Manifesto – saw competition as a catalyst that could convert selfishness to the public good: a rich person who craves more riches still will treat their customers, suppliers and workers well, not out of the goodness of their heart, but out of fear of their defection to a rival:

https://pluralistic.net/2024/04/19/make-them-afraid/#fear-is-their-mind-killer

This starting point is imperfect, but it's not wrong. The pre-enshittified internet was run by the same people who later came to enshittify it. They didn't have a change of heart that caused them to wreck the thing they'd worked so hard to build: rather, as they became isolated from the consequences of their enshittificatory impulses, it was easier to yield to them.

Once Google captured its market, its regulators and its workforce, it no longer had to worry about being a good search-engine – it could sacrifice quality for profits, without consequence:

https://pluralistic.net/2024/04/24/naming-names/#prabhakar-raghavan

It could focus on shifting value from its suppliers, its customers and its users to its shareholders:

https://pluralistic.net/2024/05/15/they-trust-me-dumb-fucks/#ai-search

The thing is, all of this is well understood and predicted by traditional capitalist orthodoxy. It was only after a gnostic cult of conspiratorialists hijacked the practice of antitrust law that capitalists started to view monopolies as compatible with capitalism:

https://pluralistic.net/2022/02/20/we-should-not-endure-a-king/

The argument goes like this: companies that attain monopolies might be cheating, but because markets are actually pretty excellent arbiters of quality, it's far more likely that if we discover that everyone is buying the same product from the same store, that this is the best store, selling the best products. How perverse would it be to shut down the very best stores and halt the sale of the very best products merely to satisfy some doctrinal reflex against big business!

To understand the problem with this argument, we should consider another doctrinal reflex: conservatives' insistence that governments just can't do anything well or efficiently. There's a low-information version of this that goes, "Governments are where stupid people who can't get private sector jobs go. They're lazy and entitled." (There's a racial dimension to this, since the federal government has historically led the private sector in hiring and promoting Black workers and workers of color more broadly.)

But beyond that racially tinged caricature, there's a more rigorous version of the argument: government officials are unlikely to face consequences for failure. Appointees and government employees – especially in the unionized federal workforce – are insulated from such consequences by overlapping layers of labor protection and deflection of blame.

Elected officials can in theory be fired in the next election, but if they keep their cheating or incompetence below a certain threshold, most of us won't punish them at the polls. Elected officials can further improve their odds of re-election by cheating some of us and sharing the loot with others, through handouts and programs. Elections themselves have a strong incumbency bias, meaning that once a cheater gets elected, they will likely get re-elected, even if their cheating becomes well-known:

https://www.nbcnews.com/politics/congress/gold-bars-featured-bob-menendez-bribery-case-linked-2013-robbery-recor-rcna128006

What's more, electoral redistricting opens the doors to gerrymandering – designing districts to create safe seats where one party always wins. That way, the real election consists of the official choosing the voters, not the voters choosing the official:

https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/REDMAP

Inter-party elections – primaries and other nomination processes – have fundamental weaknesses that mean they're no substitute for well-run, democratic elections:

https://pluralistic.net/2023/04/30/weak-institutions/

Contrast this with the theory of competitive markets. For capitalism's "moral philosophers," the physics by which greedy desires led to altruistic outcomes was to be found in the swift retribution of markets. A capitalist, exposed to the possibility of worker and customers defecting to their rival, knows that their greed is best served by playing fair.

But just as importantly, capitalists who don't internalize this lesson are put out of business and superceded by better capitalists. The market's invisible hand can pat you on the head – but it can also choke you to death.

This is where monopoly comes in. Even if you accept the consumer welfare theory that says that monopolies are most often the result of excellence, we should still break up monopolies. Even if someone secures an advantage by being great, that greatness will soon regress to the mean. But if the monopolist can extinguish the possibility of competition, they can maintain their power even after they cease deserving it.

In other words, the monopolist is like a politician who wins power – whether through greatness or by deceit – and then gerrymanders their district so that they can do anything and gain re-election. Even the noblest politician, shorn of accountability, will be hard pressed to avoid yielding to temptation.

Capitalism's theory proceeds from the idea that we are driven by our self-interest, and that competition turns self-interest into communal sentiment. Take away the competition, and all that's left is the self-interest.

I think this is broadly true, even though it's not the main reason I oppose monopolies (I oppose monopolies because they corrupt our democracy and pauperize workers). But even if capitalism's ability to turn greed into public benefit isn't the principle that's uppermost in my mind, it's what capitalists claim to believe – and treasure.

I think that most of the right's defense of monopolies stems from cynical, bad-faith rationalizations – but there are people who've absorbed these rationalizations and find them superficially plausible. It's worth developing these critiques, for their sake.

If you'd like an essay-formatted version of this post to read or share, here's a link to it on pluralistic.net, my surveillance-free, ad-free, tracker-free blog:

https://pluralistic.net/2024/05/18/market-discipline/#too-big-to-care

[ellesthots]

Fateful Beginnings

XXXVII. “Luminol”

parts: previous / next

plot: the Batman investigates a string of murders. Bruce gets protective attending the first rally for Gotham’s mayoral election.

pairing: battinson!bruce wayne x fem!reader

cw: 18+, blood, description of injury (crime scene stuff), anxiety, rumination, sexual content

words: 14k

a/n: a chapter entirely Bruce’s perspective 🤭 y’all are gonna like this one 👀 getting to dive into his mind was so fun 🦇

His body lit up like a string of lights. His body, your hands. Up his stomach to his chest, down his shoulder and arm…

He couldn’t shake the look in your eyes when you’d grabbed his hand, panicked, searching him for comfort. God, he was used to people seeking him out for solace, safety; he was used to being made into a symbol of reassurance, even hope. But when you looked at him that same way, it was different. Like somehow the weight of the world rested in it.

You texted him a picture of frozen carrots, joking about the additional vitamins. He responded with a joke about peas being more effective, before blinking back into his environment and staring at his phone in disbelief. This was what was taking up his time? He was still on patrol. Not only that, but he was half in the suit, in public.

He clicked his armor back in and donned the cowl. The rest of the night was spent in near-total isolation, with Gordon unable to be contacted besides the brief run-in at the subway station. He wondered how he had time to respond to a call like that, but not to return his messages. Must’ve already been in the area.

All he had to do was drive in the area near vandalists for them to buckle. He never found much joy in things like that—it felt routine. Droplets of rain peppered his windshield, giving him more attention than anyone in Gotham the entire night. It was like the city was asleep. Not right. He drove, and drove, and tried to contact anyone on the GCPD to no avail. Something really wasn’t right; they hated to hear from Batman, that was evident, but they never declined a late-night call, just as desperate to get their hands dirty.

What started as a usual patrol dissolved into a hunt for any officer. Just as the first streams of dawn were peeking behind the clouds, he spotted a patrol car in front of a diner. An officer was fishing something out of their vehicle, and he squinted at the incoming headlights, throwing a hand over his eyes. He didn’t recognize the man; he looked young, a new hire. GCPD hadn’t hired anyone new in ages. The last time had been right after the flooding.

Once he realized the Batman was approaching, the man choked on something, knocking his chest to catch his breath. He made his voice gravelly, a movement so instinctual he never thought about it; when he entered the suit, he entered the voice—until you came around, apparently.

“Where’s Gordon?”

The man’s eyes flashed, and he swallowed back the last of his spit. His eyes were red, strained. He’d been up all night. Not unusual for new hires, a sort of hazing. He shook his head, his shoulders slumping. He wouldn’t make eye contact, staring at the bat’s leather boots.

“Haven’t met him yet, I don���t know. I can ca—”

He growled under his breath, turning on his heel to return to his car. He slammed into the driver’s side and jammed on the gas, ripping past the officer. He’d already cleared the area near the subway, trying to uncover any cleverly disguised patrol cars, had the scanner blasting through the speakers, but nothing revealed itself. It didn’t track, leaving him drowning in an unsettled, ruffled headspace. Were they intentionally hiding something from him?

When he arrived back at Wayne Tower, he was wired and unsatisfied. He worked through the morning, searching every index, newspaper, and engine for leads. Whatever this was, it was under wraps.

But if it was big, why wouldn’t he be clued in? Gordon never failed to elicit his support for a gruesome, intense, or mysterious case. It had to be one of those, because menial crimes didn’t have all hands on deck like this.

Nothing.

Nothing.

Nothing.

He got up to put on his hoodie and jacket again, head to the station, bike around town, but Alfred had a sixth sense; already walking out of the elevator with a mug of tea that spread the scent of lavender about the basement. Bruce smelt him before hearing the clip of his cane.

“You need some shuteye.” The soft slurp of the drink eviscerated his eardrums, irritability coating him like flaking skin.

“I’m fine.”

“You’ll focus better.”

Bruce pressed on, the pit in his stomach sinking deeper. His brain was crowded, but empty. Filled with nothing real, nothing tangible. Exhausted from scrolling, searching, driving, looking, with no information to chew on. He wouldn’t rest until he got an answer on why the GCPD was freezing him out.

“You need to take care of yourself.”

Need this, need that. He hid his balled fists in the baggy clumps of his jacket, grabbing the scarf from the bench with a snap. He wasn’t halfway through wrapping it when Alfred cleared his throat. Bruce wasn’t looking back, instead rolling his eyes to the ceiling. They’d have another argument if the old man kept this up. He wasn’t a child, and the events of the past week hadn’t changed that.

“Bruce.”

He still refused to look, tying the scarf at the back and flipping up his hood. The weather today would be cloudy, the cloudiest it’d been in months. He finally had the backdrop to get work done during the day. Something to busy him—shit. He cast his eyes down and slammed past Alfred, all but punching the button to the foyer. Trying hard not to think about it, he rushed to the cabinet closest to the sink and took his meds, lowering his head to drink straight from the spout. As the water glided the olanzapine into his stomach, he thought how the only reason he was taking it was to alleviate your suffering. It hadn’t been pleasant having the hallucinations, but every pill taken felt like a deeper acceptance of his decaying mind. He did his best to force dissociation.

He grabbed an apple off the table and was met with Alfred blocking the elevator doors.

“If you don’t let me go, I’ll take the stairs.”

“Look at yourself, boy. You’re worn thin.” Bruce’s frame was turned in, shoulders slumped, bags under his eyes. His voice was thick with exhaustion, frayed. Red flag after red flag. Alfred wouldn’t let the boy be so careless without a fight, if that was what this came to.

He needed to keep moving; every moment of stillness, of silence, felt like nails scraping his skull. He took a hard right and walked through the kitchen hallway, frustrated to hear footsteps following. “Alfred, that’s enough.” He tried to keep his tone leveled, not tip off just how frustrated he was, how close he was to turning and ripping Alfred a new one, or breaking down into tears. The feeling of grief hadn’t left him since the cemetery, save the fleeting blip of time where you’d careened into the alley, panicked. He wanted to stop thinking about that, too.

Alfred called after him. The man was fast when he wanted to be, and he heard him pick up speed. He said something else Bruce ignored, shoving through the door to the staircase, rushing down flight after flight, his chest starting to burn as he got closer to the ground, dozens of stairs slipping under the sole of his boots every few seconds. He tripped on the last stair and fell out the door, grating his palms against the cement. The stairs led to a side exit not viewable from the front or back, with a cloak of trees lining his escape.

Thankfully, he thought ahead for circumstances like these. In case the tunnels ever flooded, or the ceiling collapsed, or Alfred was being particularly obtrusive, he kept a car and motorbike stowed a quarter mile away. Every step made the tower less loud, creating space for him to prioritize, hone in on the mission. Figure out what the hell’s going on. What’s keeping the GCPD locked up.

The bike took a second to start, requiring some finicky tinkering before it would do more than rev up and die. Soon enough he was speeding into downtown, wanting to stake out the station in the central city. Gordon’s office resided there, though he often vacillated between there and the east side. If his personal car wasn’t parked in the garage, he’d ride east.

And there it was. Good as gold. A beat-up old Honda. Ice had crusted over the windshield from the chill the night before. Pulled an all-nighter. He rarely did that on weekends, opting to spend it with his family unless… Christ, what the hell was going on?

He didn’t expect Gordon to walk out right then, and cursed himself for not having the suit. Gordon got in the police car closest to the building doors, Martinez trailing behind looking beat. He held a lidless paper cup of black coffee in his left hand, his badge stretching out the pocket on his jacket. Might’ve even been the second, or third day on patrol. Running on fumes. The lip on Martinez’s coffee was worn and soaked, the paper uncurling and soggy. Far from his first cup.

Waiting a few seconds after they pulled out, Bruce dallied in front of the police doors on his bike, pretending it wouldn’t start to take a quick peek through the windows. It was empty, save the security and receptionist. He sped off a few seconds later, following the glow of the taillights through the fog.

Tailing cops was easy, tailing Gordon wasn’t. He had to stay further back than he wanted, take turns only to turn back, cut the lights, either far enough removed to turn a street before, or close enough to their bumper he had to keep on past when they stopped. This drive was quick and dirty. Not long, very specific. Turns he didn’t think he would take, every time.

They landed at a house that looked like it was still recovering from the flood—the beige paint had faded into a peely pink, shingles broken off the roof, windows patched together with duct tape. He watched as Gordon and Martinez entered, the door opening off only one hinge. A small child was in the doorway holding a raggedy stuffed bear, and someone who looked like their sibling stood above them, holding their shoulders. He reached into the inside pocket of his jacket and pulled out a pair of binoculars, seeing on the zoom that their faces were blotchy and red, eyes puffy. Someone had died there.

That was when he noticed a flash of yellow tape in the kitchen, before the older child pulled the door shut. Unable to see through the taped-up front windows and no more being visible on the bottom floor, he pulled out his phone and searched the residence. Current renter was Raina Altruss, who appeared to be a lunch lady at the elementary school nearby. No arrest records, not even a speeding ticket. It couldn’t have been anyone else, unless she was so moved by grief that she’d let her small children open the door for the officers. Why weren’t they being taken to the station? Was a social worker already on the way, or were they letting that slip, too?

Murders took a decent chunk of time to investigate, even in the acute phase. Especially so if she’d had an abusive partner, less if it was a suicide, but that wasn’t typical for single mothers here; too attached to their children and desperate to protect in a city so dangerous, but who knew. Certainly he didn’t.

There wasn’t much he could get done outside of the suit, and he couldn’t very well get into it during the day… and he didn’t know how much longer Gordon would be on shift. His gait was dragging across the mangled porch, eyelids heavy. She was listed as having two children, now orphaned. He hated the thought of going back home so soon, but saw no way around it. He needed to get working on the emergency planning, nap, and have a bite before heading out tonight. Days that were this uneventful meant trouble would soon follow, and going to a murder scene in broad daylight wasn’t an option. Restless, kinetic energy climbed through the trees on his drive home.

He slept down in the basement, not wanting Alfred to know he’d arrived. He kept a makeshift cot tucked under the desk; whenever Alfred noticed it was out, he complained that Bruce would ‘break his back’ on it, but he was tired enough between patrols to not notice. This time was no different, drifting off the second he’d set his alarm.

He slept hard, without dreams.

Only a few hours of sleep later, he was back to prepping. No more info came up about Altruss, or much else for that matter. He was left staring at the emergency planning document with weary, tired eyes, mind blank. He tackled what he assumed was the easiest one first, but he couldn’t come up with an orienting item. He looked around the basement, felt the weightiness of different tools, pens, and other miscellaneous items, but nothing felt tethering. Only after working through the dusty bottoms of old cardboard boxes did he find one: his old cufflinks, the W loud and proud. The surface just smooth enough, just rough enough. It felt significant in his fingers, cold, heavy, hollow.

As he rolled it between his finger and thumb, heat pricked his eyelids, and his breathing shallowed before he could register it. Memories of his father’s first campaign rally, the bend of his knee as he crouched to hand Bruce a small package with a blue velvet bow. His mom was putting in earrings by the door with one hand, the other wrestling on her heels. She always had trouble getting them over the heel of her left foot, and he never knew why. His dad helped him attach the cuffs to the wrist of his jacket, and ruffled his hair as he stood. He clinked Bruce’s wrist with his own pair, and Bruce grinned, pulling his smile into the one he’d rehearsed in the mirror that morning. “Your father’s going to be on TV, honey. We all have to look our best.” She’d pulled a tight smile in the mirror, and he mimicked it.

As he was pulled back to the gray concrete around him, he thought miserably that his orienting item could be the throbbing ache in his chest. His eyes swept around the room, and he swore he could hear the echo of his breathing in the emptiness. His stomach began to clench and twist, the sensation that never failed to precede a guttural cry and blurry, fragmented vision. He pocketed the cufflinks and walked back to the computer to check it off the list. His mouse squeaked against the metal as his fingers slipped to the edge of the desk, head hung as he winced, feeling like he was breathing through a straw.

In a tinny blur, he shoved his weight into his elbows to push him upright. Ignoring the cues in his body to slow down, to sit, to feel, he grabbed the ear of his cowl.

It was still light, so he found refuge in the watchtower. He sent a message to Gordon about being available, and needing to discuss something urgent, intentionally keeping it vague. The suit felt heavier tonight, as the wind whizzed around the edges of his towering frame, staring down the interweaving streets. Every time a thought threatened to form, he focused on another pedestrian, another street. In secret, trying to hide from the parts of him with a screaming conscience, he begged for violence. Someone to throw a punch at someone smaller, someone vulnerable. An arsonist to light a house so he could run inside, grab the kids, usher out the parents, feel the weight of the held door on his hip, let his mind quiet.

His prayer was answered with the rattle of the elevator’s ascent. Gordon walked through with a rush, his shoulders slumped more than before, his footing unsteady. “Hey man, sorry. Had to book it from the subway last night. Been swamped.”

“Too swamped to return a call?”

Gordon sighed, the end of it hoarse, depleted. “I only have a minute, thought to tip you off.” His glasses were smudged and fogged. “String of murders, same as the John Doe. Strung up by knives.” He made a face and pulled his glasses off, cleaning them on the bottom of his jacket. When he put them on, they weren’t much better.

Batman had to clench his fists, slam his tongue to the roof of his mouth, as his thoughts flew to the handles. Gordon motioned for him to come over, pulling a folded packet out of his breast pocket. He held his gaze at the ground a second longer, thoughts spiraling over if they’d have the owl insignia. Gordon was already beginning to fold them up as quickly as he took them out, so he was forced to glance over—

—empty, undisturbed handles on the same knives. He let out a breath as Gordon walked over to the elevator, motioning for him to follow. “Headed to another right now, last stop for the night. Only a few blocks.”

Consumed by more crushing confirmation that he’d lost his mind, he was grateful Gordon was barely standing, without reserve to perceive him. There’d never been marks on the knives. His mind had put them there. The creature hadn’t attacked him, he’d been alone. He stared at some graffiti by the CALL button, ruminating on its outline to create more distance between him and his thoughts.

He paid attention to the puddles of light from the streetlights on the short drive. Would’ve counted the cracks in the windows he passed if he’d been going any slower. This house wasn’t as dilapidated as the last one, but still disheveled. Another vehicle had already arrived with the officer from the diner. He felt the weight of his cape tugging on his neck with each thudding step.

Walking into the scene, the first thing he noticed was the victim strung up in the same fashion as the John Doe. Knives peppering the outer edges of the body, outlining the frame with throwing knives. The handles were smooth and unaffected. The Batman stepped closer, moving his breathing from his nose to his mouth. He sidestepped the forensics team beginning to work across the kitchen, moving to see the areas of impact on the victim’s body.

Everything was clean but the puncture areas, and their blood fallout. On immediate notice, his eyes followed the passive pattern of the stains across the victim’s body–whoever had done this had done it fast enough that the stains were strictly linear, undisturbed. He overheard Gordon talking to the lead, murmuring something about the victim ‘strung up like a dartboard’. “If it weren’t for the blood stain in the corner, it’s almost like the assailant stuck him there in space.”

His gaze analyzed the drip pattern in the stains down the victim’s body–they fell behind the woman toward the wall, though she was upright. She was on her back when it happened. Blood in a steady, linear stream. On the ground long enough for it to dry. His eyes trailed down to her ankles, where the blood was moving backwards, curved and zigzagged against her brown skin. She was lifted up by her ankles. The blood was darker and more clotted than the stains on her shoulders. Those wounds happened first. He leaned his head down to peek at her fingernails–clean, manicured. Hadn’t put up a fight–at least hadn’t gotten a hand on them, or anything else.

His eyes caught next on a hoodie placed on the dining table to her right. The table was clean, at least without visible stains. His gloved fingers picked up the hoodie. Static stain. Even, circular edges. He flipped the hoodie over–no transfer to the textile. Whoever did this stuck around a while.

A soft movement of air from his left side, an analyst approached with a ruler, donned in a white coverall and mask. After she snapped a few photos with her camera, her gloved hands lined the ruler through the brown dots on the glass countertop. Long axis. He squinted. Four millimeters. He waited for her to move to the width. Two millimeters. She grabbed her pencil beside her and jotted the measurements down. Four over two: point five. Arcsin of point five is thirty. “Thirty degrees.” He kept his voice low, but she still startled. He repeated himself. “Convergence is thirty.”

He stared down at the ruled lines as she double-checked his work herself. His eyes roughly mapped the distance from the edge of the stain to the convergence. Twenty-two. Tangent of twenty-two… “Origin’s fourteen point four two.” Whoever the perp was, they wanted to experience it. Close to the victim. Possibly personal. Possible bludgeoning.

Just below the tabletop, he noted a small cluster of droplets pooled on the wood floor. Spiny outer ring, pooled closest to dining room door. Drag marks faint toward the wall. She’d been dragged up to it after being attacked by the dining table. The analyst finished writing down the same number as he had, stowing her calculator in the front pocket of the coverall.

He stepped a few feet back from the body to see if any stains dripped to the floor, but found nothing. A tingle shot up his spine. Numerous knives jammed through the perimeter of victim’s flesh. Some blood trailed down around the punctures. Nothing on the ground underneath. On the quick sweep of the room, he didn’t notice anyone else calculating splatters. Nothing appeared on the ceiling, either.

Not enough blood for the stabbings to have finished it.

Gordon wandered over with his notebook, noticing the rapid movement of Batman’s eyes across the room, waiting until it lingered on the floor in front of him before speaking. “What do you think?” Gordon noticed the sweatshirt placed alongside the blood splatter, having watched him remove it a minute earlier. “Not very smart. Thinking someone wouldn’t check underneath the hoodie.”

He grunted. “It’s no amateur.” Gordon followed as he did a sweep around the room, nothing catching his naked eye. He wondered if they’d do Luminol on this one, or if they didn’t think a layperson important enough. The only discernible bloodstains were on the table, just underneath, and painting the skin of the victim. Strange. “Killer knew just where to hit. Avoided major vessels. That many knives, it’s purposeful.” He walked to the victim and the table again, keeping his eyes wide with slow, sweeping looks to further analyze once he got home. He paused with Gordon on his way to the rest of the house. “Wanted us to discount them. Cheapened their work.”

“You think they placed the sweatshirt there on purpose?”

“Look at the blood patterns on the victim. Stains on the ground. She was dragged by her feet, strung up after. Shoulder wounds happened on the ground. No signs of struggle or aspiration. Tell the team to use Luminol. Swab and test it.”

The lead had heard Batman, looking at him apprehensively before rustling through a bag at the entryway. He followed Gordon’s step back for the analyst to compute the convergence and origin of the ground stain, and another assistant to snap photos, grab samples. A few minutes later the liquid was being sprayed, the analyst moving to dim the lights.

Absolutely nothing.

He felt a chill underneath his suit, his heart rate quickening. Sweat beaded on the back of his neck, excitement stretching from his core to the tips of his fingers. Interesting. Either they’d died from blood loss and the killer was a professional, or they’d died from less visible, traceable means, and this was some kind of performance art. Whatever it was, it was intentional, and they knew what they were doing.

“Victim needs a full internal exam. Not enough blood loss, likely killed by something else.” He looked to see a window cracked in the far corner of the adjoining living area. Open floor plan. Carbon monoxide? But a cracked window would give the method away. He looked to the oven, seeing no brown or yellow stains. Likely coming from a water heater, furnace, or dryer. He walked through the living room to the window, his gaze lingering at the sill, the same analyst following in tow. She pulled out a duster and black powder, and started searching for prints.

He walked through the hallway to the laundry room, where he found nothing. He followed the door it went through to the garage, but there was no car. He checked the heater, but nothing was out of order. Clean, well-maintained, no scent anywhere in the house besides the copper sting of blood around the victim. If it was poisoning, must’ve brought in a generator.

He passed through to the windowsill again, the black powder picking up a single half-print on the left-corner of the sill. Unusual gripping point to lift. Half, but clear–left like a gift for even the most novice crime-scene investigator. Suspicious.

A remote was placed underneath the sill; after the assistant came to photograph the analyst’s work, the Batman grabbed the remote, flicking on the television.

Channel 5 news. Looked live. Nothing of note, talking about the weather. Nothing on the chyron at the bottom of the screen. Volume set to five. The five on the keypad was worn-in. Could be coincidence. Popular news channel, especially living on the east side. Volume kept low. Or maybe they heard an intruder coming and lowered the volume. He held the remote out to look for any marks, and sure enough, there were faint oils from a fingerprint on the VOLUME DOWN arrow. He handed the analyst the remote, gesturing with his eyeline to her duster, and made his way out the front door.

Walking the perimeter of the house gave nothing away. No tracks outside the window where anything was laid or rolled, and no visible impressions in the front, sides, or back yard grass to establish any sort of intrusion. The killer entered through the front, and left the same. Everything itched all the right–and wrong–spots in his brain, feeling the gears in his head begin to turn. It could take days for the print’s results to come back, the same for the coroner’s report.

He walked back in and surveyed the living area again. Nothing out of the ordinary outside of the haphazardly placed remote, placed just so that it could have fallen off the arm of the couch—if the investigators were idealists. Batman wasn’t.

He did a last look around the kitchen, noting everything in place. Not a single item or square foot in the house glared back at him. The killer didn’t mess around. In and out, but long enough for the blood to dry. Disturbing nothing save what they wanted to—the window, the table, and the body.

As the forensics team cleaned up, a medical examiner walked in with trainees in tow. Their eyes were wide and bright, and they fiddled with their gloves and masks like they were worried they weren’t on correctly. Lot of newbies today. Didn’t sit right, not at all.

He followed Gordon out, and stood between their respective vehicles to give report. “Same as the last three.”

Three? “Why wasn’t I called to them?”

“It’s been a long night, man. It was either call you, or eat.” He flipped through his spiral again, flipping past the front pages where Bruce had given his statement earlier. He wanted to push him harder, make it known he needed to be called into these crimes. Did they not realize he’d pieced together more for the GCPD in the past year than the decade they’d been left to their own devices? Gordon didn’t leave space for him to push. “Same situation. Victims strung up by knives, little evidence otherwise. First time we recovered a print, though.”

“None on the knife handle?”

Gordon shook his head. “We’ll get the print looked at ASAP. Should only be a coupla hours, but don’t get your hopes up.”

Batman tucked into an adjacent street and accessed his computer via phone. The hum of the police scanner in the background tugged at the outskirts of his attention as he pored over the victim’s names of the past few days. Gordon had given him the names of the victims, in order.

Ulysses Ecuatorro

Bradley Yates

Raina Altruss

Elizabeth Weiss

Hours of searching later, he couldn’t pin a golden thread between them. None in related fields, no glaring convictions. Yates had a speeding ticket, Ecuatorro a DUII three years earlier. They spanned age groups, and were scattered across town in a way he couldn’t find a pattern in. That in and of itself was a pattern. An observation.

Altruss was a lunch lady; looking at her social media, news of her death had already reached friends and family. Messages of love poured in, with varying other Altruss’ family members commenting on how great they would take care of her children, ‘in her honor’. He moved away from Altruss quickly.

Weiss had a kid too—he blinked, typing that into a different tab. Each person had children, that was a common thread. How had he overlooked that? Weiss was recently divorced, with a daughter who’d just celebrated her tenth birthday not two weeks earlier. One of the comments stuck out to him: Many blessings, Lizzie. Babygirl is in good hands. Could be a normal message, could not. According to her socials, the divorce process was speedy; in the span of two months, she’d filed, and it’d been completed. Her name had been changed the next day. Desperate to escape him? Most of her posts regarded ‘mental health awareness’. Gaslit her? Manipulated her? Abused her? Records showed joint custody. No big halts on either party’s end. Seemed to be in agreement. If it had been that easy to agree, why’d they get divorced at all? The man was an ex-cop. Propensity to violence. Marvin O’Lander. Graduate of GU. Degree in business. Failed business venture? Took it out on his family? Police work appeared to be a second-choice—such celebration at graduating, plans of a business, then… nothing. Bruised ego. Lots of opportunity in that. Then why the appreciative comment from his side of the family? Was it appreciative? Threatening? They were mutual friends on socials. An ally? Double-crosser? All of the kids were under the age of ten, but no further discernible pattern. Varied income levels. Varied neighborhoods. Varied cultural backgrounds. Varied ages at time of death. Varied relationship status. Varied interests. Varied social presence. Though… everyone was being mourned in droves. Ecuatorro, Yates, Altruss, Weiss. Valued community members. Engaged in their communities. Serving others in some fashion. His eyes fuzzed staring fixedly at the small screen, his shoulders, back, body tense. Where’s the tension stemming? Stomach? Chest? Throat? Stomach. Cinch in stomach. Tight, coiled, like a spring ready to bounce. Tingles again, up arm and shoulders. Altruss. Ecuatorro. Yates. Weiss. Yates, Ecuatorro, Altruss, Weiss. Weiss, Altruss, Ecuatorro, Yates. Any pattern in the names? Order of their deaths? Ecuatorro. Yates. Altruss. Weiss. Raina, Elizabeth, Bradley, Ulysses. Four victims so far. Channel five. Volume five. Five victims? One left to be found? Did the names—

Gordon rang. “Print’s back. Tech said it was one of the clearest they’ve ever run.” Prints never came back that fast, no matter how clear.

With calculated speed, he arrived to the residence of Cecilia Natividad, a woman who lived as far North as the city stretched. He got there before any officers, cutting through back streets and jamming the gas with what was perceived as reckless abandon; in reality, he noticed the color of every tree that passed, the name of every street corner, could re-identify each pedestrian that (rarely) appeared with a nearly photographic accuracy. He felt electric, alive.

The residence was quaint, single-story. A cat peeked up from the porch, blinking sleepily while they stretched. The door was already open. He pressed his back to it as he slunk in, the cat slipping behind him, making a beeline to a closed door to the left of the kitchen doorway. The TV was off, the house silent. He opened his palm, making sure the taser was accessible on a fast grab. He held his breath, his chest puffing, as he peered around the corner… to an empty kitchen. The house was smaller than it looked on the outside; one bedroom to the left, with a closed door, and one to the right, wide open. The cat was lingering by the closed one, going so far as to meow for him to pay attention. He ignored the animal, and crept into the open bedroom first.

Nothing. Undisturbed bedroom, undisturbed bathroom outside of it in the mini hallway. He felt his shoulders squeeze in as his eyes scanned the entirety of the space. Not much room to walk, low ceilings, stuffy carpet. The carpet held heavy track lines from the front door to the couch, the couch to the kitchen, and the kitchen to the far bedroom. The person who lived here liked routine; whatever child he assumed they had was either too small to walk.. no, no baby toys. No toys at all. The bedroom looked neutral, nondescript. The child was old enough to be done with fairytale and spontaneity. Old enough to be out of the house for the time being. Another divorcee? Joint custody? Full custody? His hand hovered above the doorknob; the putrid stench of thick, fresh blood revealed itself as a mural on the wall with two letters: C N, with an exclamation point. The C was separate to the N, which was almost flush to the exclamation. His eyes hung there, the sensation of dreadful realization washing over him before his mind caught up.

C _ _ _ _ _ N_!

The woman was stamped to the wall in the same way. No blood pooling beneath, blood spills across her skin in the same pattern. This was the same killer, beyond the shadow of a doubt. He walked closer to the mural, noting the indent in the blood on the dot of the punctuation mark. He spun around to the click of a gun, Martinez and Gordon the first to enter the house. He scowled, never failing to be frustrated at their attachment to lethal means. They tucked their guns into their holsters with a disheartened sigh, Martinez containing his eyes to the floor, swallowing back what he assumed was bile. His nose scrunched to confirm his evaluation.

“Jesus.” Gordon adjusted his glasses and drew a breath, his cheeks expanding as he held it to walk closer. “Same damn thing…”

”Prints in the exclamation point. Have the investigators pull there.” The Batman huffed, his mind suddenly foggy. Her initials, not a next victim… He mapped the spaces between the letters by the width of those already there, and judged the word’s length. C_ _ _ _ _ N_!

Martinez squinted as his eyes adjusted to the room’s bright lighting. “CN? Her name’s on the house. Identifiable.”

C……….N…….

A pattern. In the names. Cecilia Natividad. Bradley Yates. He envisioned a game of hangman, dropping letters into the air. BY. UE. RA. EW. CN.

Bruce Wayne. Fuck.

He bolted out to his car as forcefully as was possible without drawing too much attention. The letters were placed too transparently. It was too obvious. Writing the letters out like that. Too obvious when everything else wasn’t. Hiding in plain sight. The killer wanted to send a message to Bruce Wayne, an unmissable one. He careened back to Wayne Tower while he furiously rung Alfred. Miserable flashbacks hit him like bombs as he shouted for him to answer, voice going hoarse. He picked up, and Bruce had never been so grateful to not hear Dory’s voice.

“Bruce?—”

”Are you okay?” He couldn’t cover the strain in his voice, or the crack at the end of it, or the tears forming in his tear ducts in the milliseconds between his question and Alfred’s answer.

“Yes,”

“There’s another serial killer. I’m his next target. Don’t let anybody, or anything in or out. Tighten security.”

Alfred agreed, and the few minutes between hanging up and driving into the basement felt like purgatory. He resisted the urge to compulsively call Alfred every fifteen seconds, his counting never going past that. Alfred. Alfred. Alfred. Alfred. Alfred. Alfred. Pulling onto the wide road into downtown from the industrial district, he fixed his attention to the top of Wayne Tower. Searching for fumes, fire, anything. At one point a cloud had moved to obscure the top levels, and he felt like he might faint.

He could’ve dry-heaved with relief when Alfred stood at his desk with another mug of tea in hand, moving out of the way as he parked the car at his work station. “Killer targeting you? I read your notes after alerting security.” Bruce pulled off his cowl and sank onto the bench, dragging a towel across his face and hair to soak up the sweat before it rendered him sightless. “Why?”

“There’s a theme. Everyone murdered was a single parent. Only victim with a partner on record is Weiss. Orphaned. Under the age of ten. Initials spell out my name. In full.”

“Do the police know about this?”

“Not yet. Unless someone put the pieces together.” And judging by the level of sheer exhaustion in every officer… unlikely. He got to work straightaway, sending a message first to Gordon about getting that print out of the blood as soon as possible. Would it be a print of his? Someone else? The number ‘five’ swirled in his head. If the killer was declaring another victim, wouldn’t it be six?

Second-guessing himself, feeling his gears turn but doubting his judgment more than ever, he wrote out the names and their initials, plugging in the contacts and pulling up the blood mural on the wall. He motioned for Alfred to come closer. “What do you make of it?”

“Appears to spell out your name. Pretty exactly.”

So he wasn’t crazy. He wasn’t paranoid. Not everything was in his head.

The electrum tab jolted back into view as he revved up his computer for the night ahead. He sent another message to Gordon, who hadn’t yet responded, about checking the victim’s mouth for metal. Alfred hummed behind, wanting to convince the boy to rest his mind while knowing it was a fruitless endeavor, a task that would only strain. Bruce didn’t even hear him leave.

He didn’t know how long it had been, but he knew the smell of Alfred’s afternoon tea. “You’ve been up all night? It’s midday, Bruce.”

Sunday. Midday. Almost time to ready the car, don the suit. He clicked around the various documents littering his screen, his mind on the same loop as before, with no new information. It was grating him. Gordon had responded an hour after the fact, letting him know he checked, and no such luck. No visible fillings or caps, nothing except dead mouth. The autopsy would be given priority due to the sheer scale of the situation and its ongoing nature, but not fast enough. If they were any less invasive, he’d learn how to do them himself and sneak into the coroner’s office to perform them. Couldn’t be that hard, right? At minimum he needed toxicology. What was in each of their systems? What had killed them? He had a few theories, none of which seemed particularly promising. He had such a feeling that this would become more unusual as time went on. How much could he trust that feeling? Could he trust any of his instincts now? How would the medication affect them? Was he useless? Could he attune to his intuition no longer? Was this threat empty, or was it dense, packed, full, stuffed, overflowing, waiting for the one lead that would take him there, the one thing he was overlooking, the piece that was the rug to pull; the diagram-exposing, secret-message encoded video before the bombs went off, that he was too late to catch, what if he was too late now, what if there were more being murdered as he thought this? He needed to call Gordon again, needed to get someone to patch him in—

“Bruce.”

His strained eyes felt like sandpaper with every blink, his eyelid sticking to his inflamed, bruised eyes. He’d made the text of the documents larger, easier to see. Still nothing on electrum. Really? Nothing? Must not be finding it. Looked in all the papers Alfred has, the entire archive of papers from the Gazette and the Times… but only searched until the hundredth page of results. Could search more. Haven’t seen them all. Need to. Three hours ‘til sundown. Might be able to get that done. Need to stake out the residences. Check on Weiss’ husband. Everyone’s so unusually normal. Nothing stands out. Only things that stand out are relevant to the Wayne family, to their murder. Everything had been so uniform. He blinked as he pulled up the images from his contacts and the faxed photos from Gordon of each of their bodies, right next to each other. Placed at the same height against the wall. Same placement on their bodies. Same dragging puncture wounds on their calves—up. Stains down everywhere else. No sign of aspiration. No sign of struggle. If only Gordon got better pictures of their hands. Had any of them struggled? No signs of it. No signs of anything now matter how long he looked at them, no matter how close he got to the screen, how much he zoomed in, out, left, right—

“Bruce!”

What the hell was it? What had killed them? Why hadn’t they hit a single artery? Why no signs of struggle? No fight? No one home at time of death. Able to stick around long enough to wait for blood to dry, just how they wanted it to. Luminol wasn’t foolproof though. Could’ve been a professional; again, which professional? He’d scoured the lists of forensic analysts in the state, students studying forensics, history of discharges at different government agencies around town. Who wanted to threaten him? They couldn’t know he was Batman, right? That thing that attacked, it felt so real… that was something adept at fighting. Knowing their enemy. But that wasn’t real. It wasn’t. Was it related to his parents? The Riddler? He’d already ruled that out. He was still in Arkham, rotting where he belonged. He’d checked. Everything was in place. Nothing had changed, but this. He’d had to confirm with Gordon that the letters had been correct. That the mural was there. Even confirming with Alfred, he was worried his infected mind was contagious, that Alfred and him were living in some sort of surreal state, that the walls of the, maybe the walls, the walls of the building, maybe they had mold. He needed to follow up on that. Mold poisoning, that fucks with people. That kills people. Maybe the appliances were leaking something. Alfred could check that. Would he check it well enough? He needed to check it himself, and pulled out a notepad to add to the to-do list.

His pen dragged a jagged line on the yellowed paper when Alfred placed a heavy hand on his shoulder. He jumped, cricking his neck with the turn toward him. “What?” He looked down at the list, thinking he might be able to get them all tidied up by tonight. Tonight’s patrol would be busy, and hopefully not boring. Hopefully there was something. Anything. A crumb. A whisper. Something fake to follow, even. No. That would distract from the real lead he needed to uncover; why couldn’t he see it? Why was every direction leading nowhere? He’d had more stuff on the Riddler, Joker, Penguin, even Annika and Selina. On the Falcones. Maronis. He always had somewhere to go. But this had absolutely fucking nothing.

“If you won’t sleep, eat. I made an early dinner.”

“I don’t have time for that.”

“You need rest, and you need food.”

“I’m not hungry.”

“You haven’t eaten all weekend.”

“I had an apple.”

“It’s not funny. Come.”

As much as he didn’t want to follow him up, he needed to take his meds. He needed to bring them down to the basement, keep them handy on his desk. Replenish his snack drawer so he didn’t have to leave. Maybe he could install a toilet down there, or get an outhouse. His mind didn’t quiet down as the elevator rose, or he walked to the kitchen; not when he took his medication, or when he forced himself to sit in the chair for precisely one minute while he slammed a bowl of soup, or when it burnt the roof of his mouth, felt the heat sliding down his chest. Alfred had barely sat down before Bruce put his bowl in the sink and descended the elevator, going this time right to his suit.

He’d programmed a button on the hidden screen in his sleeve in bright yellow—bright red was already taken, the color of blood, impossible to miss. Yellow was annoying, much as he felt about needing to even do something like this. If he ever felt supremely distressed, he’d press it. If he was dizzy, he’d press it. If his heart was beating much too fast, he’d press it. He sent a message to Alfred about picking up those calls with urgency, programmed to be received as DISTRESS - CHECK IN, different from the DISTRESS call that let the man know he was in physical peril.

If anything was awry, he needed to press it. No ego. Ego could cost him this whole endeavor, the entire mission. In the message to Alfred, he’d let him know the protocol was shifted from the previous distress call: in this one, he’d answer the call, and triage if he needed support. He hoped, agonizingly aware of how naive it was, that most of the time he’d only need a breather. Alfred would see if he was oriented to person, place, and time, and decide from there if he needed to be rescued. That was all he was doing tonight, outside of pocketing the cufflinks in his tactical pants after pulling them on.

The first stop he made was to Ecuatorro. The house was surrounded in caution tape, but the door was clear. He slipped inside, getting a peek around. Living room’s normal. Kitchen. Bedrooms. Bathroom. He looked at the toilet paper roll—almost unused. Only a few squares removed. He hadn’t planned on dying. The same was true in the kitchen, where all the dirty dishes were in the wash, and a day-old smoothie was just starting to turn in the fridge. There was an outfit folded on the dresser of the man’s bedroom. Keycard beside it for a gym nearby. Who plans to go to the gym if they suspect they’re in trouble?

He couldn’t linger too long in one place. After doing the same across the next four houses, finding nothing, he swore he could feel the top layers of his teeth shedding from being ground so hard. Nothing tying them to him, nothing tying them to each other, no traces, nothing. His black light picked up nothing, he checked every corner, perimeters of each house and every room, what channel the televisions were on (all channel five; again, why not six?), but nothing besides. Channel five. What if that was a clue? His mom had worn it—it was still sitting on top of her dresser in their bedroom. Chanel number five. How would they know that? Couldn’t be related to the perfume. Nonsense. He was thinking nonsense, mind swirling, circling, full. His brain was looking at every thought that passed, inspecting it for a holy realization, some divine intervention. Nothing!

He had to wait for the results of the print to come back, or the autopsy. Waiting was miserable. While he was here, his mind was partially at home, panic treading just below the surface thinking about Alfred being blown to smithereens. Any second could be his last. Any minute, any breath he took, could be one breath more than Alfred. Between each house he circled back to a road with a view of the tower, searching for smoke again, for tendrils, for bright lights, even S.O.S. painted on a window. It never changed. Nothing.

He went back to the watchtower after staking out the houses of each of their known family members. He had a list stuck in his pocket with their names, affiliation, and addresses. No one was coming out at this hour; that was why he’d developed the drifter. He’d decided: at the end of the night, he was going back out. When daybreak hit, and the world shed Batman, he’d see what they were truly up to; he’d find something. Something existed, it had to. Murders didn’t happen without a trace. Or the only trace being a single print muddled with blood. God they were good.

Sunlight streamed through the clouds. It stung his eyes. His mouth matched them now, his saliva abandoning him as his body begged for water, yowling to be taken care of. He trudged back to the basement with bleary eyes, grabbing a stale bottle of water from weeks ago on his desk and wetting his mouth before passing out on his cot, his breathing ragged and deep. Only for an hour. Or less. Need to get back out there. They need help. The city needs help. City needs. Needs. Help. Saving…

“Finally got some rest. Good.”

Bruce gasped awake, springing to his feet. All the blood left his head and he staggered to his desk, his fingers cold on the metal. Alfred was in a new outfit again. He clicked on his monitor and could’ve collapsed; his tone was biting, sharp, almost a scream. “Eleven PM?!” He rushed to his suit, thankful he’d slept in his padding, desperate to get out. So much wasted time, could’ve been out for hours already—

“Slept all day and all night.”

Bruce’s face fell. What? What?!

Alfred watched him scramble along the desk, patting his pockets, likely looking for his phone. His face was contorted tight, scrunched. “Like I’ve told you. If you don’t let yourself rest, your body will force it. You’ve hardly slept in weeks.”

He found his phone, nearly dead, his heart slamming into the ground below his feet. Tuesday. Fucking TUESDAY? “You didn’t wake me—”

“If you’re too exhausted to set an alarm, I won’t interrupt it. Your body needs to recover.”

Bruce struggled to ignore the implications of that, feeling like he’d unknowingly been sentenced to time-out for twenty-seven hours. Twenty-seven hours? TWENTY-SEVEN HOURS? He turned to berate Alfred more, but he’d already zipped up the elevator by the time he formed a thought callous enough to get his point across, but not unnecessarily cruel. He checked his messages for any updates but was rendered empty handed.

Until one popped up right under his thumb.

Report back on the prints. Suspect in custody, just left interrogation. Lookout tonight, nine.

Shit. Already? With those muddied prints? How sure were they?

Alfred sent him a text.

Lieutenant’s here. Says it’s related to the murders.

So they had figured out the letters spelled ‘Bruce Wayne’. He didn’t like sitting across the table from Gordon, but it was easier with his crowded head. Left no space for unrelated thoughts to form. Left no space for him to be passive aggressive over what had happened the last time they’d sat there—the nights, the days, they all rolled together when things got heated. When they didn’t, too. Martinez looked more awake. They both did. He assumed he did, too. The goddamn coma-level nap needed to be worth something. Fuck, how had he let that slip? Why couldn’t Alfred ever see the importance of sharing his priorities? Someone could’ve been killed. Maybe Gordon was about to say so. Maybe he was about to say that the entire city was in flames, Martial Law was put into effect, FEMA was back. Maybe another flood had happened. Maybe—

“Mr. Wayne.” Gordon cleared his throat. Martinez stifled a yawn. He fiddled with papers sliding on the tabletop. “It has come to our attention that a credible threat was made against your life. Last week, a string of murders occurred across the city, details of which we don’t need to engage with at this time. Fingerprints found at the scene matched the profile of Matthew Risou. Does that name ring any bells?”

Risou. Matthew. “None.” MR. Did that stand for anything? Could that shift the meaning of the others? Was that a pseudonym, like the Riddler had gone by? Hidden meaning? He’d scramble up the letters later and dig into it the second Gordon left.

“It appears he was a big fan of yours.”

Martinez laughed under his breath, rolling his eyes. His hand tightened on his belt loop. “Had whole social pages dedicated to you.”

Gordon continued, giving a sideways glance to Martinez. “Yes. Very preoccupied, disturbed. Found a letter at his residence detailing the plans. Thought if he killed people with your initials,” he peered out over his glasses, and Bruce kept his face concerned enough, cloaking the confusion soaring through him. The killer admitted it? Admitted the initials? Thought what? “You might ‘manifest’ into his life.” He shrugged, his pen clicking to the table with a clink.

“Where’d he get that idea?”

“Risou underwent a psychological evaluation after intake. Psychiatrist believes he was hallucinating. He’s enroute to Arkham Asylum as we speak.”

Arkham. So many roads leading there—need to answer them. Can’t be suspicious. Need to be scared, but not too scared. Need to think Bruce Wayne is untouchable. That Risou is below. “Wow…” He shook his head, performing a full sigh. He swallowed a glob of spit for good measure. “How long will he be there? Do I need to worry? I’ll be at a lot of public events the next few months.” Good. Focusing on public image, perception, some level of safety concern. So Gordon didn’t think he was even more suspicious.

The officers shook their heads in unison. “No need to worry about that, Mr. Wayne. Confession on file, prints at the scene, at minimum he’ll be inpatient. Long-term. At least a few months.”

“And you’ll be the first to know if anything changes.” Martinez nodded strongly at him. What is he gonna do next, salute? “Technically, the second, because we would, uh.” He trailed off, moving his hands to awkwardly adjust his hat. Gordon got up from his chair and pushed it flush to the table’s edge.

“Bottom line is: you’re safe. Wanted to let you know.” Gordon nodded at Bruce, then Alfred, then Martinez, and Alfred showed them to the door once more. Deja-vu.

He didn’t like how simple this was, how straightforward. Had the victims really been murdered due to their initials? Had that been the depth? Is that why when Bruce slammed into the deep end, scoured the internet, excavated his mind to poke and prod and measure each passing thought, he continuously came up empty?

Risou had worked in forensics in his youth, which explained why the scene was so clean. His social platforms were loosely related to Bruce, tweeting a few times a week about how much he wished Bruce would be his friend, tagging Wayne Enterprises in dinner invites, but outside of that—he retweeted extremely normal things; memes that were a half-decade expired, even he knew that much. Photos of animals, political content unrelated to Gotham and not otherwise fringe. Must’ve been a delusion.

He thought of how Martinez scoffed, laughing under his breath, all but outright mocking the man for being deluded. It felt like a bruise. The delusions weren’t the problem, the violence was. Nothing about the situation was laughable, or worth something as cheap and dismissive as an eye-roll. He needed help. He needed help before he became a murderer, before the parents were taken from their children, before he’d be subjected to a life sentence at Arkham, confined to the stale walls, harsh lighting, rehearsed smiles, cutting restraints, spoon-fed applesauce, having to request sips of water, have people staring at him through windows, assessing his risk, his safety, his body, his mind, what if he would eventually be a danger to people around him? What if he already was, but too deluded to know it?

He forced his eyes to the motorbike by the tunnel entrance. He wasn’t about to sympathize with a murderer. He wasn’t about to think about his time in Arkham. He hadn’t hurt anyone yet. He wouldn’t. This was the bullshit that started happening when he slept too much. He knew his thoughts tended toward the ruminative, and that it wasn’t a problem if he was working.

“Dory’s heading out for the evening.” Alfred startled Bruce again. “Wants to know if you need anything pressed for tonight.”

Tonight? His eyes widened. The rally. “Uh,” Didn’t even have time to research March. If Alfred hadn’t let him sleep so much, he could’ve gotten everything done. This falling through the cracks… unacceptable. What are the people of Gotham supposed to think if their vigilante can’t follow through on meager research? What was he even doing at the meeting tonight? He needed to work on the case. Who had declared Risou mentally unstable? The prints were ‘the clearest they’d ever run’? For someone likely unfit to stand trial? Sure, he was in forensics, but—

“Bruce?”

“Whatever, I’ll find something.” This was what happened when he didn’t have time for his responsibilities. This was what happened when he let his body get the better of him. Why hadn’t he set an alarm? Shake it off. Dory was leaving, meaning it was five. Rally started at six. He needed to get ready now so he could arrive with fifteen minutes to spare; he needed a shower. That would take five minutes if he hurried. Find an outfit, do his hair, find the watch. Warm up the sports car. Would Alfred have let him sleep right through the rally, too, if the prints hadn’t surfaced?

All Bruce could think about as he handed his keys to the valet was that he hoped the rally didn’t run long. He’d stowed his suit in the trunk, hidden behind a cleverly-placed bag of Alfred’s old golf clubs.

His clothes felt too tight on his body. The sweater was itchy round his neck, scraping on a scab on the small of his back. Sweat tickled the skin under his chest, creating a terrible grating feeling against the shirt. The cameras were too intrusive; flashing bright, white lights to disorient him, making him have to watch each step he took. The watch caught on the hair of his forearm, his cologne was giving him a headache, and god, he just wanted to go home.

March walked straight to him when he entered, though it wasn’t a far walk; he’d positioned himself far enough from the entryway to be polite, close enough to greet people on arrival with warmth. Bruce stomached a grimace as the chandeliers exacerbated the pounding in his skull. He had to blink a few times before he could read the politician’s face. March wasn’t… eager. Looks afraid. Nervous. No, sorrowful. Concerned? His eyes traced the slope of March’s, the downturned angle on his mouth, the way he held his hands clasped in front of him rather than going for another hug. “Bruce! Didn’t know if you’d show tonight.”

“I’ll be attending as many campaign events as possible.” Force a grin, force a grin…

March’s brow furrowed, then relaxed, and he laughed. Was he going to bring up the accident? Hadn’t he heard the speech he made at the beginning of the meeting last week? He was sure it made some paper somewhere; at the very least, people had gotten pictures of him arriving. March gave his arm a reassuring slap. What? “Trying to show the masses you won’t be bullied into submission?”

“I’m unsure what you’re referring to.” Seriously, what? He glanced over March’s shoulder and noticed everyone was looking at him, occasionally shuffling closer. Some looked away when he noticed them staring, some waved, but regardless, his presence was noticed beyond anticipation.

He laughed like Bruce was making a joke. “That’s an informed angle to take. Serial killers like to be known, heralded. Not giving them power.”

Christ, it went public? He remained measured, hyperaware of all the eyes on him, and how illuminated he was in this obscenely well-lit room. The meetings weren’t this well-lit, were they? At this point, people might’ve started thinking he was cursed. The accident, then the ‘scandalous’ interview, now a superfan-turned-serial killer was attached to his name. Speak—he needed to respond. He needed to get it through his head that this was his life now. Of course it went public. “I feel tremendously sorry for the victims.” He didn’t have to act saying that, as he felt the guilt seep into his bones, gnawing him to gummy shreds. A thought pierced through him, one that was familiar, but sharp as ever; the guilt of being alive. If he hadn’t survived the attempt, Risou would’ve had no one to manifest. Ecuatorro, Yates, Altruss, Weiss, Natividad… they could be at a park with their children right now. Part of him knew his mind was simply running with anything it could get, that it wasn’t true that X followed Y; he knew that things happened without purpose, unfolded without special fanfare, but it didn’t make his nausea any more palatable. Just gave it a different shape.

March nodded. “Glad he’s getting the support he needs. Support he needed before.” He sighed. “Donating a portion of the funds tonight to the victim’s families.”

In truth, Bruce had forgotten that was an option, and wrote a mental note. Send a check to each of the families. He hoped it would stick in the middle of the spirally muck that was his crowded, guilt-laden mind. Had that guy truly been the killer? Said he worked in forensics, but his name hadn’t come up in any of the databases, past or present, for the entire state of New Jersey. Forensics was one of the few careers people moved to Gotham to pursue—did he commute out of state? Why? Did he move here after his career ended? Why? Would Gordon have anything new to add tonight? If crime was slow, he needed to check if there were other Risous, people so obsessed with celebrity they’d be driven to violence. Was he a celebrity? Was this what celebrity felt like? Like ants crawling over his skin? Like the entire world was analyzing him, staring at him, poking, prodding, pushing… could he get out of this room? Pretend the GCPD were wanting him down at the station? If he would’ve known he’d had an out…

“Welcome! Press are clustered left of the stage, but feel free to break from the herd if you so please.”

He spun around at the tenor of your voice before he was consciously aware of it. Your hair was down tonight, and you had on pants and a sweater rather than your usual dress. Shockingly fitting. Your eyes flit to his for a brief moment, but didn’t linger. In the mess of the weekend, he’d forgotten you’d be here. Thank god for the prints.

“Reminds me: need to make an announcement to the press. I won’t be accepting press questions until the last half hour. I want to give priority to people who aren’t paid to be here.” March winked at you before striding across the room, and Bruce’s gut tightened.

“I hope you and Alfred were able to stay safe this weekend.”

When he looked at you next, he saw your eyes skimming his exposed skin. Looking for injury. Each time it felt less and less painful. Swore he could feel a touch in every glance. Whatever eye makeup you were wearing had the slightest shimmer, the light hitting it in such a way his eyes kept coming back to it. Oh, SPEAK! He opened his mouth to reassure you they’d been fine, but he had no air in his lungs. He’d forgotten to breathe; when he did, your perfume took up all the space, and his thoughts left him again. Completely, entirely empty.

Your waiting is so patient. He managed a nod only when he looked to the ground, the words tumbling out without particular attention paid to them, or even awareness of which ones his lips might form. “Never got in contact. Wish I would’ve known sooner, maybe some of them could’ve been saved. Probably would’ve.”

You shook your head with such seriousness it consumed him, gave him no leeway to berate himself. “It’s not your fault, if that’s what you’re taking from it.” He held a strange feeling in his body, like talking to you was going to confession. Like you had the authority to release him.

His eyes caught on the glimmer again. It made your eyes brighter than they already were. Your hair framed your face so softly. His stomach lurched when he noticed a glint by your ear, but it was just earrings. Matched the necklace hanging down your sweater, and the ring on the pointer finger of your left hand. The fingers that dragged along his torso were being fiddled with hard enough they left a blush of lightness whenever you shifted your touch. He put his hand in his pocket to keep it from grabbing yours.

March tapped on the mic, causing a bleating sound to screech from the speakers. An interesting choice to hold it in the foyer—until he looked away from you and noticed a sizeable crowd had formed. The occupancy had tripled in just the few minutes he stood with you. At least he thought it’d only been a few minutes. Could’ve been an hour, or only a second. He followed your eyes over to the throng of press, and nodded. As if you needed permission from him to do anything. “I’m good. Join ‘em.”

You grinned, and he felt a bubble of air expand in his chest. “Trying to get rid of me?”

It popped, immediately. “No, I didn’t mean—no.” He felt himself turn scarlet. He swallowed hard, and almost choked on his spit, now taking up far too much space in his mouth. “I meant I’m fine, I’m,”

“I’m teasing.” Your grin spread to the other side, revealing your teeth. His limbs felt tingly. You looked… you looked so…

“Welcome, everyone. It’s about five minutes to six, and there’s lots to cover tonight, so we’ll be starting on the dot. Feel free to take a quick trip to the restroom, or check out our caterers: Mr. and Mrs. Lindel from Lindel’s Bakery on the east side. Thank you.” March gave a small wave, then stepped back from the podium.

“I’d better get situated.” You sighed. Your breath smelled minty. “Skating on pretty thin ice.” You pulled out the recorder from the small bag on your hip. “Glad you’re good.” With that as your salutation, you walked through the crowd toward the stage side.

All the air left his lungs in one enormous huff. He’d been holding his breath, and hadn’t even known it. In the same fashion, he felt a decayed throb from his stomach, suddenly screaming at him. He was starving.

The ham and cheese croissant was stunning, and a needed distraction from the incessant pull he felt to engage you, but it wasn’t enough. He scooped up a plate of rolls and doughnuts to tide him over, but by the time he’d walked to the gathering area of the stage, he’d finished it all. He was hungry, a bit exhausted, and his brain felt like it’d gone through the wash. None of which he’d been the least aware of prior to your conversation. Hmm. You felt grounding. Tethering.

When he walked to the trash he was intercepted by Gavenstein, accompanied by all his cronies. Ugh. “Wayne!” God, his voice is aggravating. “Couldn’t help but notice you playing favorites.” The men around him snickered. Bruce had about two seconds to fix his face after discarding his plate. His voice was light with mischief, and a piss-poor attempt at humor. “Is she someone you’d recommend?”

Whatever cloud you’d left him on was gone in an instant. He straightened his spine and flexed his shoulders wide, his mind running away with what to say—more specifically what not to. He kept to the least of it, not wanting to put more heat on you. “Not a good look to talk about journalists that way.”

Gavenstein scoffed, a slick smile turning up his eyes. “I’m not talking about journalists, I’m talking about that one.” The man nearest to him, McKinley—a name he only knew from the first day’s introduction—thought he had any right to chime in, sneaking a comment under his breath to the men beside him. “The broad no one’d give a second glance if it weren’t for Wayne.”

Don’t react. Bruce’s throat caught on fire, he was sure of it. Goosebumps peppered his skin, his abdomen tensing, crunching down on the words he couldn’t say. Don’t react… but they kept chuckling. They think this is funny? Fuck. “Don’t talk about her like that.”

Gavenstein laughed again, performing a stage whisper to the gaggle of men strung to his hip. “Wants to keep it for himself.”

Oooh… he wanted to get you OUT of this room; away from the harassing, invasive, disgusting, FUCK! “Did you not hear my speech last week at city hall?” He didn’t hear any of the men’s responses, too busy imprinting the precise shade of Gavenstein’s rolling, dismissive eyes to memory. For later. “Or were you too busy flirting with every woman but your wife to notice?”

His eyes flashed, and he released a short puff of air. “You’re pushing it, Wayne. Know your limits.”

Bruce was already tightening his hands into fists, choreographing how he’d slam him by the collar of his shirt into the edge of the wall. “I do. Do you?”

“Alright folks, it is six on the dot and we are ready to get started! Thank you all for showing up this evening.”

Bruce stepped forward in the crowd, knowing if he stayed back there he’d disrupt the entire event. The walls were closing in on him again. Too many people. Too many lights. Too many reporters. Everyone was touching him as he walked through; a tug on the shoulder, caress on the arm, a touch on his hip. Low, sultry whispers echoed on the same trail, but he couldn’t have cared less if he tried.

Maybe he wanted to disrupt it. Maybe he wanted to be the first to throw a punch, bring some pain to the lofty businessmen of the city. Maybe then they wouldn’t fuck with you. Keep their smartass comments to themselves. He could walk back there, and get him right in the jaw. Take a few hits so everyone just thought he was lucky. Yeah…

“Questions from the press will be saved until the end. I want to hear from all of you first, who took time out of your workweek to hear my campaign.”

Bruce glanced over heads and shoulders to see you in the middle of the pack of reporters; the only one without a flashy camera or tablet, your hair falling into your face as you wrote something on your notepad. His shoulders relaxed. You took care to be here. Probably spent the weekend researching. He wasn’t about to fuck that up for you.

He maintained that rhythm through the rally’s end. Each time he felt his thoughts melt toward vengeance, he’d peek your direction. The flames would dissipate to a gentle mist. Though for all your diligent notetaking, none of the press got a chance to speak, even going past the stated runtime. The people had come in hot, drilling March on topics from environmentalism to if he’d uphold the death penalty. The crowd seemed to lean progressive, with not a lot of naysayers. He wondered how that ratio might shift with Grange and Hady. He hoped you wouldn’t miss another rally, because he was barely staying afloat at this one; reminiscing how he used to stand on stage beside his parents, and how tightly he’d squeezed his mom’s hand. Crowds had always made him anxious.

He hung to the back and let people pass him, though many wanted to stop and chat. He pretended to be answering an email, keeping his eyes to the ground to—found you, and stepped in line with your footsteps. Though he’d tried to be inconspicuous, he did it for your sake; he didn’t give a shit what Gavenstein had to say, or how he wanted to spin it. Being in your orbit, safely, was all that mattered.

He spoke first, bursting with energy. “What are you thinking?” The crowd leading toward the exit was stalled, with a large group hogging the doorway. You and him were some of the last people in the pack… he glanced behind him to see if anyone was taking the back exit. So far, no one.

Jesus, your voice was like a salve. “It would be blasphemous for me to take sides,”

“But?” He liked how your cheeks went pink when he egged you on.

“But… he seems about as stellar as a politician can get.”

Bruce smirked. “Told you.”

“What did the billionaire think about all the taxes?”

He thought about how willing he’d been to hand over his card under alcohol’s haze. Oddly, he still felt that way. “Might take some of the funds away from our housing mission.”

“I thought I’d dreamt that.” You laughed, and it made his stomach flip. You liked it that much? It was a dream of yours? A flutter of blinks and you stared at the floor, biting your lip. Why hadn’t he wanted to come here, again?

The line still wasn’t moving, and he got a pit in his stomach thinking about you getting into another rideshare. Or worse, walking. He was certain your leg still hurt, maybe your head too. He was pretty sure Miller hadn’t escaped, but he hadn’t checked since the weekend. He lowered his voice, though he didn’t think the geriatric couple behind you were gossips. “C’mon, I’ll drive you home.”

He tried to not make it seem like he’d fall through the floor if you declined, and tried to stifle his relief when you accepted. After instructing you to wait five minutes before walking out back, he slipped through the line and snuck between the family holding everyone up. The steps were slippery, but he jogged down them well enough. The shouting and flashing barely resonated as he took his key from the valet and sped down the avenue. Paparazzi usually followed him until Orville, where he hung a right and took a half dozen more. Maybe one day they’d catch on, but it wasn’t today.

You’d just slipped out of the back door when he pulled up, lights cut. On approach he’d anxiously inspected the chair for dust, crumbs, or defects, none of which he found. The collar of his undershirt was choking him. Was the cabin too cold? Too warm? You slid into the passenger seat, and all was quiet again.

You were the first to break the silence, him being perfectly content to share the space. “You really want to do the housing thing? That wasn’t a binding contract.”

“I’d never thought of it before. Everyone talks so much about the housing crisis, I never thought there were enough empty apartments.”

“Be good to get it rolling before winter. Shit kills people.” Shit likely being the thick, hard blankets of ice and snow that coated every available surface in the city from November to February. He nodded in agreement, pinning the conversation for Thursday. It got him thinking…

“Does it snow much where you live?”

“I don’t know, downtown gets so much less than the rest of Gotham.”

Your sarcasm used to be so grating; now he felt lucky to receive it, his cheeks pained from squishing against endless grins. Is that all it took? One drink, once, and now he was talking to you like a friend? “Your hometown.”

“Have you been to the west coast?”

He shook his head, trying not to pay attention to the gong of nostalgia rattling through him. His parents had continuously put off travel until the campaign’s end. You looked out the passenger window, only able to see the slight reflection of your face in the glass. “The winter’s more mild there, for the most part. We live in a valley, so we don’t get much snow. Fall’s pretty there, though.”

“What do you like about it?”

“The trees are gorgeous. Like,” you shook your head, and he had to intentionally focus his eyes to the lanes of the road or his eyes would wander. “Seriously. Stunning. Used to bike there a lot, especially in October.” It was impossible to miss the wistfulness in your tone.

He was caught between two sides: pulling himself into the conversation, or keeping the focus on you. He gripped the steering wheel and took a chance. “You’ll have to send me some photos.” His brow furrowed. Why had that felt like taking a chance, exactly?

“I can pull some up right now.” The light blasted you in the face when you pulled out your phone. The streets were wide and empty, no one visiting the industrial district past sunset. He cut the lights again and pulled into an empty recycling plant’s compact parking. He unclicked his seatbelt and leaned toward you, and you did the same, transfixed by whatever was on your screen. Whatever it was had your pupils dilating, even in the bright light, and your smile huge. You held your phone between the two of you, your shoulder pressing into his to fill the gap.

Could you feel his heart pounding? The flush of his skin? Was his breathing too loud? He didn’t move away, didn’t react. You swiped to a photo of a cat playing in a bright red pile of leaves. He hoped you would speak, he didn’t trust his voice not to shake as his chest and arm pulsed everywhere you’d touched. He didn’t have padding now; you could feel his skin, he could feel your fingertips…

“This is Walter.”

Bruce’s lips parted in alarm when you spoke, his eyes moving from the fingers cradling your phone to the video of the leaping cat running around a side yard. “Walter. Is he yours?” Thank god his voice didn’t crack like he thought it would. He was coming back into his body, looking at the gray cat frolicking, focusing on the blue of the sky. You startled him when you turned to face him, so close he could see every pore on your cheeks, every line in your lips. Lips that had just asked him a question, one that he couldn’t recall over the glow in his chest. What were you doing to him?

“Do you like cats?”

He nodded, his body going on autopilot. You swiped again, showing another landscape with no building that wasn’t a barn. He drew a steadying breath. “Looks quiet.” Like the physical manifestation of being around you.

“It is. Too much sometimes, but, yeah.”

Whatever tension his body had become confused navigating, it was fading the more he focused on the images, and less on the you of it all. Getting this window into another life, life outside the city walls, was fascinating. “Is that your neighborhood?” You nodded and swiped again, showing an endless dirt road with vineyards and a disheveled barn in the distance. Some birds flew over you, your bike tires rumbling against the separated, dry dirt. It wasn’t just quiet, it was silent. Gotham had never been silent. What would it feel like to be somewhere like that?

He noticed the time just as his heart slowed to a light jog. 8:49. Gordon. He sighed, getting caught up in yet another startling amount of disappointment, and put the car in gear. “Need to be somewhere at nine. Sorry.” Sorry didn’t cut it, and for the next five minutes of driving he overthought how simply he’d put it. You hadn’t complained, tucking your phone away and chatting pleasantly while juxtaposing the two climates, but he was aching with dread.

When he pulled into the parking garage (you’d ducked, and he’d waited until the street was relatively empty), he squeezed as close to the door as he could before braking. Stay. Please. “Thanks for showing me the pictures.” Don’t leave. “Looks nice. Walter’s fun.” Let’s watch another show. Get snacks. Talk. “See you on Thursday.”

You waved before getting into the elevator, and he waited for the doors to close before pulling out. His body felt hot, sweaty, tight. Putting on the padding, the armor, the cowl… it sounded horribly irritating. The driving, the elevator up, the strain on his esophagus when he spoke. The pictures Gordon would inevitably share, full of blood, and guts, and dead, dead eyes.

He winced, intrusive images of that overlaid with your neighborhood. Bloodied, mangled leaves, animals and bodies strewn about, a constant scream heard from another assault, another fist, tooth, blood running down his shower drain at six in the morning. He wasn’t even mad when Gordon called him minutes later to postpone, and he didn’t care why. The drive home was monotonous.

Bruce dragged his heavy body up to his bathroom, shedding first the sweater, then his undershirt, his hands tiring as they unbuckled his belt. He turned the water hot, waiting for steam to fill the room and fog the glass before forcing the last of his clothes off. He let the water pummel into his tired muscles, the soreness becoming one dull throb. Being around you lowered his tolerance for this, he was becoming conscious to that phenomenon of yours. But he didn’t know why.

The water droplets stung as they hit his shoulderblades, cooling just slightly but not enough as they slid down the back of his thighs. Steam thickened the air he breathed in, deep and slow. He let his eyes fall shut, let the weekend pass over him, slip through like the water falling from the tips of his fingers. He pressed his palm against the shower wall to release the tension in his lower back, struggling to grip against the slick, fogged glass as he dropped his shoulders and opened his hips. His eyes fluttered and he let out a reflexive sigh as the hand lingering at his side moved to slide down his abdomen, following the flow of the water.

He hadn’t masturbated in awhile, not having enough energy while balancing the two identities. He was tense, strung out, his dick already hard, pulse hammering. He leaned his forehead against the glass, soft moans coming out in exhausted sighs as he built closer to climax. God, his body needed this… his strokes stuttered as the water fell out of perception, his body tensing, tensing, yes—until his hand became yours. His eyes flashed open and he gasped, yanking his hand back as he slammed onto the shower floor. What the, what the fuck?

He scrambled out and threw on a towel, unimaginably tense, driven straight to the edge. He pressed his palms to his temples, struggling to stop their shaking. No. No. No!

[honorarysimp]

1: Another Case, Another Small Town

series masterlist

Typical.

The winding, twisting roads of the California Coast Range mountainside were treacherous in the midnight hours as the vehicle’s headlights sliced through the pitch black night. The dense forest along the roads cast shadows that seemed to dance and shift with each turn, a constant reminder of the eerie unknown that lay on the path ahead.

Tendrils of cigarette smoke emitted from the ember burning at the end, filter loosely fitted between lips that no longer craves the nicotine high.

A hand reaches into the backpack sitting in the passenger seat, digging out a tape recorder. One finger smoothly hits the red button on the top, and the internal wheels of the device begin to spin.

Your voice crackles through the tape recorder, speaking into the microphone built into the device.

"I believe I’ve finally hit the outskirts of this damned town, so far it's not what I expected," you say, voice a mixture of exhaustion and skepticism. "It took me longer to get here than I thought, due to getting lost in those mountains on the way. The trees and darkness were suffocating, twisting in on themselves like something out of a Lovecraft novel."

You pause, running a hand through tousled hair from the windows being cracked just the slightest, else the smoke lingers within the vehicle.

"And those disappearances I've been hired to investigate... they're the strangest part of it all." You continue to mumble around the cigarette, plucking it from your lips and tossing it through the small space between the window and frame of the car door.

You sit back in your seat, adjusting the tape recorder on the dashboard.

"I've dealt with a lot of weird cases over the years, but this one takes the cake," you mutter to yourself. "From what I've gathered, several townsfolk have gone missing over the last few months. No bodies, no clues, just vanished into thin air. The locals claim it's the work of some paranormal entity, but I'm not easily swayed by local myths."

You pause, the faint glow of the GPS on the dashboard screen illuminating your tired face.

"But there's something about this town... it's like the air is thick with tension, like something is lurking just out of sight," you continue. "The people are tight-lipped, refusing to discuss the disappearances in any detail over the phone. It feels as if they're hiding something, or perhaps they're just as terrified as the rumors suggest."

You chuckle wryly, rubbing at the back of your neck, which feels a bit stiff and crick from the long drive.

"As for the claims of some kind of paranormal entity being responsible... I doubt it," you say, skepticism evident in your voice. "I've dealt with my fair share of strange cases, but superstition and fear often cloud people's judgment. I'll need more than just rumors and local folklore to prove that there's anything otherworldly at play here..."

The car rolled to a stop at the first red light within town, you take the moment to look around. The air was eerily quiet, but admittedly so at such a late hour, the only sound the soft hum of the engine and the occasional rustle of leaves. The town itself seems small, the buildings cramped together as if huddled against the darkness of the surrounding forest.

As you observed your surroundings, you can’t shake the feeling that something was off about this town. There was an oppressive atmosphere that weighed heavily on the air, an ever impending wait for any who dare pass through.

You continue to consult your GPS, following the directions to the hotel booked for your stay until further notice. The road twisted and turned, taking you past dilapidated houses and overgrown lawns until you finally reach the hotel.

The building was old and worn, with peeling paint and a flickering neon sign that read "Vacancy". The parking lot was mostly empty, with only a few other cars scattered about.

As you step out of your vehicle and head towards the hotel's entrance, you can’t shake the feeling of being watched.

Grabbing your backpack and duffle, you don’t dally and stand about in favor of a bed to fall onto.

As you walk into the lobby, the sound of your footsteps echoing off the worn wood. At the front desk stood an older woman, her expression stoic and unreadable.

As you approach the desk, she offered a curt nod of acknowledgment. "Can I help you?" she asked in a dry, raspy voice.

"I have a room booked under the name of (Y/N) (Y/L/N)," you replied, adjusting you grip on your duffle.

The woman eyes you for a moment before checking her records. "Room 34," she said, handing you a key.

You thank the woman and make your way down the hallway towards your room. Despite the late hour, the hotel wasn’t so bad, the only sounds being the faint creak of floorboards beneath your feet and the muted hum of the few lights still on.

As you reach your room, you unlock the door and step inside, flicking on the switch to illuminate the small, modest room. The room was dimly lit, the only light coming from a lamp on the bedside table.

You dropped your bags by the door with a weary sigh, shoulders slumped from the long drive and stress of the case you are undertaking. You kick off your shoes and flopped down onto the bed, not even bothering to change out of your clothes.

The bed was uncomfortable and lumpy, but it was better than nothing after a long day on the road. You close your eyes and let out a deep breath, the tiredness seeping into your bones.

"This town better be worth it," you mumble to yourself before drifting off into a fitful sleep.

next

[galaxygolfergirl]

Watcher's Expenses

I didn't major in accounting: I took three classes and it grinded my brain to a fine powder. However, after graduating with a business admin degree, being a former eager fan of their videos, and from a cursory glance over their socials, there's a lot to consider in their spending behavior that really could start racking up costs. Some of these things we've already noticed, but there are other things I'd like to highlight, and I'll try to break it down into the different categories of accounting expenses (if I get something wrong, let me know. I was more concentrated in marketing 🤷‍♀️). I'm not going to hypothesize numbers either, as that would take out more time than I'm willing to afford-- you can assume how much everything costs. Anyways, here's my attempt at being a layman forensic accountant:

Note: All of this is assuming they're operating above board and not engaging in any illegal practices such as money laundering, tax evasion, not paying rent, etc.

Operating Expenses

Payroll: 25+ staff salaries and insurance

Overhead Expenses

CEO/founder salaries

Office space leasing or rent (In L.A, one of the most expensive cities in the US)

Utilities (water, electricity, heating, sanitation, etc.)

Insurance

Advertising Costs

Telephone & Internet service

Cloud Storage or mainframe

Office equipment (furniture, computers, printers, etc.)

Office supplies (paper, pens, printer ink, etc.)

Marketing costs (Social media marketing on Instagram, Youtube, SEO for search engines, Twitter, etc. Designing merchandise and posters, art, etc. )

Human Resources (not sure how equipped they are)

Accounting fees

Property taxes

Legal fees

Licensing fees

Website maintenance (For Watchertv.com, Watcherstuff.com, & Watcherentertainment.com)

Expenses regarding merchandising (whoever they contract or outsource for that)

Inventory costs

Potentially maintenance of company vehicles

Subsequent gas mileage for road trips

Depreciation (pertains to tangible assets like buildings and equipment)

Amortization (intangible assets such as patents and trademarks)

Overhead Travel and Entertainment Costs (I think one of the biggest culprits, evident in their videos and posts)

The travel expenses (flights, train trips, rental cars, etc. For main team and scouts)

Hotel expenses for 7-8 people at least, or potentially more

Breakfasts, lunches and dinners with the crew (whether that's fully on their dime or not, I don't know; Ryan stated they like to cover that for the most part)

Recreational activities (vacation destinations, amusement parks, sporting activities etc.)

The location fees

Extraneous Overhead costs (not sure exactly where these fall under, but another culprit, evident in videos and posts)

Paying for guest appearances

Expensive filming & recording equipment (Cameras, sound equipment, editing software subscriptions, etc.)

The overelaborate sets for Ghost files, Mystery Files, Puppet History, Podcasts etc. (Set dressing: Vintage memorabilia, antiquated tech, vintage furniture, props, etc.)

Kitchen & Cooking supplies/equipment

Office food supply; expensive food and drink purchases for videos

Novelty items or miscellaneous purchases (ex. Ghost hunting equipment, outfits, toys, etc.)

Non-Operating Expenses

These are those expenses that cannot be linked back to operating revenue. One of the most common examples of non-operating expenses is interest expense. This is because while interest is the cost of borrowing money from a creditor or a bank, they are not generating any operating income. This makes interest payments a part of non-operating expenses.

Financial Expenses

Potential loan payments, borrowing from creditors or lenders, bank loans, etc.

Variable Expenses

Hiring a large amount of freelancers, overtime expenditure, commissions, etc.

PR consultations (Not sure if they had this before the scandal)

Extraordinary Expenses

Expenses incurred outside your company’s regular business activities and during a large one-time event or transactions. For example, selling land, disposal of a significant asset, laying off of your employees, unexpected machine repairing or replacement, etc.

Accrued Expenses

When your business has incurred an expense but not yet paid for it.

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(If there's anything else I'm missing, please feel free to add or correct things)

To a novice or a young entrepreneur, this can be very intimidating if you don't have the education or the support to manage it properly. I know it intimidates the hell out of me and I'm still having to fill in the gaps (again, if I've mislabeled or gotten anything wrong here, please let me know). For the artistic or creative entrepreneur, it can be even harder to reconcile the extent of your creative passions with your ability to operate and scale your business at a sustainable rate. That can lead to irresponsible, selfish, and impulsive decisions that could irreparably harm your brand, which is a whole other beast of its own.

My guess at this point is that their overhead and operation expenses are woefully mismanaged; they've made way too many extraneous purchases, and that they had too much confidence in their audience of formerly 2.93 million to make up for the expenses they failed to cover.

It almost seems as if their internal logic was, "If we make more money, we can keep living the expensive lifestyle that we want and make whatever we want without anyone telling us we can't, and we want to do it NOW, sooner rather than later because we don't want wait and compromise our vision." But as you can see, the reality of fulfilling those ambitions is already compromised by the responsibility of running a business.

And I wrote this in another post here, but I'll state it again: Running a business means you need to be educated on how a business can successfully and efficiently operate. Accounting, marketing, social media marketing, public relations, production, etc; these resources and internet of things is available and at your disposal. If they had invested more time in educating themselves on those aspects and not made this decision based on artistic passion (and/or greed), they would have not gotten the response they got.

Being a graphic designer, I know the creative/passionate side of things but I also got a degree/got educated in business because I wanted to understand how to start a company and run it successfully. If they’re having trouble handling the responsibility of doing that, managing production costs, managing overhead expenses, and especially with compensating their 25+ employees, then they should hire professionals that are sympathetic to their creative interests, but have the education and experience to reign in bad decisions like these.

Anyways, thanks for coming to my TedTalk. What a shitshow this has been.

[queenlua]

A student of mine did a rather good thesis on de-clouding. In the process she discovered the term "cloud repatriation" a fair bit of literature on the movement to bring control of data and hardware back 'on-prem'.

She also noted that when you search on these terms the main engines (all run by cloud service providers) return poor results not congruent with the scale of the phenomenon. They are dominated by the opposite message obviously heavily SEO'd up to the top, plus shill pieces pushing cloud services but presented as "critical". Dig deep if you want to find the real scale of the "anti-cloud" issues.

Her main conclusion was very interesting though. That the big issue is not finance, reliability or control - but de-skilling.

As companies move their operations out to the cloud it's not the disappearance of hardware from the premises but the loss of skill-sets. Later they don't even know who to hire or how to write the JD to bring people back in.

A good example was the broadcast industry. Entire branches of that industry doing post-production, colour, transcoding, and whatnot moved it all out to AWS. After price hikes, they wanted to go back to running their own services. But they can't. Because nobody knows about how to set-up and run that any longer - especially specialist things like buffers and transcoders. I mean, try finding a sys-admin who can just do simple tasks like set up and properly configure a mail server these days.

sometimes hacker news comments are interesting