Chapter 162 - My SI Stash #62 - A Subtle Knife by industrious (Worm/DCU) (2/2)

”There could have been more of them.”

He scoffs. ”The Batman does not appreciate having the rest of the Justice League in his city.”

...And we have a Justice League. This isn't the really early days, then. There's already a community of heroes (and villains), and I...I'm feeling better about my state of affairs already. Sure, I'm in a jail cell and...killed...someone, but I have social-fu. Jack Slash on his own was never an enormous threat; what made him truly terrifying were the people he convinced to join him. Not that I'm planning to follow the Dao of the Murderhobo or anything.

”And The Batman shouldn't have been here to begin with! He was scheduled to make an announcement this morning in Washington, and my plan would have succeeded…”

Enter megalomaniacal rant. Don't get me wrong, I get them, or at least this type of rant. This is the ”I should have succeeded, the world is against me, this is totally not my fault or the result of my actions or my responsibility” sort of spiel that seems to accompany any great failure. It's a self-esteem sort of thing. I've even indulged in a few myself. About more mundane things, obviously.

Honestly, this one seems a bit canned. He's probably used to them by now. Get caught, rant, be thrown into Arkham. Break out, do something stupidly villainous, get caught… It's no wonder why his heart isn't in it.

I become less of a participant and more of an enraptured audience member, nodding and agreeing at appropriate times, because what else can you do when such a luminary as Mr. Freeze decides to impart such wisdom to your ears? He's enjoying having a captive (ha!) audience, and I'm playing my part perfectly.

It's almost a relief when the doors to the cell block slide open again.

”Place your hands through the bars.”

I comply as they cuff me, taking deep breaths as I do so. Calm, cool, not panicking at being detained at all is me.

”Thought we'd have a little chat” the officer says as he unlocks my cell door, his partner behind him. He's far enough from the other side of the cell blcok that Freeze wouldn't be able to touch him, a hand right against his holstered weapon.

I guess they weren't being charitable after all. At least they're being polite about it. Well. Relatively polite.

I nod to the supervillain as I leave, and note that he nods back.

”Made a new friend?” one of the cops sneers, shoving me forward.

And there goes whatever veneer of politeness I had been hoping for. I know better than to answer, of course.

As we exit the cell block, I wonder who'll be doing the interrogation. Questioning. Whatever the proper term would be. I haven't been read any Miranda rights, so I don't think it's admissable, but my knowledge of law comes from cultural osmosis and a few law blogs written about how crappy our police system is and what to do if you're pulled over without cause.

Somehow, I don't think asking ”am I free to go” is going to help my situation here.

The interrogation room looks just like it does in the shows; b_a_r_e concrete walls and floor, one light, a cheap metal table bolted to the floor and chairs. A stenography device lies close to one side; a metal U-loop fused to the table on the other. And of course, the one way glass. Can't forget about that.

My stomach rumbles, and I realize I haven't eaten since...well, since I came to this universe. I think I had buffalo wings in Charlotte, but those are long, long gone.

My escorts lead me to the far chair, closing the door behind me - I wonder how they're going to cuff me to the table without uncuffing me...ah. The loop is itself a lock on the table. They raise the loops, move the chain between the cuffs (and therefore my wrists) between the loop and

”...I haven't eaten since I woke up. Can...I get a doughnut? Or something?”

It's probably a bad idea to ask. Something to do with dominance games and power plays and this is Gotham and

Everything goes white and then fuzzy, as if the world was reverting from hyperspace one glimmering pixel at a time.My head lolls. I think there was some sort of m_o_a_n or grunt, but I'm not really sure.

The back of my head feels like someone's cracked an egg on it. It's sizzling happily as the yolk and whites run down my neck and I'm pretty sure I just lost my metaphor. Simile.

Head injuries are absolutely terrible for one's lucidity. This empirical data was brought to you courtesy of the GCPD.

”...up.”

And now I've fallen down some stairs - okay, one stair, let's not exaggerate - in Gotham as well. I really am getting the full tour.

”Oy! Bendejo!”

The door to the interrogation room slams open, and I wince at the sound. In the doorway is a very angry-looking Latina woman in a leather jacket and white top. Her hair's in a ponytail, and her eyes are narrowed at my two goons.

Much more important to my stomach is the white paper bag that smells impossibly delicious in her left hand.

”Quit roughing the poor man up! Now get outta my interview room, pronto.”

They don't look back as they rush for the exit, and I find myself alone with Detective Renee Montoya.

Chapter 1.4

July 4th, Early PM

I open my mouth, and Renee Montoya feeds me another bite of the most delicious doughnut I've ever tasted. It probably isn't, objectively speaking. I'm just that hungry, and cuffed to the table as I am, each bit is only possible due to her kindness. She told me that the setup was standard procedure for metahumans; Batman must have told them...something. I don't know what they think they know.

Being fed by her, a toned, athletic woman in her prime, is intimate, personal, and it's obvious enough that I can see what it's intended to do. It also helps that I know is absolutely impossible that Renee Montoya would ever have any romantic interest in me. No, this is classic good cop, bad cop, right down to the good cop coming to my rescue. She was watching through that one way glass, and I'll eat my socks if Harvey Bullock isn't there on the other side right now.

Yes, I'm being cynical. And yet...this is Renee Montoya. I know - know, from hundreds of pages poured over, writings by Rucka and I-forget-who-else devoured. I know her story, and I know that for whatever faults she has, the detective is still a good person at heart. She's a good cop, even if she's currently just playing one.

They don't know, Detective, I think as I smile, crumbs and powdered sugar dropping from the corner of my mouth. Do you hate playing this role, this forced closeness? She returns my expression, dabbing at the remaining crumbs with a napkin. Are we both smiling even as we're both trapped in this situation?

”Feeling better?”

”Yes. Thank you, detective. Thank you.”

I give her another sheepish smile.

”Sorry about the mess.”

She moves back to her side of the table, and doesn't press a button on the recording device. It isn't blinking or beeping or flashing, but I figure she turned it on while I was eating or even before. Or it's not even a stenography device, meant to be there and explicitly be turned off to help me relax, and the real recorder is on the other side of the glass. Her voice is gentle, low and kind, and probably meant to get me to open up.

”Now, I know you're probably scared by all the precautions we had to take, and I get that this hasn't been the best few days. But I'd like you to relax, and we can talk, just the two of us, and we won't need to be all formal and procedural, okay? The sooner we get this done, the sooner you can get out.”

Thanks, Detective. This is exactly the situation all the law blogs told me to avoid. Get a lawyer, shut up until they've arrived, don't say anything. No good can come of talking to cops.

Normally, they'd be right, too. Thankfully, I have an ironclad defense, and no sane lawyer would dare try to mount it.

I nod in agreement.

”Sounds good, detective.”

...Wait. This is the DCU. The Joker or some other supervillain probably use a variant all the time.

Ohwelltoolatenow.

There was a manilla folder on her side of the table, loose-leaf clipped to the inside. A soft lead pencil, its edge blunted is in her hand. She writes a few words, puts the pencil down..

”I'm sorry - I haven't even asked for your name.”

”Oh, it's no problem. My name is”

There it was again. Nothing. Absolutely nothing.

”My name is”

”My name”

”My name”

I wasn't faking the panic, the heavy breathing, the frenzy of futile movement. Our names are a constant presence in our lives; they're what allow others to define us,and through their definition our own selves.

I knew that I couldn't say or think my name. It was still psychologically terrifying.

”Hey,” she places a hand on top of mine. ”Hey. It's going to be okay. You're going to be fine.”

”...I hit my head. He came and smashed it against the wall and”

”I know. It's okay. Do you know what day it is?”

”The third?”

”The fourth. You spent most of yesterday in the hospital. Heavy bruising, mostly; injuries to your head and right hand. You're lucky that you didn't get a concussion, or any broken bones.”

”I...I…”

”...I'm sorry.”

”My wallet?”

”No ID. Maybe 80 bucks in cash, a pair of coffee shop frequent buyer cards from New York, and a gift card for some store called 'Target.'”

”...Oh.”

I mean, it's not like my bank accounts exist in another dimension. I didn't really expect to have my credit card, or my corporate card, but not having them still hurt.

Whoever did this to me did a real number on my identity.

”...Is there any name you feel any sort of connection to?”

”Jack”

Dammit!

”'Jack,' it is. Can you tell me what you remember, Jack?”

I start with waking up - not talking about alternate dimensions and fictional characters was just common sense. Montoya is there with me at each sentence, asking questions, clarifying details. She's good at this; she's gone through several pages of notes already.

”...and then, he's on top of me, and I try to slash him with the bottle, and…”

I trail off.

”I killed him, didn't I? I. killed. someone.”

I should have said that out loud. Admitting homicide to a police detective, in a police station, in an interrogation room is pretty much The Worst Thing You Can Do.

But I hadn't really let it sink in, yet. I had thought about it, but there had been an ethereal, ephemeral quality to that knowledge. It hadn't been real, hadn't been tangible until it was said out loud.

”Jack, listen to me. Jack!”

My eyes snap towards hers. Her hand hasn't left mine.

”You spent the past day in the hospital. You had injuries consistent with self-defense, and the guy had a prior. You aren't going to be charged for killing him.”

My vision blurs with tears; I can't stop them, can't dab at them. They just fall down my face, dripping onto the table in a steady drip, drip, drip. She still hasn't let go.

”Thank you,” I gasp again, breath shuddering with the roller coaster of emotion. With the teacup saucer ride of emotion, really.

”Jack, I just have a few more questions, and you'll be free to go, okay?”

I nod, mute, still blinking away tears.

She moves some papers around in the folder, presses a photograph face-down into my hands.

”Can you turn this over and tell me what you see?”

It looks like a still life, an idle moment caught on film. Pretty woman in sweatpants and a loose top on top of a bed, reading a book. Neil Stephenson.

”Any further detail.”

Oh god. Her throat...it's been...and then sewed...and she's…

”Stop shaking, Jack. You're rattling the table, Jack, it's okay. Look at me, Jack! Look at me!”

I tear my eyes away from the photograph, back towards Renee Montoya's.

”Do you recognize her? Have you ever seen her before?”

I shake my head. I'm not lying.

I know who did this though, even if the GCPD doesn't. I can give them a name, and they have the resources to track him down, them or the Batman. I can stop more victims of the man they thought I was from happening. I can open my mouth, and say Victor Zsasz and they will find him, I know it.

But I can't tell them how I know. And I've already implied that I don't know anything at all, that my memory is tabula rasa, or mostly so.

I can't afford to give them that name. They already thought I was responsible for this, that I killed that woman and posed her. That's why they kept me in that cell. That's why they took me out of the hospital and put me there. That's the reason for the rough treatment and all the paranoia.

I can't have any more suspicion on me. I'm sorry. I'm so sorry.

”Okay, Jack. I don't think I have any more questions.”

”...Where do I go?”

I have eighty bucks to my name. No ID, no phone - because they'd tell me if I had one when I was found, nothing but that and the clothes off my back.

”There a Wayne Foundation shelter you can stay at, at least for a little while. I can get you a ride there, and they can help you recover, fill out paperwork to rebuild what was lost. I'm sorry about what happened to you, Jack. I can give you my card, and you can feel free to call me if you're having any trouble. This city...it can eat people up. I'd hate to see it get to you.

She twists something under the table, and the loop my cuffs are fixed to springs open.

”Thank you, Detective Montoya.”

A/N any feedback is highly appreciated.