chapter zero - part i,
genosis or genoside '

' ━━━ HOW MUCH CHANGE CAN
HAPPEN IN ELEVEN MONTHS? THE STREETS
OVERCAST WITH EXTIRPATION HAD ACCEPTED
HER MORE.   their broken cracks down in the pavement
and stained blemishes marking the release of a soul, it all appears almost welcomingly to daphne. bordering her to their precarious perimeter that lines thoroughly through gotham.

 it's just what draws these villains and super-villains to strive through destruction, a mastered aptitude they ardently perform through chaos. and it confuses them; because all that disorder they perform, to them, it's nurture for the city, it's nature for the city, it pragmatically default settings. gotham can barely hold a handful of morally decent people; everyone is deeply in the unpropitious allure.

 this becomes clearer when she slightly deviates on her route home, naturally unafraid of what lurks in the inclement alleys, but her mind needs a little longer consolidate from what happened. her mind is still drifting, because what the fuck happened?

 her hands are threaded like molten iron fists in her leather jacket's pocket and she walks with hard stomps on the ground. her anger almost trying to plant itself as decaying weeds, frizzy flowers that are out of control.

 she stretches her irises to take in a large view of what's ahead, remaining alert, but still walks like a catatonic patient. a habbit she accumulated from death, to see everything from a different perspective.

 the talent often proved to be enlightening and just the opposite. there is a guilt that's lingering in her parched throat, she swallows.

 sapphire blue could describe the sky, not yet night but certainly late enough that the sun barely wanted to be around anymore. daphne can't remember everything accurately despite an hour ago had hardly been too long. what the fuck happened?

 she feels like since then there have been tiny remnants of herself scattered like graves in a cemetery.

 but what comes to her clearly from an hour ago are four of many things:

 1) how merciless the december wind had felt when she was clutching onto the iron-framed spire on top of the Gotham clocktower, strands of her hair following the gale and scratching scars nearly into her cheeks.

 2) the sound of impacted momentum when that blameworthiness human had hit the pavement from such a heightened fall. and her mind screaming joy from how much he deserved it afterward. how out of place she felt after that thought.

 3) and just how proud he had been. the skyline only began to sink then, slightly diluting the background from the iron-spire until it contrasted with the pale physiognomy that was in front of her.

  4) then, when it came to thinking of him, all his features resolved more sharply somehow. the strain in his face as he plastered on that glittery grin for daphne, too damn pleased with her to care about the strings in his face aching. the blood-spilled burgundy dress shirt he wore, riffling in the wind. a look far too intense for daphne to hold as he begged for her to open her eyes.

 "pretty, pretty, pretty, pretty, please, open those eyes, birdie."

 walking home, her feet trembled on the floor once more, shaking her entire body to try and get the image of him so close to me out of her mind.

 daphne realized time and time again that being around him was like being infected by a thousand pathogens, and each one stitching onto her neurotransmitters and pleading with daphne to become a little crazier. temptation would welcome greed. she would want more of him and he couldn't have enough of her.

 the phenomenon of that chilled her more than the faintly gelid wind that seemed more than determined to push daphne away from her apartment block as she got closer. almost like a warning.

 she buckled her keys from her pocket, walking through the large doors and into the estate elevator. daphne's posture immediately straightened, her instincts and senses slowly starting to haywire where she caught a familiar and ill-defined inconvenience around her.

 perhaps, just as the elevator doors were closing, everything was starting to concave in daphne. the man that died tonight (if she were to think about it enough, daphne was sure she'd wrap herself in the blame).

 going against batman's distinct orders. finding herself tangled with him on that spire, and actually feeling concerned when he had leaped off it (wearing a departed promising look) once bruce had arrived — the dark knight robust, holding encumbrance and restraint knotted in his responsibility.

 the joker had disappeared somewhere between the air and before daphne knew it, batman was zipping building to building, removing daphne from the public eye as he proceeded to actually shout at her.

 the disappointment in his voice was still so raw to her ears and partly scorched her when he sighed.

 a lot was discernible in that sigh: despondency, frustration, the strain of another setback. and it all made her feel imperceptibly worse. 'it's time to stop, enough damage has been done tonight.'

 whimpering like rusted chains, the elevator doors slid open and her apartment looked like it was looming grievously from opposite her-down the hall.

 her steps toward it were beginning to feel more uncertain by every movement and once she reached the door, daphne found that she froze, her hand inoperative and holding the keys.

 it takes daphne a while to remember she isn't breathing — her bones had already resolved into internally jamming in their sockets. maybe it was just the long day she dragged herself through, and now it seems like there was the weight of a memorial on her.

 she momentarily tremors from inside out.

 her eyelids literally latch onto each other for support. abruptly sucking in skewered breaths, daphne's key manages to finally find the deadbolt. piles of unattended letters shoved further in the corner but daphne didn't take any account anywhere until she reached the connecting kitchen. turning on the island counter light.

 when in distress, people pour water — to level their heads and clear their minds.

 daphne pours bourbon, praying that its thick enough to flood her head, burn out the troubles in her mind. although, it didn't help with the uneasy sensation that still stuck to her. even inside her own apartment, she didn't feel safe.

 and it settles in more deeply like a jagged-edged knife when she realizes, where the fuck is milo? the bouncy ball of black fur that scurries through her apartment, too opinionated and judgemental for an animal that can't even speak. her cat that always seems to find her feet three-steps into their home.

 she sets the glass down and tunes more deeply in the silence. daphne's ears focus on the closest sounds; sometimes it's the neighbor downstairs running his tap, the elderly women who's oven-timer chimes too frequently, the sea from the harbor not too far from her apartment or the trains that fly through gotham.

 but this time, when she listens there's breathing. more intently, there is a separation between breaths; her cat is purring somewhere not far from her stance in the kitchen, and there is someone else — sounding far too relaxed and way too in control.

 her nerves are peeling. there's a small gust of wind, striking the hairs on her arm — the window leading to her fire escape must be open. someone else is here.

 she lifts her head to the source, seeing a silhouetted figure sitting comfortably in a chair that's seen her crawl in through that window and heave herself to the sofa with multitudes of wounds too many times. daphne can't see a face, the island light above her and street lamp from behind the window is blocking out any clear interpretation.

 but she swallows thickly and notices immediately who it is. her phone begins to blow up from on the counter next to her half-full and half-empty glass of bourbon. the figure smiles, setting milo down on an opposing chair when he stands.

 maybe bruce is messaging her. he's left too many cameras around her avenue more for his peace of mind than her's, so if he tapped into the live feed recently, then there isn't a doubt he's on his way.

 daphne is frozen once again.

 all her thoughts are haphazard.

 the phone pings four more times.

 he's walking closer to her.

 and now he's in front. giving her that glittery grin, widening it as if she's meant to forget just how dangerous he is. daphne is trapped in nowhere she'd rather be. he raises his hands to meet both her cheekbone and presses his forehead onto hers.

 his eyes are closed. if it weren't for the oddities, this would feel normal.

 his breathing intensifies and his hold begins to harden, breaking into her face but she doesn't move. "what did i tell you before you're bats put me in arkham? say you remember."

 there's going to be a print where his hands are and she feels different. a strong vigilante puts criminals behind bars and criminally insane in arkham. but right now she wants to feel his hands more than anything. "that you'll always come back for me."

 the joker's hands fell. "i saved you. i wanted to save you."

 "i know that."

 he finishes her glass of bourbon and slams it down into her phone. his hand is definitely bleeding and the phone is absolutely broken. "pack a bag. only what you need and the cat. we're leaving — oh and bring your surgical kit, not the first aid — we're gonna make a special pitstop for you."

 she's realized by now that his voice really does betray his emotions (even though daphne was still debating whether he had those?). there's urgency in the way he speaks and there is always purpose. it drops an octave when referring to something dangerous, so special makes her wonder.

 but, daphne is fresh from the grave right now, and not looking to question anything. she needs direction and guidance, and after the last eight months, this was exactly it.

 if bruce was on his way, he'd find an empty apartment.