﹒ ◠ Wish you never, ever met her at all .ᐟ ⊹ ﹒
Medusa; tragic, gruesome ─ when four bodies are turned up in as many days by the unwitting Gotham PD, the city's group of costumed detectives find that they have their...
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THIS STORY WILL BEGIN IN THE DARK. Metaphorically, literally ─ darkness, the pallid hand of Night.
"Dispatch?This is Unit One. We've found a.. body, 57 Wharf Street. No immediate cause of death is apparent, but.. well, we're requesting backup and a medical examiner."
This darkness, cessation of thought and creativity of heart, does not strive for solicitude or sympathy. This is not the coming of fireflies or moonlight. This is the bleakness of a blindfold, the despondency of bound limbs. It is thick and it will swallow you, if you do not learn to swallow it.
"Right, uh.. male victim. Late thirties, early forties. No signs of struggle, but he ─ no, sir, none of my men have touched him. Yes, sir, scene integrity is as upright as can be. Forgive me, Commissioner, but can I ask a question?"
There is a certain obscurity to a moonless night, but to see the starry skies is a revelation. The clouds will retreat. The wind will burn you, raw Northern draughts, but it will take the smoke with it. Till then, learn to part the ashes.
"The dead man's smiling, sir. These.. fish hooks are holding him up, like bloody art, and he's smiling. The Joker, he hasn't escaped again, has he?"
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COP CAR ──── Red Hood / Reader
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