Chapter Text
The heavy pattering of rain pelted the windows outside of the high-rise office building you sat at. The air smelled of humid mold, old coffee, and dust. It was another long night for you, the ache in your hunched shoulders a hint at how long you’ve been toiling away at your office computer.
You were an accountant—well, more so an assistant to a corrupt broker that permitted you to run his numbers…if you were lucky. However, you liked to call yourself an accountant. After many hard years working towards a bachelor’s in finance, with barely enough money to scrape by, you felt like you could permit yourself to that title. It was the lowest form of recognition you’d give yourself these days.
The heaps of work you’d get from your boss never seemed to end. No recognition, no praise, just more numbers. You pondered this for a while as you dragged your tired eyes away from the computer screen. The lights around you were dim, and you were able to gaze through a small window plastered awkwardly in the dingy office-space. Through the window and across the block sat a glowing, neon sign. You seemed to be entranced by the flies buzzing about the illumination, a stray piece of hair dangling idly in your blurry peripherals.
“Oh god…” You mumbled under your breath as you composed yourself; The clock read 10:38pm and you had been in the office since 9am that morning. Now, it wasn’t often you stayed behind so late, but as Tax Day loomed ever closer, you found yourself with more work than ever. This marked the first week ever that you’d consistently pulled late shifts—of course with no overtime pay. But a tight grip of anxiety swelled within you at the thought of talking to your boss about a “fair share”.
With a sigh, and a stiff groan, you decided to pack up for the night. There was no use in continuing your work if you couldn’t help but zone out after every accounting string that burned itself on your monitor. After saving your work, you turned off the computer tower, picked up your bag and made your way to the elevator. The old carpet muted the sound of your heels on the floor and made it hard to walk straight, but you were grateful for the low noise. After long days like this, you preferred to sit in silence. Maybe you’d spare some energy for some low, melancholic music. But now? You just needed silence. This need was denied by the obstructive ding of the elevator, but your face maintained a flat expression.
Your boss’s office was on the 17th floor, your desk residing just outside of it. Far enough to respect the privacy of his clients, and yet close enough to where you never ceased to hear him call your name with impatient insistence.
The elevator creeped down to the lobby with a nauseating slowness. It neared the ground floor, and as it approached, you readied yourself to step out into the streets of Gotham. The doors slid open and with quick steps, you made it through the empty lobby and out into the rain. The umbrella in your bag seemed to find its way to the bottom, and it took you no short of 5 minutes to fish it out without clattering the rest of your belongings onto the floor.
With a click and a swing, your umbrella was out and you kept walking with composed ease, letting the dark umbrella hide your face from the chaos of the city around you.
There wasn’t anything new in Gotham as of late. At times, you wondered if you felt this way because you were used to the unexpected, or if there truly wasn’t anything going on. The Joker seemed to be subdued in Arkham Asylum, and you were unsure if this time he’d rot there for more than a week or escape as he usually would. Plus, the redundancy of your day-to-day seemed to make the days blur together. No matter what happened in the city.
After some time, you made it to your apartment. It was about a 15-minute walk but you paid the price for convenience as it, like your office, was also dilapidated and moldy. No amount of bleaching could save the baseboards, but you tried your best regardless. You could at least control your effort. Control that routine. Bleach. Wipe. Air out the apartment. Bleach. Wipe. …Mold. Well, it was the routine you cared more about anyways.
Your hair fell to your shoulders as you pulled it free from the hair tie that held it. Your face felt greasy and your eyes were heavy from exhaustion. The squeak of the shower sounded as you turned it on, and you followed the exact same routine you’ve always had after a hard day of work.
Now clean, you slipped into pajamas, laid a towel down on your pillow, and got into bed with wet hair. At this point, you didn’t care to wait for your hair to dry anymore; it was too late. You pulled your old laptop onto your lap to scroll through YouTube, hoping to find a long video to fall asleep to. After some success, you played the video, set the laptop on your nightstand, and rolled over to sleep. Your day flittered through your head as you let your body sink into the mattress. It always seemed like a conscious effort to turn off your brain, but you were thankful enough to your own exhaustion as you drifted off to sleep faster than usual.
Your apartment was dark. It was much later now—around 2am. Walls creaked as the building settled in the rain. Everything was as it usually was. Until the faintest red light flickered to life on your laptop camera. It illuminated your face for a brief second, highlighting your sleeping features, before cutting out, the darkness rushing in to fill the space that it left.
--- ? ---
Your alarm blared on your phone, jolting you awake and filling you with a rush of cortisol.
“No way it’s already morning…” You thought to yourself, rolling over to grab and turn off your alarm.
Like a creature of habit, you got up and started your morning routine. It didn’t occur you to lay in bed, as it was your nature to force yourself awake right as your alarm started. Was that healthy? You didn’t know. But you couldn’t stop. The time was going to pass, no matter if you liked it or not, so why would you lay in bed? Plus, if you weren’t punctual then you weren’t you.
After washing, you made yourself a toasted bagel with cream cheese and got dressed. Your wardrobe wasn’t anything to be proud of, but it made you feel slightly good in yourself on occasion. You picked black baggy slacks that were cinched at the waist, and a dark blue, pinstriped long-sleeved shirt. You fumbled with the collar, ensuring it was properly smoothed out and unbuttoned the topmost button to give off a semi-relaxed look before tucking in the dress shirt. Your hair was tied up in a half up, half-down style as you usually preferred. Lastly, you clasped a tiny silver necklace around your neck and sprayed a gentle perfume on your wrists.
Stepping out of your apartment, you let the humid air from last nights rain hit you.
“Focus on getting through the day…” You sighed, closing the door to your apartment tightly. Your keys jingled in your hand as you inserted the metal into the lock. You turned the key left completely, set it to center, took it out, and then re-inserted with careful precision. The act of repeatedly locking your door gave you comfort. There wasn’t much to steal, but the thought of having someone lurking in your apartment without your knowledge or consent sent shivers down your spine. You continued this process three times, ensuring your eyes were glued to the lock as you slid your key out and stuffed it into your purse. The bottom of your shoe scuffed the concrete as you made to walk away, but as a last check, you grabbed the handle of your door and tugged. Finally, you were satisfied. And finally, you set off to work.
Work was full of the loud ringing of phones, professional laughter, and bustling bodies. As always, you were there before your boss, Mr. Loughery. The layout of your work center was spacious for how cheap it looked. Open-concept cubicles, paired in fours and neatly laid out in rows, took up most of the space. However, wide walkways and expansive windows made the area seem bigger. Your boss’s office was located at the opposite end of the elevators, and you were forced to trek through multiple quadrants of cubicles to get to your desk. As you walked, you nodded to coworkers, repeating the same polite “Good morning!” to them as you passed. You weren’t particularly close to any one coworker, but you made it a point to be friendly and easy-going. It just made life easier when coworkers liked you. The smile you plastered on your face faded as you neared your desk, spotting a particularly bad sight leaning against it. Unlike the others, you weren’t given the semi-private blessing of a cubicle. No, no. Your dark brown desk was nestled to the side of your boss’s door, a big window casting sunlight on it from the perpendicular wall. Your chair was pressed to the window, and often times you quite enjoyed the feeling of the sun rays on your back. Even if that was once a year in Gotham.
“What are you doing here, Harris?” You called out to the man practically sitting on your desk as you stopped to meet him. He was average but well put together. Dark brown hair, freshly tapered and clean, was brushed to the side as he raked his fingers through it at the sight of you.
“What does it look like I’m doing? When does your boss get in?” He dismissed your obvious annoyance, seemingly unbothered by the nuisance he was causing by using your desk as a waiting room chair.
You bit the inside of your cheek.
“He doesn’t get in until 10am, so you’ll have to wait. In the meantime, I can write down what you need him for and make sure he makes a stop at your cubicle sometime today.” You decided to be cordial, quickly thinking of a solution that might ease his impatience. To add onto the effect, you ensured to give a small smile, lowering your head and tilting it slightly as you did. At that he scoffed, but agreed.
“I have a client that’s coming to me with a particularly difficult situation and I need his expertise. Just…tell him to see me today when he gets in, okay?” Harris ensured the conversation was short, strictly keeping to business and not allowing for any idle small talk in-between. “I mean, jeez, why even file at all if you haven’t for the past 10 fucking years…” He mumbled under his breath, seemingly lost in his current issue as he made his way back to his cubicle.
You sighed, rounding your desk to sit down on the grey, plush chair at your desk. It wasn’t much, and the back support could be better, but it got you through some tough days that’s for sure. You knew that the clouds would be rolling in soon, and the cruel bite of the cold office always threw you off around midday. So, bending over, you clicked on a small space heater that was daisy chained from your desk to the wall; It was Gotham ingenuity at its finest. Your desk was littered in sticky notes, most of them old and illegible from frantic notetaking. You brought one closer to you, ripping off the top layer to expose a new sheet, and wrote out your main tasks for the day. Remembering everything at once was difficult, so you preferred to write down anything and everything that came to mind for work.
“Mr. Falcone is expecting a report back by the end of the month…I’ll have to make sure Mr. Loughery’s calendar is completely open for that…” You whispered to yourself, jotting down a bullet point. “And Mr. Johnson called yesterday with a last-minute emergency….ugh I don’t know why he always expects me to clear every meeting the boss has just for him. His money isn’t worth the squeeze…” You continued, picturing the red-faced and frantic Mr. Johnson in your head with a dismissive grunt. It wasn’t common for you to work directly with Falcone or anyone like them, but everyone has their role in the slums of Gotham. And yours was their bookkeeper/assistant. Ensuring the machine ran smooth while they go out and do their dirty work was your specialty.
You were unaware of the quiet rambling emitting from your lips as you worked, and from the corner of your eye noticed that your coworkers were starting to catch on. So, you grit your teeth, willing yourself to stop. Only to catch a scraggly mass writhing on the floor.
“Ugh…” Your face contorted in disgust as you eyed a rat across the office. It made your hand twitch to witness, and you rubbed your clammy palms on your slacks absentmindedly to get the feeling out of your head. This feeling lingered, however, and your attention was so absorbed in the rodent that you decided to get up for a cup of coffee, careful to keep an eye on your surroundings as you did. As you walked, your eyes wandered along the walls of the building. There weren’t many decorations around. Rather, the walls were scattered with old safety announcements and the occasional “Client Confidentiality” poster. Tch. The clients you knew of were all scum. Who cared for their confidentiality? It’s not like anyone would do anything if they were caught. But you’d suppose they’d rather avoid the headache entirely. Hushing the rats requires manpower, and manpower requires money, time, and influence. All of which they don’t want to waste on your average office worker.
You passed an old supply closet and some more posters before you got to the break room. Stale donuts sat on the counter alongside a fresh pot of coffee. Was today your lucky day? You thought as you poured yourself a cup and brought it back to your desk. It was hot, and tasted like the pot hadn’t been cleaned in months, but the caffeine shot through your system quickly and for that, you didn’t care.
The rest of the day carried on without much to note. Mr. Loughery got in at his usual time, coffee in hand and bleached teeth sparkling at you as he said hello. It seemed like you were nearing the end of busy season, and all that had to be done was tie up some loose ends before you could call it for lunch.
You re-opened your email, pulling the tab over from your second monitor to your first in order to reference a tasker your boss had sent down an hour earlier. It didn’t seem like much work, but it required immediate attention. So, you decided to finish it before heading to lunch. You went to pull up the Excel spreadsheet attached to the email, but your cursor seemed…. stuck? Or unresponsive? You didn’t know what was happening, and your eyes narrowed as you repeatedly jerked around your mouse to get your computer to respond.
“Aha--!” You exclaimed a bit louder than you should. You managed to move your cursor, or so you thought. Somehow, the cursor supernaturally made its way to the bottom left side of your monitor. It was like lightning how fast you saw multiple tabs open and close—almost like your entire PC was malfunctioning.
You stared at it with bewildered eyes, and all of a sudden everything froze. Just for a single, tiny, Command Prompt window to open on your main screen.
“…w…what…?” Your face paled, and your eyes dilated in sudden fear as you read out the green text that appeared on the screen.
| C:\Users\desk12>will you seek absolution for your lies?
| ’will’ is not recognized as an internal or external command, operable program or batch file.
| C:\Users\desk12>i can be your redeemer.
| ’i’ is not recognized as an internal or external command, operable program or batch file.
Panicked, you fell to your knees under your desk and completely unplugged your computers power cord, heart thumping in your chest as you sat there on your knees, trying to process what you saw. Maybe it was just a hacker trying to be funny, you told yourself. Or some kid that knew how to remote into your computer and mess with you.
You suddenly were aware of the eyes on you, and saw tan shoes make their way over to your desk.
“Everything alright?” A coworker asked, but you didn’t pay attention to who was talking, you just nodded and gave an awkward laugh.
“Oh..uh yeah! My computer completely froze so I just thought unplugging it and re-plugging it in might help. You know how outdated our equipment is. Always acting up.” You chuckled slightly, putting on a professional but charismatic façade.
The coworker nodded, saying something along the lines of “Yeah, fuck this office.” as they retreated to their cubicle.
A long, drawn-out exhale left your chest, and you clasped a hand around your lower neck to feel at your collarbones. You allowed your fingertips to trail over the ridges of your bones before dragging your nails to scratch at your neck in thought. A small habit you adopted to limit the amount of anxious skin-picking you’d do on occasion when the flare-ups were bad. You needed to go to the bathroom. Maybe you can compose yourself there. And besides, there’s nothing to worry about. You didn’t do anything wrong. There’s nothing to prove you know anything. You just…do what you’re told, get a decent pay, and head back to your shitty apartment. That’s all. You’re a good person.
You are.
--- ? ---
Edward Nygma leaned back in a dark desk chair, the creak of the metal supports sounding throughout the stuffy room he was in. A low chuckle escaped his lips as he watched the recording of you on his monitor. The bulge of your eyes at the site of the command prompt. You collapsing to the floor. All of it—he admired every detail and drank up every twitch in your skin at the realization that somebody out there was judging. That someone out there knew you.
He couldn’t wait to see you break. To see you ground down to dust and built back up again. Free of all guilt, shame, and corruption.
Oh, he just couldn’t wait.