ɪɴ ɢʟᴏʀʏ, ɪɴ ʀᴜɪɴ || ʙʀᴜᴄᴇ ᴡᴀʏɴᴇ + ʀᴇᴀᴅᴇʀ

2. ᴅᴀɪꜱɪᴇꜱ

The precinct in your district was a cold, metallic place, but as opposed to the torrential rain that dominated the streets of Gotham City, it felt warm and inviting. The heat was on, and you closed your umbrella as you stepped past the doors, shaking it a little to expel some of the droplets of rain that had collected on the nylon surface. You tugged your jacket around your body more tightly, your hands trembling.

"Detective James Gordon," you heard Batman say, and you looked at him.

"What?"

"Find him. Tell him I sent you."

Your shoulders tensed. "You're not coming?"

He didn't indicate a confirmation or denial, simply stating; "I'll be nearby."

With that, he turned around and walked out of the station, and you watched as he jetted upwards and out of sight, propelled by the grappling hook in his hand.

You swallowed thickly, knowing that it probably wasn't a good idea for a vigilante like him to just go into a police station, but the lack of his presence made you feel uneasy. You stood up straighter, trying not to let it show, and walked into the precinct. The detective squad was on the third floor, according to the directory on the wall, so you pressed the button to the elevator, stepping inside. Your arm was aching something terrible now, the pain burning with every shift of your right arm. You hoped the precinct had something for pain. You'd take anything at this point. Without the adrenaline, the pain was all you could focus on.

The elevator doors dinged.

They slid aside to reveal a large room, with exposed brick walls and wide open windows, the ceilings high. The lighting wasn't great, and the fluorescents overhead were long overdue for a change in bulbs. It smelled of rain, cigarette smoke, and coffee. You stepped out of the elevator, heart fluttering nervously in your chest. Past the swinging doors into the bullpen, it was a mess of men and women walking about, ringing phones, and scattered papers. Tired, overworked people sat at the desks, some dozing off. You spotted a young woman face down on her desk, an untouched cup of coffee at her elbow. You knew Gotham City's crime rate was astronomical, and while you did think of the effects it had on the police force, you'd never actually seen it with your own eyes.

You scanned the room until you spotted a plaque on a desk, reading the name Batman had given you.

Det. James Gordon.

You studied the man behind the desk, an exhausted-looking, bespectacled African American man in a beige suit. He didn't look up from what he was doing. None of the other officers did. And you weren't surprised regarding why, there were civilians much like yourself scattered about, giving statements to bedraggled, sleepless detectives. On the walls beside some desks were pinboards littered with photographs, maps, and other tidbits of information, all marked with scarlet thread and thumbtacks. You wondered quietly to yourself how many of the crimes the Gotham PD investigated went unsolved.

Slowly, you pushed through the bullpen's swinging doors, approaching the desk of Detective James Gordon.

He didn't look up until you were standing beside his desk, looking at you with bleary eyes, and you felt a tinge of pity at his state, knowing the sleepless feeling all too well. Your own exhaustion was beginning to catch up with you.

"Detective Gordon," you said, voice weaker than you would have liked.

"That's me," he said, "and you are?"

You told him your name, and he gestured for you to sit in the chair beside his desk, which you did.

"So miss," he said, your name following, "what happened?"