bitter (dcu)

chapter one

a man is sitting at a desk. there is nothing spectacularly special about this man, and he knows it. his neatly ironed dress shirt is a brownish-beige; a colour just a few shades lighter than his dark chestnut hair and hickory coloured large, doe eyes. the desk that lays underneath the man's notebook and recorder is made of rough unfinished mocha wood, as if tempting him to impale his hands every time they glide over the surface. the coffee that sits beside the notebook is a dark, lifeless, sugar and milkless void of brownish black — hell, even his shoe laces match the dull atmosphere of the room with their umber colour, and if the man at the desk realized the coincidence between the items he'd smile in a pitifully downturned way, as the 'dull office atmosphere' was just what he'd call his life too. dull. boring. meaningless. did he mention boring?

there was nothing wrong with this man, just as there was nothing amazing about him either. he'd never done any wildly impressive feats nor ended up in jail. he graduated from post-secondary with an above average grade, but nothing near the top of his class. he was strong but not overly buff, approachable but not drop dead gorgeous, tall but not gigantic, and his boss either loved or hated that — the man really wasn't quite sure, and as he leaned back in the torn bistre-brown leather chair mulling over what his latest task from his employer meant, nothing came to mind. it was either a blatant suicide mission (metaphorically, maybe, but also potentially not) or a way to get his name out in the world, if done right (or horribly wrong).

the man let out a sigh as he leaned back a little further and brought his hand to the cream-beige curtains covering the only window in the room. as he pulled them back soft droplets of rain began to attack his skin, leaving a strange and prickling sensation up his forearms where his beige-brown sleeves were rolled up. the man made no effort to close the window, instead pulling the curtains open a little wider to let the cool air into the stuffy, closet-sized space. it was dark outside anyways -the time most likely being something past 11pm, if he were to assume by the couple of stars shining through the clouds- and few, if any, gotham criminals would be inclined to throw something dangerous through the open window.

a sudden sound burst through the room, causing the man to just about jump out of his skin. the overhead p.a. system quickly followed, and a tired woman's voice rang out, circling the space like a headache. "if anyone's still here, i'm heading home, and i'm locking the door behind me so y'all've better got your own keys 'cause i'm not waiting up on any of you. if you're locked in stay here 'till joey comes tomorrow morning — there's probably something in the fridge if you're hungry." an awkward pause hung in the air before the woman -known as sandra, the head of marketing- spoke once more. "goodbye. like i said, i'm'a leave now. god fuckin' bless us all."

a slight smile tugged at the man's lips upon hearing sandra's thick southern accent come through the old crackling sound system -why she moved to gotham, he had no clue- but it didn't stay for long. he had work to do, and if sandra was going home, it must be real damn late. she was an insomniac and did most of her work at night after the other employees were dismissed.

"goddamnit." the man spoke as he leaned forward and grabbed his recorder, clicking the 'on' button. for a moment he sat there, staring at his notebook, unsure of what to say, but a string of thoughts was quick to save the day. or night, rather.

"uh- okay. hello. the date is...i'm not actually sure what day it is- i'll get back to that. but here we go." he cleared his throat. "this is dorian marlow, reporting under donald kallington, and this is my first official report before i make my visit to gotham asylum tomorrow at 2pm." the man paused, slightly frowning at how clunky his words were coming out. the less-than ideal habit of getting in his own head and sabotaging his work was something he often tried -and failed- to fix. "at gotham i will be speaking to a random selection of guards about their work conditions as well as a few low-risk patients. after this, the plan is to speak to one of the, uh...well, i'm not sure what to call them. but someone with another...persona? someone who's made a character for themselves in order to commit crime without being caught — but this is only if everything is going to plan and there are no threats throughout the day. after the last journalist went in and was...attacked by one of these patients i've been told to take great caution, so...let's hope i come back tomorrow with a story and not a stab wound, huh?" his laughter was the only joy heard in the still building, and it quickly died out.