Punchline

Chapter One: Punchline

Chapter One: Punchline

I heard a chink sound of metal as I was trying to wake from a rough pistol whip across my head; and my police training told me to try to understand my surroundings—to act diligently and try to make the escape. My surroundings were damask and dark, like a poorly lit, unfurnished bedroom. My wrist was achy, reddened by a pair of handcuffs that chained me to a cheap, wrought-iron headboard. The rest of me was free and able to move, but not so much useful since I couldn't get myself free.

I felt a twinge alongside my right temple where he had bashed me over the head, right as I been about to put my patrol car in drive. Caught me in the middle of answering a call.

Detective Gordon had been my mentor that I was supposed to shadow. But his goodness and that most people were true had put a cloud over my judgment to not check the backseat first before getting in.

And damn it all, I realized that, as I sat on the bed with a throbbing headache, I felt along my hip for my firearm, my baton, radio— anything—and sadly understood that he had stripped me of my utility belt.

At least I was still in uniform. The jester maniac didn't undress me.

I looked around the room. A dresser. End table. The bed I'm on and a couple of lit candles and a table lamp that struggled to remain lit with an old light bulb.

I knew that the GCPD would learn that I was missing; but I didn't know if they would realize it while I was still alive.

I winced, as the headache began to grow and I started to feel dizzy, a little nauseous. Concussion.

And then the door opened.

"Shaunessy."

Jerome Valeska stood in the doorway, heavily silhouetted by the candlelight and the pathetic table lamp. His healed scars from the staples in his face had become a reminder of his terror on Gotham a year ago. The long stint in Arkham made him strangely callous and cold. He was still wearing his Arkham uniform, jacketless, overalls. He palmed a knife in one, white-gloved hand—and in the other hand, he held my Glock, finger on the trigger, though he held it at his side.

The way he said my name made the hair stand up on my neck.

"What kind of name is that anyway?" Jerome pondered aloud, leaned up against a side of the doorway.

"Irish," I said politely, though I didn't dare move my eyes from him. I stayed frozen on the bed. "But it's a wealthy neighborhood in Vancouver, British Columbia."

"How boring," said Jerome. He stepped forward full bodily into the room, and I shuffled back against the headboard. My handcuffs around my wrist and headboard bangled, a rough metal sound in an otherwise quiet room.

"Why am I here?" I said.

"Leverage." Jerome said. "What do you think...Shaunessy?"

Tauntingly, Jerome let my name slip from his tongue as if he had other plans to keep in mind.

He pocketed the knife and conjured my photo ID from hammerspace. Magic tricks. He popped onto the bed, seated beside me as if we were old friends. And Jerome turned his head to me, reading from my license callously,

"Shaunessy James…Gotham...Born in…"

He winked at me, "Ooh, you're a young one, aren't you? Eighteen. Legally an adult. To do adult things. Except drink." Jerome clicked his tongue. "The GCPD is really digging into the cradle for reinforcements, aren't they?"

"I'm one out of 100 cadets, Valeska." I said. "I'm not as important as you think that I am."

"But you are the only daughter of honorable Mayor James, aren't you? Shaunessy James. To think that that bucket of lard can bust out a pretty thing like you."

I bit the inside of my cheek.

"Don't like sexual harassment, do ya? Sensitive about that kind of thing? Got a lot of that in that fancy police academy school of yours, probably. Don't take my shtick personally. It's a lot more friendly than the shiner I had to give you in the car."

"They'll find me," I threatened.

"Yeah? With your little radio and perhaps that…" Jerome chuckled as he tossed a little piece of plastic in my lap, crushed to an insignificant scrap, "GPS in your phone. Yeah, I took care of that, toots."

Jerome swept a hand through his faded, red hair. His scarred smile turned my stomach, but perhaps it was my own small understanding that my unit wasn't going to find me as soon as I had hoped that made me sick.

Jerome Valeska seemed pretty intent on keeping me as his pretty little hostage, a leverage for the GCPD to cooperate or else the mayor's daughter was going to pay the price.

For all my training at the academy, I could think of nothing to get me out of my situation. Except maybe one thing, but it wasn't anything that Detective Gordon had taught me or trained me. More like his ex-girlfriend who ran the Sirens.

And I didn't think I was prepared to do that.

"Oh my God, stop thinking so much. You're giving me a headache," said Jerome. "And lighten up a bit, toots. It's not the end of the world. Well, maybe not for me. Really depends on your dear old dad taking orders from a—"

"Terrorist?" I suggested coldly.

Jerome made a smirk, "Wow, okay. Ouch. No, not a terrorist. Terrorists want to invite terror," he humored me. "I am comedian. Comedy is my bag, baby, and guess what?"

Suddenly, he reached for my neck, drew my face close to his with his dark eyes boring into mine with a frightening smile—

"You're the punchline."