16. Muse

The quiet, the miserable, damnable quiet. Jeremiah thought it would have given him time to think, time to plan. Silence breeds brilliance typically, but weeks into the separation, he was stumped for an idea. He had short term strategies, of course, that ensured his survival and, theoretically, allowed him time to think. He had found an abandoned warehouse that he was using as a base. After that, he had sought out Ecco and escorted her back. Then he had her recruit those who were "fit for work." They were not the most mentally stable, but they provided what he needed. The muscle offered him a fortification of sorts, one that would protect him from the day-to-day anarchy of the city, and from there, he had plans to keep them supplied enough to survive. And yet, nothing. Nothing even so much as inspired him—nothing tugged at his mind and spurred him into action.

Jeremiah knew he had to do something for Bruce, something that would keep them bound forever. Yet his mind blanked on what to do. Everything that he came up with was boring, not enough to bond them. Kill the butler or the girlfriend? Tired, tried, done before. Killing Jim Gordon or anyone else didn't interest him either. Hell, even coordinating to destroy that "Haven," while one of the softer targets, didn't even seem like an interesting or permanent way to ingrain himself into Bruce's mind. It was all logical, all feasible, he knew just how to do it. It just didn't seem personal enough. He wouldn't be able to bond with him that way. It wasn't exciting enough. How does one top bringing the city to its knees?

Jeremiah instead found his days preoccupied with doing nothing in the room he was given as an office away from the rabble. Everything was distracting, pulling his attention away from what needed to be done. He'd flick pencils up the slanted desk he was provided, spin in his chair, shoot crumpled paper into the wastebasket, and stare at the white plaster wall. One evening, he found himself spending a few hours carefully watching the mundane activities of a fly as it buzzed around and rubbed its putrid legs together like a plotting villain. The fascination was only released when Ecco killed it, not knowing how much it meant to him to have a distraction from the vexing boredom.

It was again, on someday (Monday? No Wednesday—he couldn't keep track) that he found himself in another distraction, trying to flip his pen over the back of his fingers. Suddenly, a spark of inspiration went through his mind. He smiled, finally, an idea worth writing down! He pulled the pen taut into his hand and lowered it to write the plan down. He stopped. No, it wasn't right. Sure, it managed to top what he did, but it wasn't rational. There were too many negative variables. He could get killed during this plan. There were too many holes, too many times something could go wrong. It wasn't the plan he needed.

During his moment of hesitation, a much more damning intrusive thought made its way into his mind, I shouldn't be doing this. This is awful. I can't keep doing this to myself. Bruce will hate me if I go through with any plan.

"Jeremiah," with his train of thought derailed and blueprint still un-inked, Jeremiah turned back to find Ecco standing in the door to his office. "They're waiting."

Jeremiah growled as the last bit of inspiration left. Might as well, it was a bad plan, but what waited for him outside the office didn't seem like a better alternative. He sighed. This was probably his least favorite part of the job. The "troop rallying" part never made sense. If they agreed with his will, why not simply follow him? Why did he need to parade around or convince them again?

Jeremiah ran a frustrated hand through his hair. He pulled his hand back. His hair felt like straw after the recent, slightly botched dyeing. He felt like his red hair stood out too much against his more pale than usual skin, and the ginger jokes had already started among some of his opponents. (He couldn't have people calling him the "mad ginger" as it had started. He wasn't insane, and it reminded him too much of—) His hair was supposed to be black now. However, he wasn't sure the strange chemicals that had changed his skin tone were taking well to the coloration. His hair looked green in some lighting.

He slowly dragged himself away from his blank blueprint and followed Ecco out the door to the floor of the warehouse. His office, which was a tiny connecting room that also doubled as a temporary home, opened up to the back of a makeshift stage. A mixture of mumbles and grumbles came from the floor, and a crowd could be seen from his position. He stepped up onto the platform with Ecco. As he did, a wild cheer went up from the crowd.

"Jeremiah!" They chanted in raucous applause. Jeremiah felt a sense of satisfaction. They recognized him, the man who had impacted the city and blew it half to hell. The feeling was exhilarating. However, another sound pierced the unanimous cheer for Jeremiah.

"The Paleman!"

"It's the Creeper!"

"Paleman, hell yeah!"

Jeremiah had to suppress an exasperated sigh. They had been trying to give him a name like the Penguin or Riddler or Scarecrow—Gotham tradition, he assumed. None of them fit, and their preferred name changed on the daily (though the Paleman, the lamest amongst them he thought, was most common). It annoyed him a little, Jerome hadn't needed a nickname. Why should he need one? Jeremiah wanted his name scrawled on the city; he wanted Bruce to know without a shadow of a doubt that it was he who was doing this. He had nothing to hide behind another alias. Still, he didn't rebuke them purely for the reason that it didn't matter in the long run. He needed them for the moment. When he didn't anymore, he'd take care of their habit.

Ecco suddenly smiled and visibly brightened, "Well, aren't you guys excited!" She suddenly cartwheeled into the center of the stage. She bowed, and the cackling masses applauded. "I told you I'd bring Jeremiah."

Jeremiah stood in silence as Ecco tamed the crowd. Ecco still acted in the vein of a proxy; it seemed rallying came easier to her than Jeremiah. She said that it had something to do with studying their actions for so long. They responded to theatrics and a cult mentality, and Ecco put on quite the show. She played the part as one of them. Still, it was unbelievably embarrassing that she gave in to this role; she was so bubbly, emotive, and insane looking. If he didn't know better, he would call her insane. He couldn't imagine playing the fool for such a crowd. Jeremiah stood behind her, watching her actions and betraying no emotion. She could appeal to them all she wanted, but he was keen on keeping his wits, even with the lack of a charismatic leader. If anything, he was there to show that he was behind everything.

While Ecco continued to captivate them, Jeremiah spotted a movement in the crowd. A man with spikey hair, a healed but visibly broken nose, and a sling holding his right arm approached the stage. Ecco noticed too and stood in front of Jeremiah, but the man looked at him with a sense of wonder.

"Jeremiah," the cultist looked like he was ready to crawl on the stage. "I knew you'd be the next big thing!"

Jeremiah scrutinized the newcomer; a flash of recognition betrayed his emotionless expression, "You, you're the one who threatened to fillet me a couple weeks back." This was the man of whom he'd first drawn blood, the man Bruce stopped him from killing.

The spiky-haired man's face turned slowly into a frown. "I'm sorry about the whole knife incident. I see the real you now. You are truly Jerome's—" there was a twitch in Jeremiah's expressionless eyes "—successor. Could you forgive me?"

"Oh," Jeremiah stopped for a moment. An impulse went through his mind. He almost felt himself smile but forced himself to keep a straight face. "Absolutely. . ." He drew the word out and stuck his hand in his pocket.

Don't do it!

"Oh," the man grinned immediately and stepped forward and bowed his head in humility. "Thank you. I promise it'll ne—"

BANG!

The spiky-haired man's head whipped back as the bullet went through it. He crumpled to the ground, and a steady pool of blood formed around him. The crowd quickly shuffled back to allow the body to slump. Ecco looked on with muted shock.

"Absolutely not. . ." Jeremiah sighed and pointed the gun skyward. "So rude to interrupt." He lazily scanned the room. Their faces were stunned; there wasn't any more of that awe he had once seen. There was a long, awkward, tense pause before he spoke again, "You might be here because I am that dead psychopath's 'successor' as this corpse just said. Make no mistake, I have no intention of continuing that man's—that thing's work." There was a look of confusion. "I make my own path, and I assure you, we will remake Gotham into our image."

They weren't buying it. He had seen such a crowd before. Jerome's crowd usually groveled at the psychopath's feet and did what he asked. These people were proving to be a thorn in Jeremiah's side again. They were the skeptics, the ones who had only come to support him once the bridges burned, and he proved to be something like their previous master. They were the cult of personality, the first among Jerome's flock. Jeremiah wasn't sure they would be persuaded as quickly as the previous batch had—and well, they hadn't turned out so well, a little. . . Something built up in Jeremiah's chest. The look of shock on their stupid faces, the bloodied corpse on the floor, the way they glanced around—

Jeremiah had to catch himself as a laugh came forward. He smiled through it and tried to pass it off. To his surprise, Jeremiah saw a flicker of light enter their eyes as they saw him laugh. Even Ecco seemed to brighten a bit with his laughter. Some of them joined in.

That's not funny. Why am I laughing? Stop laughing!

Wanting nothing more to do with it, he clamped his hand over his mouth desperately and quickly fled into a back room.

Ecco glanced after him but turned back to the crowd as she heard murmurs. The smiles slowly faded from them. Ecco stepped up to the center of the stage.

"Alright!" She called to the group. "I have a job for you!"

After doling out Jeremiah's daily, chore-like demands to the followers, Ecco glanced back to the door that led to the office of the complex. She ignored the confused murmurs of the dissipating crowd and strode over to the room. She edged the door open without hesitation.

"Jeremiah, are you alright?" She asked before seeing him.

She stopped. Jeremiah hunched over his desk and held his mouth with a gloved hand. She closed the door behind her and kept her distance. Jeremiah radiated a sort of anger, and she knew better than to coax an answer out of him. She stood stoically by the door.

Ecco swallowed a little, staring at Jeremiah's hunched form. He'd changed again, that was happening a lot recently. He was supposed to be confident, the visionary she had seen when he had been executing his plan. He now was quieter, reserved, violent—but he lacked that spark she had seen several weeks ago. He was growing more paranoid too and asked her almost daily if she trusted him. She thought she knew why: Jeremiah didn't have a plan. He would deny it like he usually would, but she knew him well enough. She wasn't even sure what the end goal was now. He wouldn't have left them with menial tasks if he had a plan. She knew he just needed inspiration; maybe, she could provide the motivation he needed. But if she knew how to do that, Jeremiah would have been inspired.

How could she be his muse?

While Ecco was pondering a way to inspire him, Jeremiah finally conquered his affliction and spoke, "I'm fine. It's like a hiccup. I have half a mind to snip my vocal cords. It's maddening."

Ecco thought for a moment. Maybe she could address this. She had suspicions about his laugh ever since she came back to him. There was something that didn't add up about it, "That's what it's like, hiccups? You have no control over it whatsoever?"

With a bemused and curious expression, Jeremiah slowly turned to face her, "Of course it is. What else could it be?" He took a moment to dissect her tone before standing straight and scowling at her. "What exactly are you implying?"

"Nothing, I just—"

"I've expressed in the past that I hate being lied to," Jeremiah snapped. "Don't make the same mistake. You doubt me and my sanity, don't you!"

"No, no, never Jeremiah," Ecco assured quickly. "It's just. . . I think at first it was a compulsion, but, now," Ecco paused for a moment. "I think it's genuine laughter. I saw the look in your eye out there; it was like you had told a joke. You don't do it because of any compulsion. You simply find it funny now."

Instead of an expected outburst, Jeremiah cocked his head to the side and thought, "That doesn't make sense. There was no particular joke to be seen, no structure, no payoff, no punch line. I don't understand. Your hypothesis is flawed." He waved it off.

Feeling bolder, Ecco prodded further, "Think about the event. Why did you start laughing?"

Jeremiah grumbled before he turned back to the desk. She started to think that Jeremiah would ignore her, but he responded.

"It was a wayward thought." Jeremiah seemed dismissive. "I was thinking of how I could persuade those drones out there. Then I thought about the previous followers, and well, I thought that the others hadn't turned out so well. They'd been done medium well." A small smirk appeared on his face as he remembered the fire. "And then I saw their dumbfounded, stupefied expressions and—" A sharp chuckle escaped before he clamped his hand over his mouth.

"There, see you find it funny," Ecco then muttered under her breath. "You find death funny."

"Is there a problem with that?" Jeremiah snapped again. "Do you not trust me?"

A shock ran through her, "Jeremiah, of course, I trust you."

Jeremiah didn't doubt that, but still, something nagged at him. She would act stable, then unstable. She would make calculated decisions, and then decisions that baffled him—like questioning him. He couldn't pinpoint precisely what perturbed him so much, but he didn't feel like she was totally his to command like in the old days. She was more discerning, less likely to obey. He couldn't have another chaotic element in his life. He needed to deal with her somehow, in a way that didn't lead to him losing her.

First thing first, he couldn't have her worrying, "Oh, never mind it." Concern led to rash actions, and he wouldn't allow such things to cloud her judgment. He thought to give her some romantic consolation. It seemed more incentivizing than any sort of currency he had ever given her. "Thank you for your consideration—" Jeremiah rose to his feet and led her by the arm. Oh, what was a pet name people used? "—Puddin'."

A look of surprise and a bashful blush spread across her face as he led her to the door, "Of course, I just worry about you y'know."

"Yes, of course, but I need to get back to planning. Go check on what those idiots are doing," He shoved her out the door and slammed it behind her. He sighed and returned to his desk.

I used to care about her. Now she's just a puppet. It's despicable.

"Shut up," he hissed—to no one he realized. He sighed. It was happening again.

Another thing the silence brought were thoughts, ones that he didn't like. His mind seemed to be proactively creating conflict. There were the whiny, simple-minded thoughts that kept bombarding him whenever he was making a decision. It was meek, quiet, but annoying as anything. He wouldn't call it a different person in his head. It would be like calling his twelve-year-old self a different person—and that was insane. (He wasn't insane.) No, it was an old thought process, like an old wire or radio broadcast that would not turn off. It nagged him occasionally, telling him things the old Jeremiah would have thought. Only now did Jeremiah realize how utterly pathetic he had been. Still, it disrupted his thoughts and confused him when he should have been so clear-headed.

However, he knew that the thoughts weren't the only thing that held him back; there were new impulses as well. It wasn't new. In his old life, he might have referred to it as a killer instinct, the thing that peaked out in moments of stress and drove violence or anger. It was an irrational, hateful defense mechanism. In times of stress, it would present solutions; however, most of them began and ended with "kill them." The effect was useful with someone like the man that he had just shot, but other times it was dreadfully inconvenient. Sometimes, when he was planning things for Bruce, the most horrible, violent thoughts would enter his mind. He would dismiss them immediately; they were illogical, meaningless. He needed something with structure. The ideas were not "structure." It was chaos, an Id, a shadow self, a piece of Jero—no, he wasn't going to entertain that thought.

It was insane to leave his decisions to mere gut instinct.

Jeremiah didn't want to follow either. He was more or less content with his current self. He believed the way these thoughts manifested was a result of his sudden shift, his sudden realization of his true self. His previous self was cowardly and weak, a victim to his circumstances. He bit back in the shadows—a sneaky, sniveling weasel of a human being. He had to fight not to be that misguided weakling again. The impulses were an extreme reaction to the change, something he knew that he shouldn't allow to get out of hand. If he indulged it, it would only lead to his demise. He knew he needed to keep the balance in his mind. Nothing feeble, nothing insane.

It's all insane, the thought buzzed in his mind. I'm insane.

"Shut up," he mumbled as he sat staring at the blank canvas waiting for inspiration to visit again.

Alfred found himself one night pacing the length of a hallway of the hospital. It was relatively empty for the night since the general public was not admitted unless they had some grave injury. Despite feeling like a guard dog, he knew this night's trek was with reason. Bruce hadn't been found sleeping at Selina's side like the previous nights. Since Alfred never found Bruce doing anything else with his free nights and fearing something like his last expedition outside of the green zone, he decided to search for the young man before raising the alarm.

Alfred's search didn't last long, but he found the young Wayne in the strangest place. A small chapel in the hospital had its light suspiciously on in the late hours of the night. Alfred's investigation led to the discovery of the young man. He was sitting in the front pew. A table, seemingly dragged in from somewhere else in the room, was propped up in front of him. There were multiple books on abnormal psychology, brain physiology, and chemistry; all of them were placed and opened in an erratic order. Bruce was asleep; his head rested on the pages of his current book.

"Bruce," Alfred shook the young man softly. "Bruce."

Bruce pulled his head up slowly, the page of the book sticking to the cold sweat on his face, "Alfred?" He mumbled as he sat up. "Alfred, you shouldn't be up."

"I should say the same thing about you, Master Bruce," Alfred said. "Ms. Kyle would be distraught if she thought you weren't getting any sleep, even if it is for some light reading."

Alfred allowed a small smile to reach his lips, but it disappeared as he quickly scanned the page that fell from Bruce's face. The chapter title stood out: "Psychosis." Another book was open on the subject of serial killers and theoretical rehabilitation. Yet another opened to a diagram of the human brain; it was masked with notes on the function of the scarecrow fear toxin and its effect on the mind. This could only be about one thing.

"You're still trying to help him," Alfred muttered with a hint of sadness.

Bruce glanced down at the books laid out on the table and shook his head slowly, "I wouldn't say help. I want to understand him. I—I want to know why: why he does the things he does and why it all happened so quickly. It happened in a snap. A switch was flipped, and the Jeremiah I knew was gone. If there is a way, if he comes in, maybe he'll get help . . . maybe."

"What if he doesn't want help?" Alfred asked solemnly.

He looked away, "I can't kill him, Alfred. As much as I hate him, I just can't."

"I know that. I'd never suggest otherwise," Alfred shook his head. "But, maybe it's time you understand that some people can only be saved from themselves for so long. He's on the path that will destroy him."

There was silence. It was obvious that Bruce was pondering what Alfred said. Alfred took a seat beside him and decided to wait for him to say something. Another minute passed.

"What if it was me who got sprayed?" Bruce finally questioned. "Would I have turned out like Jeremiah? Would I have taken the path of madness and destruction?"

Alfred was quiet for a moment, "I don't know."

Bruce looked Alfred in the eye, "If I had, would you have the same recommendation? Would you give up on me? Would you allow me to destroy myself?"

Alfred sighed, "No, I would do everything in my power to bring you in. I would get you help, just like when you were under the control of that mystic fellow."

"Then that must be the same for Jeremiah," Bruce nodded. "I feel like that's the way we must treat him until we completely understand if it was his true motive."

"Yeah, but think of the difference," Alfred shook his head. "You were under the influence of forces you could not control, but when given a chance to destroy the city and go against your morals, you were able to fight through and make the right choice. Jeremiah didn't make the right choice. There is only so far that things can affect a person before it becomes the person's will, their own decision."

"I still made choices that I regret; I did and stood by while atrocities were committed. And you…" Bruce's voice trailed off as he remembered coming out of his trance right after stabbing Alfred. The worst part about it was that he knew he was doing it; it just didn't matter at that moment. Perhaps Jeremiah had something similar happening in his mind.

"You still had a good heart in you. I simply feel. . . Perhaps there is no more good in Jeremiah. Perhaps it was wiped away when he was exposed to the chemicals, and the Jeremiah we knew no longer exists. Or. . ." Alfred stopped himself.

"Maybe there never was any good in him to start," Bruce read Alfred's insinuation.

"I don't want to take away your faith in him, but . . . it doesn't look good."

Bruce was quiet a moment before reiterating, "I can't kill him."

"You wouldn't have to."

"I wouldn't put it on you either. I'm not going to put that on anyone. I wouldn't resent you for doing it, but I don't like the idea of someone else cleaning up my responsibility."

"Listen," Alfred suddenly became very stern, but Bruce sensed that he was more worried than anything. "He is not your responsibility."

"But he is, Alfred. If I had—"

"Listen, it is not your fault. None of this is, you understand. It's Jeremiah and Jeremiah alone. You can't keep doing this; you can't blame yourself."

Bruce shook his head and sighed, "I know. I know. It just feels like it's my fault. Sometimes it feels like I can't come to a conclusion. I can't make up my mind. I don't know if I can blame Jeremiah, Jerome, the toxin, or myself. I feel like it's a combination of all of them. But—" He shook his head again. "I can't kill him." Alfred realized now that Bruce was saying it like a mantra. Bruce was telling himself that fact more than he was telling Alfred. "Bringing him in seems like the only way to reconcile everything. I need someone to take this decision out of my hands. I have too much invested in it. Too many biases."

"You and most the city," Alfred nodded. "Though they surely won't be as kind." Alfred looked over to see that Bruce was staring ahead, thinking deeply yet again. The butler knew that it wasn't an easy clean-cut decision; he'd experienced many of them in his younger years. Alfred sought to give some wisdom and clear the young man's mind. "Ask yourself, what is it that you really want? Do you want revenge for what Jeremiah has done, or do you want to save him?"

"I want justice for everyone," Bruce finally said before looking down at his hands. "I just have to figure out what that means now."

Ecco woke groggily to the sound of muttering. She found herself on the lumpy couch that occupied Jeremiah's workspace. She often found herself there, falling asleep after hours of organizing the group and watching Jeremiah stew in silence. A glaring light broke through the darkness of the room. It came from the desk, and so did the muttering. She pulled her head up from the pillow and looked over. There was the silhouette of Jeremiah still hunched over the desk. A chuckle came from him, and he held a hand to his mouth to suppress it. She looked down at her wristwatch: three in the morning.

"Jeremiah," Ecco said. He didn't hear her as he continued to mutter.

Ecco slid out of her makeshift bed and made her way over to Jeremiah. She looked over his shoulder to take a look at his work. Where there had once been a blank blueprint, now there were scribbles, marked out sentences, and diagrams left unfinished. She would have been proud if she didn't notice his surroundings. She saw the crumpled-up paper on the ground. He was still muttering to himself frantically. His hand worked in a fury like he was penning a masterpiece, creating new work only to scratch it out a moment later.

She placed a hand on his shoulder, "Jeremiah."

She was greeted with a gun pressed to her chest. Ecco jumped as Jeremiah moved swiftly to point the weapon at her. She got a better look at the state of Jeremiah as he turned to look at her. His hair was cowlicked slightly like he hadn't straightened it for a while, and there were dark lines under his eyes on his pale skin. He stared at her with a look of annoyed indifference.

"Don't interrupt me," Jeremiah said slowly. "You were one bad thought away from being splattered on the wall."

"Jeremiah," she placed her hand on the gun and slowly directed it away from her. "It's three in the morning. You need to sleep."

"Sleep does not produce a plan to connect with Bruce," Jeremiah said plainly. "Sleep doesn't allow me time to plot out my next move. I am trying to find ways to lure Bruce out of the custody of the GCPD, and you want me to sleep?"

"Yes," she touched his face with her hand. "Tomorrow will come, and many other days that you can use to plot out your strategy. The government is weeks from even starting to infiltrate the island. You will have your chance."

"And if tomorrow does come, and there are new events in Gotham, then what? Every moment I waste not finishing my plan is another day that a new variable can be added. Just yesterday, Penguin gained another street in the turf war. It's chaos. I cannot tolerate chaos."

"Jeremiah," She sighed. "I'm concerned. I know that this change is what you want, what you're supposed to be, but I see you suffering, not inspired. I want to help." She slowly eased the pen out of his hand. "Talk to me."

Jeremiah rolled his eyes, "A therapy session with Dr. H—"

"Don't think of it like that. Just talk to me like we used to."

He allowed her to spin him around to face her. He huffed and made a gesture for her to continue. She reached back and pulled the small couch for her to sit opposite him. She ended up being much shorter than him as she sat down.

"We could switch spots; it would be more authentic," Jeremiah jabbed.

Ecco smiled a little, taking it as his way of defusing tension. She took a moment to think about how she could start. It had been a while since she had talked him down successfully, "So, you've had trouble thinking of a plan."

"Are you in the business of stating the obvious, Ecco? If that is the case, I can just go back to work."

"No, I," Ecco pondered a way to help him think. She tried breaking it down, "What is the goal of this plan? What's the end objective? Is it against the GCPD, are we going to take ground from some of the bigger crime lords, or are we going to escape to the mainland?"

There was silence. Ecco thought she had struck a nerve. He was already testy and tired; she didn't want to push him too much. He glared off into the corner of the room and sunk down in his chair like a child in detention. Eventually, he looked back at her as if he had expected her to leave during the silence.

"Bruce, he's the objective," Jeremiah sat up finally. "He said something a while ago about forgetting me. I don't want that to happen."

Ecco had to bite back a scoff. Of course, she should have known better. Bruce just kept wriggling his way into Jeremiah's mind and tormenting him. She didn't like how much he depended on the boy. It wasn't healthy. However, if this was what Jeremiah wanted, then she would help him.

He shook his head, "But everything is so different from before. It was so much easier to think mere weeks ago."

Speaking as much as a lieutenant as a confidant, she asked, "What do you think is different now? What would you say is the main obstacle blocking your thought process?"

He huffed, "The chaos for one. I have to account for everything. I didn't have to before, people were predictable. They are still, to some extent, but this situation has brought out the strangest in all of them. No one can be trusted to act like they would have before. Everything seemed so much easier when I had my bunker. After my enlightenment, I planned everything in a fury of inspiration; it was like the plan had always been there in the back of my mind. Everything became so clear, and I was able to see it as vibrantly as a fortune teller might the future." He made a face, "But now, there are distractions. Everything comes in—the chaos, it's unbearable! I cannot plan around it."

She noticed that Jeremiah was less trained. Minor inflection made its way into his speech, and his face twitched with the hint of expression. She couldn't tell if he was evolving or reverting back to his previous state. Ecco knew that she was partly in control of Jeremiah's psyche at the moment. She felt the need to nurture him forward, spur him towards his goal, but she didn't know whether or not he was comfortable with that notion. Maybe that was what was bothering him.

"Jeremiah, you underwent a rapid change. I know this is you, the real you, but how do you feel about it? How do you interpret this sudden change?"

Jeremiah leaned back in the swivel chair and looked at the ceiling for a moment, "'I knew myself, at first breath of this new life, to be more wicked, sold a slave to my original evil; and the thought, in that moment braced and delighted me like wine.'"

"What's that from?"

"Jekyll and Hyde, I thought it was a rather appropriate comparison," Jeremiah shrugged. "My change was brought on by a chemical concoction." He quickly rephrased, "The chemicals influenced me, at least."

"So, you feel like you're split in two?" Ecco questioned in a trained tone, trying to understand why the story would come to mind.

"I am rather different from who I was before. It sometimes seems like I was an entirely different entity. I recognized my weaknesses that night; I was so pathetic. I defeated all the terrible weakness within me; I am stronger because of it, much like in the proverbial story."

She paused for a moment; she didn't like his answer, "So, you're Hyde then?"

I am a monster. I am evil.

Jeremiah scoffed and shoved the thought aside, "I was just using it as a metaphor. It's probably not the best one. There are better ones in classic literature, like Gregor Samsa from Metta—never mind, I'm not a bug. Or perhaps Griffin, the Invisible Man—No, I'm not insane." He suddenly sounded like he was arguing with himself. "Of course, I'm not."

Jeremiah devolved into a series of jumbled, confused mumbles like he was talking on the other end of a phone conversation. He faced away from her and looked like he was eyeing the corner of the room. Ecco looked on with worry. He became more feverish in his mumblings. It finally climaxed.

"Would you shut up!" Jeremiah suddenly yelled.

"I'm not talking, Jeremiah," Ecco muttered in light of the sudden outburst.

"Not you," Jeremiah snapped before mumbling a bit more. He suddenly did a double-take, scanning her quickly.

"Jeremiah?" Ecco asked and leaned forward, so he was within her reach. He stared at her, analyzing her like a threat.

Finally, he assumed an aloof expression, returning to that permanent façade of sanity. Jeremiah sighed, reached his hand out, and patted her on the head like a small child, "Thank you for your concern. This was educational. Leave."

"You need to relax," She ran her hand down his arm, "I could h—"

Jeremiah hated her insistence. What was she getting at? He suddenly felt the familiar dark urge. A delightful thought went through his head. He found his hand inch towards the pistol on the desk.

Don't kill her. Please.

Ecco let out a gasp as his hand seized her wrist in a tight grip; he spoke in a low hiss, "I was being nice before. Get out."

Jeremiah released his grip and spun back around to face the desk. Ecco was silent for a moment before frowning; he was changing, that much was sure. She wanted to help him through it, guide him down the path that would lead him even closer to that "true J," but she didn't want to push him. He was too volatile, too unpredictable to help. She would retreat and come back another time.

Ecco didn't say anything when she left, but Jeremiah knew she was gone when the door clicked shut. He was left alone with nothing but himself and his thoughts. He didn't know what Ecco was getting at, why would she ask such questions? She had this look in her eye, a mixture of pity and confusion. She was looking at him like he was crazy. He wasn't crazy.

He looked back down at the blueprint with its wild scribblings and half-made plans. He tore the design from its place on his desk, crumpled it up, and threw it in the nearly full wastebasket. Not insane. If she thought he was insane, then she didn't trust him enough.

He was perfectly sane and able to come up with a rational plan.

A new thought came to mind—oh, that was good. He smiled a little, the glimmer of inspiration finally sparking behind his eyes. Yes, stage an incident, Bruce's nature would compel him to act—the inner boy scout taking over. Putting on a bit of a show would lure him out no doubt. He could. . . No. It required immense manpower and supplies. There were too many moving pieces, again. He knew he only had a limited amount of shots, honestly, a single shot, to get to Bruce.

It wasn't a surefire way to connect with Bruce.

It wasn't a sane idea.

That new, blank, horrible paper stared back at him with judgment. He couldn't even begin to think about how to fill it.

That damnable thought process came back, "I became, in my own person, a creature eaten up and emptied by fever, languidly weak both in body and mind, and solely occupied by one thought: the horror of my other self."

"Be original," Jeremiah muttered.

The light had left Selina's eyes, that was possibly the most damning part. She had originally put on a face, tried to seem optimistic about her situation. The government would come in a week, and everything would be settled: that was the message everyone was given. Then one week passed and then another. Soon, the midnight gunfire and random explosions lulled her to sleep like anything else.

Bruce found that she liked sleeping. She'd try to do it often, but eventually, her body wouldn't let her sleep anymore. Bruce brought her books and tried to play chess with her once or twice, but she quickly became uninterested in whatever they were doing. Conversation went that way too. Even on the rare occasions that he got her interested or smiling, there would be a pause. Then the sadness would reenter her eyes, and she would ask to sleep again.

This time, Bruce had caught her when she was stirring to wake up. She forced a smile as she saw him in the cloudy noon daylight. He quickly picked up a cup from the nightstand.

"Hey," Bruce smiled a little extra for her. "I brought you water. Ran out of coffee the other night."

"It's fine," she mumbled as she accepted the cup.

She took a small sip. Like with most food and drink she took, it was minimal enough to satisfy an onlooker. They started to talk; Bruce tried to share as many positive stories as he could. He figured he could keep her entertained, then she would want to stay awake longer. Boredom was a pain when you couldn't move. She didn't speak too much, mostly listened, and forced a smile every so often. Finally, she just stared down at her cup for a long time. Bruce continued despite her inaction. He tried to engage her, but nothing worked.

Eventually, Selina spoke and interrupted one of Bruce's stories about Gordon's efforts.

"They find Jeremiah yet?" Selina asked.

A bit of a shock ran through him; he knew this was a long time coming, "Oh. No, they haven't," Bruce shook his head. "I'm sorry."

"Don't be. It's not your fault," She muttered. "It's not a priority, I'm told. I know it's selfish, but I wish they made it a priority. You'd think the bastard who did all of this would be the first person they'd hunt down."

"We'll find him," Bruce nodded. "He's hiding in the dark zone right now. Once everything is stable, we'll have the resources to take him down. He won't get away with this."

That didn't seem to ease the pained look in her eye. She stared down at her legs and was quiet for a moment.

"I keep thinking about it. He didn't shoot me through the heart and get done with it," Selina muttered. "He wanted me to suffer. That's why he shot me in the stomach. He would have shot me in the head if he wanted me dead. He wanted it to be painful. If I was going to die, it'd be horrible and slow. He wanted me here, right where I am: useless."

"Selina, you are not useless," Bruce insisted. "We'll reunite with the mainland, and then we'll fix your legs."

"But the government won't until that maniac is taken out like the rest of them. I hope he burns." Selina growled. "I hope some mob rips him apart for what he's done."

Bruce recoiled, thinking about his words to Alfred. He suddenly felt ashamed. He knew that Jeremiah's role in others' lives were much bigger than his own small perspective. If she had overheard him hesitating about dealing with Jeremiah, would she hate him for it? The dream, the one of her berating him, could still be a reality if she knew he still was hesitant about it.

"Let's talk about something else," Bruce insisted. "It's not going to help to keep dwelling on it."

Selina scoffed, "When I'm awake I see him, when I'm asleep, I see him. I look out the window, and I see the twisted world he's created. It's all I've been thinking about. I've been thinking about how much that bastard deserves to burn in hell, and I've been thinking about being the one to send him there. It's been keeping me company. I can't, though, can I. How's a useless cripple going to take him down?"

"Selina," Bruce tried to interject with some comforting words but stopped when he saw her. There was a deep, quiet hatred in her eyes. It reminded Bruce of the expression Jeremiah made when he thought about his brother. It was a demeanor that expressed an absolute disgust. What she said next confirmed it.

"The sight of Jeremiah, dead, head on a pike, the rest of him buried in some godforsaken grave, is the only thing I have to look forward to in this hellscape," She muttered. "But that's never going to happen. He's got the city in his palm right now. Even if he somehow gets taken down, it'll be by some cop or random thug. It won't be me doing it, and if it's not me," She gripped the sheets around her legs, "he'll never leave me."

Bruce understood the feeling; he knew what Jeremiah meant to her now. He had felt that need for revenge before. He would never blame her for needing revenge. She, along with many, many others, deserved that retribution. Still, he didn't feel like he should encourage it. She was right about one thing; she could not get that revenge now. The hatred she felt was corrosive, the kind that ate away at the soul until only venomous rage remained. He wasn't going to counter it—he didn't feel like it would help to discount her anger—but he didn't want to fuel that hatred either.

Bruce's silence seemed to disappoint Selina; she studied him before she sighed, "I'm tired. Let me rest."

"Selina, you just woke up for the first time in fifteen hours, you should—"

"I'm tired, Bruce," She mumbled and turned her head away. "Leave. There's something more important that you should be doing."

Bruce hates me; he'd hate anything I'd do from now on.

"He doesn't, he's just a little confused. I'll show him."

Even Ecco doesn't trust me anymore. She knows something.

"I'll take care of it."

But I can't take care of everyone outside. Eventually, they'll see I'm a fraud.

"Stop it."

The only time I had a plan was when it was Jerome's plan; even then, I couldn't do it. I'm going to lose.

"Shut up."

I'm losing everything, even my mind.

"Shut up!"

There was a gunshot. That was normal, more than normal in this new hellscape then anyone wanted to admit. Ecco would have continued on her way unphased, but she stopped in her tracks when she realized where it had come from. Jeremiah's office. Without a second thought, Ecco turned on her heel, dropped whatever she was holding, and raced towards the office.

"Please, please, don't be hurt," She begged through quick breaths.

When she neared the door, she noticed a concerned crowd had formed around it. They all looked at her and were quickly asking questions that she couldn't answer.

"Out of my way!" She demanded, and they reluctantly parted for her. She tried the door, but it didn't budge. She quickly produced a spare key and pushed through the door, closing it before their prying eyes could see inside.

The first thing that caught her attention was the glint of a gun. It was flung to the middle of the room, and she almost stepped on it when she walked in. There was a bullet hole in the sidewall. The only light source was the light on his desk. Jeremiah sat in his chair, facing the back wall. Her heart sank when she saw he was slouched forward. She rushed over to him and was relieved when she saw that he was holding his head.

"Jeremiah," She said softly with a hint of fear.

He snapped his attention to her. She recoiled from him. His hair was on ends. His eyes had dark lines underneath them. He had a look in his eye of utter paranoia, yet his body remained rigid and, at the same time, shook with a nervous tic.

"Everything has been slipping from me, Ecco!" Despite his seemingly calm, if shaking, demeanor, his voice was full of wild inflection. It shocked her to hear his voice tinged with emotion, and not limited to anger or condescension. This was a wild-almost broken emotion. "Ever since we've entered this new Gotham, I haven't been able to control anything. I can't even dictate what color my hair is going to be!" He tugged at his slick hair and managed to rip several strands out.

"Jeremiah, calm down," She urged, drawing closer slowly. She kept in mind that he liked to keep his guns within arm's length.

He rambled on, "There is too much chaos, too much to account for. I can't possibly plan it out! I can't possibly have the needed resources for every little mishap. There are too many moving pieces. I could minimize the damage before, there were systems in place. People used to work according to their station, and they were predictable. And—and, these thoughts won't stop bugging me. I can't get a moment's rest!"

He sounded so unlike the new Jeremiah. The new Jeremiah was calm, always in control; this one looked like he was (Jeremiah would hate this) losing his mind. It almost sounded like when the old Jeremiah used to have his moments of doubt.

"I don't know what to do," Jeremiah mumbled. "For the first time in my life, I don't know what to do. There is no way to achieve my goal. Nothing will make this right, nothing will work. I'm going to lose Bruce; he's going to slip away before I can even leave my mark."

The thought crossed her mind that Jeremiah might regress. At this point, she would be alright with that. She just needed him to calm down. A part of her felt the guilty pleasure of seeing the old Jeremiah. She loved how gentle and meek he had been; she wouldn't mind seeing it again. Even if it wasn't the "true J," it was better than him suffering all the time. Perhaps it was for the best.

"Bruce was right about my last plan," Jeremiah muttered as he ran his hand through his hair. "The moment something went wrong, the second some new element was added, everything fell apart. It's the same here. It's never going to work. The chaos. . ."

Ecco stood tall suddenly. Her teeth ground together. Bruce, of course, it had to be him. He was casting doubt on Jeremiah; he was the one who was causing this whole breakdown. She couldn't let him win and take Jeremiah down with him. If he broke now or even hinted at reverting, it would signify the end of Jeremiah. As much as she wouldn't mind the old Jeremiah, she couldn't let that happen. He wouldn't have the will or fortitude to survive the harsh world that he had created. She couldn't even guarantee his safety from the cult if they thought he would turn back into his old self. Jeremiah would be eaten alive out in this environment. That was Bruce's plan all along.

She needed to calm Jeremiah, reaffirm his self-confidence, and spur him to further develop. She found herself put an arm on his shoulder. Unlike he would normally, he didn't shake off her grip; despite the kindness, she knew it didn't come from a place of understanding. Jeremiah was nearing the end of his rope. She needed to help him, but she could promise him the world, and he'd still doubt her. She needed to convince him in a way that he would understand; it needed to come from his own thoughts.

Ecco looked around, trying to spy something to give her a bit of inspiration, something to at least get his attention. She noticed something. On the table, among his plans, there was a simple blueprint, one that had a maze on it. She was taken aback. It looked like something the old Jeremiah would have worked on. The way it was formed exemplified his old thought process; the genius was still in there. Then it hit her; she knew exactly how to convince him.

"Then embrace the chaos."

Jeremiah spun slowly in his chair; bewildered, he met her eye, "What?"

"Don't fight it," Ecco restated. "Jeremiah, it's not a machine. There's no way that you can create a completely failsafe plan. Nothing is going to be perfect. There will always be a bit of chaos." She bent down so that she was eye to eye with him. "I say indulge it. You don't know what they're going to do, and they sure as hell don't know what you're going to do. Use it to your advantage."

"Do. . ." Jeremiah muttered. "Do you understand how insane you sound?"

"Jeremiah, you cannot continue to do everything with this mindset; that's what's insane—the illusion of control. That's what you need to make them think; make them think that they're in control."

He suddenly looked suspicious, "What are you trying to do, Ecco? Are you—"

She couldn't let him finish the thought. If she let him have any doubt, he would dismiss her and go back into his panic. She grabbed the blueprint with the maze on it and flipped it so that he could see.

"Most people think in straight lines; they have no imagination when it comes to a plan. You create mazes, things people wouldn't even imagine creating. Your plans have twists and turns, they have dead ends, turnbacks, and crossroads. That's why no one can figure you out. You lead them down the path you want them to go. You think in mazes; mazes are orchestrated chaos."

He scanned the maze as if it was completely foreign and then looked at her like she had weeds growing out of her ears, "Orchestrated chaos. But, that's—"

"It will only seem like madness; in reality, you'll be the one in control. You don't need to prove that you're sane. By trying so hard to prove it, you're just creating straight lines to your goal, and you can't make a maze with straight lines. You're fighting yourself to show you are sane. You know you are sane, and so do I. That's all that matters."

He took the page in hand, and she saw a sparkle in his eye. Suddenly, the light was extinguished, "But Bruce—"

She was sick of hearing that name, but she couldn't let Jeremiah know that. She forced it under a smile.

"Bruce will understand. He always does, doesn't he? And if he doesn't, it won't matter. You just need to connect with him, that's all." She hoped that connection had something to do with beating the brat to a pulp. "He doesn't know your amazing mind like I do. I want to see it and the Jeremiah I know. I just want to see you smile again."

He was quiet now. He didn't say anything, just remained with a thoughtful expression on his face. Then, he spun in his chair until he was facing the bureau again. She knew this was where to leave it. He was thinking now, and anything else she said would only derail his thoughts.

"I'll leave you to it," Ecco said. She was about to turn but found herself planting a kiss on his cheek before doing so. He didn't move to show a reaction, but she knew that it comforted him a little. As she exited and shut the door behind her, she was greeted by a swarm of followers buzzing to see if Jeremiah was alright. She couldn't have them interrupt Jeremiah. "Get back to work! Haven't you ever heard a misfire before?" When they slowly started to disperse, Ecco allowed her thoughts to take her over. She could only hope that she provided the right help.

She would just have to wait and see how it turned out—better or worse.

Jeremiah sat for a long time, staring at his blueprint.

Sane: it was such a strange concept when he thought about it. It was a process of examining someone based on the actions of others and comparing it to the norm. So strange. He'd put extra boundaries on himself since the spray, just to exemplify his sanity. Yet now it was constricting, suffocating his thoughts. It was just a burden.

He thought back to his conversation with Bruce in the police car. In his effort to annoy Jeremiah, Bruce had insisted that neither of them was sane. Jeremiah remembered that he had agreed. As much as he would prefer to be perceived as entirely rational, he knew that they whispered about him being a madman. Jeremiah knew he was sane; it was like knowing that he had arms or legs, something so intuitive that he felt insulted having to explain it. Still, it was becoming harder and harder to see what was sane or perceived as sane. It was like a fashion trend. They seemed to call him mad no matter what he did or how clearly he explained himself and his methodology.

Ecco was right. Jeremiah knew he was sane; that was enough. Even if Bruce thought that he was insane, well, Jeremiah knew they were both in the same boat by Bruce's own logic. Still, he preferred it if both he and Bruce were sane, but that seemed less and less likely each time he talked to the young man. Poor Bruce was as coo-coo as a clock. But, if Bruce was insane, why did Jeremiah need a "sane" plan to make a mark on such a broken, tortured soul? Yes, the reason he hadn't been able to visualize his plan with Bruce was that he knew that Bruce wouldn't take to it. Such "insanity" was necessary for him to connect with Bruce. It was what made Jerome such a special thorn in Bruce's side. Jeremiah needed to implement it somehow. Otherwise, he would never reach the boy. So, he'd have to indulge this way of thinking and embrace the same mindset, the maze mindset, that would bring Bruce to him.

Jeremiah grumbled and held his head. He felt like he had been thinking for hours, and it was taxing his mind. It was so confusing and hard to keep track of; worse, it was distracting him from the real issue. He shook his head. He needed to be done with the "sane" business if he was ever going to get Bruce. Bruce was worth it all, every last particle of sanity he had. He'd give it all to have a plan. And that option was temptingly open.

All Jeremiah needed was to let go and embrace the chaos.

That's insane. The pest interrupted his thoughts, I can't do that.

Jeremiah huffed with a smirk, "Well, now that you said it. . . I'll definitely do it."

Jeremiah let go, pushed past all of the rules he told himself that he needed to keep. No boundaries, no limits, no creeds or promises, nothing to stop him. Immediately, he was stunned by how quickly the thoughts came to him, how easy it was to think now. When he wasn't preoccupied with being sane, everything flushed forward. He found himself scribbling new ideas down. This time, there were no cross-outs or violent scribbling, it came as naturally as penning his own name. There were so many ideas that he ended up filling several pages.

Still—he pushed his palm under his chin to prop it up. It didn't seem right. They were all great ideas, but he needed the best—the penultimate plan to achieve his goal. Bruce, that was who Jeremiah needed to think about. He needed specifics.

Bruce was obsessed, obsessed with more than a few things—Jeremiah thought. Firstly, it seemed that he was obsessed with "justice," most of which seemed to be thinly defined whatever-Bruce-decided kind of justice. Then came his Butler and girlfriend and the head policeman, Gordon, and all the other random people that populated the city. He still felt like it wasn't deep enough, like any plan involving these would be a pinprick or a bruise. Deeper, he needed to go deeper, connect with something primal, something that defined Bruce in every sense of the word. He thought back through everything that he had learned about Bruce, everything they had ever discussed.

There was one thing that plagued him more than most.

Jeremiah didn't know how the devilish thing slithered into his train of thought. When it first hit him, he was a bit flabbergasted. It was an insane idea. No, not insane—brilliant. As the brilliance hit him, he felt a familiar twinge in his throat. His pen flew across the paper, drafting lists of items, people, and places he would need in order to achieve his final goal. Some might have called it a waste of resources, a plan out of his reach due to their current situation, or possibly even insane. It didn't matter anymore. Bruce was more important than anything. This plan was going to work.

Embrace the chaos! Jeremiah laughed.

Things had changed in the week since Ecco had her conversation with Jeremiah. Everything was mobilized, everyone had a job. Ecco barely had time to rest, and neither did any of Jeremiah's followers. She was constantly organizing new parts of the plan: seizing important buildings, recruiting more from the ever more unstable former citizens of Gotham, and even contacting what little of the cult was on the outside. Her job as designated Jeremiah proselytizer became ever more important to the organization. She helped keep the follower's spirits up in such a demanding time.

She should have been glad, ecstatic to see Jeremiah inspired, and finally doing what he needed to without restrictions. However, she hadn't talked to him since that night either. She received instructions as he slipped them out from under the door. She would have questioned it, but this had sometimes happened when he was busy back in the labyrinth. While most of the instructions had been for her to dictate to the masses, the last one had been very different.

Ecco had just gotten back from her scouting expedition through the GCPD. It was a mission that had taken hours of preparation along with deep, detailed memorization of the building's layout. Learning what the GCPD knew was important to Jeremiah's plan. She had narrowly escaped detection too. The thrill of the mission was still coursing through her veins. Finally, she was useful, doing things that no one else could. She had also taken Jeremiah's other request, though what the note said or why she gave it to the—

"Lady Mummer," a cultist suddenly ran up to her as she came into the main area. "Jeremiah wants to meet with you, he says it's urgent."

Ecco froze. Jeremiah never delegated to his followers outside of her; it was a rule he followed to the tee. It was strange, first the notes, then the mission, now the request. She simply nodded and strode towards Jeremiah's office.

Thoughts whirled around her head. What was he planning? Maybe she had said something wrong that night, and he was demoting her. No, Jeremiah didn't demote people. She was going to be fired again. The thought froze her legs. She stood outside the door, knowing full well that Jeremiah could be planning to fire her again. She shook her head and dismissed her doubt. He needed her; he wouldn't do it again. Right?

She exhaled her anxieties and knocked before opening the door. It was unlocked, meaning it was an open invitation.

"You wanted to see me?" Ecco stepped in and shut the door behind her. Jeremiah was seated at his bureau and facing away from her. He was drumming his fingers on the dented wood. He didn't respond for several seconds. Ecco swallowed and gave her report, "I did as you asked, scouted what the GCPD knew about our location, and delivered the package." More silence. She felt a lump in her throat. She decided to ask, "Did you need anything else?"

"Ecco," Jeremiah muttered. "Do you trust me?"

"Of course," Ecco responded sincerely like she always did. "I trust you with every fiber in my being."

Jeremiah exhaled exasperated, "See, Ecco, I've been asking that a lot, and I get the same answer. Same question same answer every time. Definition of insanity, I suppose. Perhaps it's not the answer that is the problem. Perhaps it is the question itself. I'm not asking the right question."

Tck-tck-tck-tck-tck. Click.

Only now did Ecco see the revolver resting against his cheek in the low light. He spun the chamber and clicked it into place. Then he spun it and clicked it. Ecco's heart went icy. She felt a shadow of fear. He wouldn't—he needed her, right? Jeremiah swiveled in his chair to face her, he brought the gun to rest in his lap.

"See, I feel like there is some reserve. Some part of you that isn't mine." Jeremiah pointed the gun at her. "Frankly, I'm tired of dealing with it. Ecco, I'm going to shoot you. Are you alright with that?"

Ecco gulped; she trembled, unable to move at the gun pointed at her. He would absolutely kill her; he had that look in his eye. She quickly thought that maybe it was a test, but she couldn't shake that look in his eye. She thought about swatting the gun away or something, but she couldn't move. He wouldn't accept that, and if he got angry afterward, there was no repentance. He would just sender her away again.

And a life without Jeremiah was no life at all.

Against every bone in her body, she found herself whispering, "Yes."

"Nothing else?" Jeremiah inquired.

"If you wish it," Ecco trembled.

Jeremiah shrugged; he almost smiled, "Alright then."

Click.

BANG!

Ecco flinched, bringing her hands instinctively to her chest. Several seconds passed. She didn't feel the pain or force she thought she would. Ecco opened her eyes. Jeremiah smiled pleasantly at her. He lightly tapped his gun in applause.

"Can't say I'm disappointed, you have proven. . ." He drifted off, and his smile turned to a frown. "Unless you anticipated a blank and you're playing the long game. See, you've opened me up to a world of possibility, a world without restrictions, and yet, you too have your crutches. You are also held back from being truly useful, by fear of death, fear of me, I don't know, and neither do you," Ecco felt the tension again as Jeremiah pressed the muzzle of the gun into his cheek. "What to do with you, sweet Ecco?"

Ecco, who had been preoccupied with the gun pointed at her, now got a better look at Jeremiah. The emotionless façade was gone, and there was the tug of a smirk on his lips. She now noticed that there was not only inflection but a playful way about how he said things. He was also kempt and seemed to be well-rested. He seemed completely relaxed, almost blissful. She frowned. She knew he had taken her advice, but she couldn't say she was happy with the results.

"Jeremiah," Ecco said tentatively, she used the tone of voice she used every time she had diffused Jeremiah's paranoia. "I swear to you, I would never—"

"Betray me?" Jeremiah shrugged. "I'm sure not. I just don't feel like you would do everything I would tell you to either. But, how to test such loyalty. . ." Jeremiah's eyes lit up. "Oh, yes. That'll do." He stood, flicked the gun open, reached into his pocket, pulled out a bullet, slammed it into one of the chambers, spun it, clicked it in, and held the gun out for Ecco to take. "I assume you know what to do. Go one round with one round. 18ish—or something like that—percent chance of death. Do you trust me?"

"Of course," Ecco said instinctually. But her hands froze. What was she doing? After years of service, after dealing with all his frustrations, breakdowns, and outbursts, this was how he rewarded her. Just another test. She couldn't—

"Ecco, dear, my arm is getting tired," Jeremiah said with a hint of warning.

Ecco took the gun under Jeremiah's watchful gaze. Ecco stared at the gun for a second. A wayward thought presented itself. She could just point the gun at Jeremiah and squeeze the trigger until a bullet blasted off: then she wouldn't have to do it. No, she wasn't in the right. This was the doubt Jeremiah sensed—an instinctive animalistic desire to live regardless of Jeremiah and his wants. This was the doubt she needed to erase. But still. . .

She tried to reason. "Je—"

"Wasn't it you who so vigorously told me to embrace the chaos?" Jeremiah asked. "So, why don't you try it? With all chaos, there is a possibility of failure. In order to completely understand that, you have to not be afraid of that failure. It might seem insane, but it's a method of liberation."

He was using her own words against her. She felt her hands tremble. She felt sick; she wanted to vomit as she thought about what she was going to do. When it was him shooting her, it seemed more fitting and tragically romantic, in an admittedly twisted way; she was willing to accept that fate. There wasn't any romance about putting the gun to her head and squeezing the trigger. But, if it meant that Jeremiah was happy. . . if the only person she cared about was happy. . .

"A test of faith," She nodded, placing the gun against her temple. "I won't fail you."

Jeremiah watched in anticipation. Ecco felt her hand tremble as her finger rested on the trigger. The only thing that kept her going was Jeremiah's gaze. There was nothing without this. It was all her fault for spurring him on like this, and being without him was a fate worse than death. Why shouldn't her last sight be Jeremiah?

With that thought, she pulled the trigger.

Click.

Ecco gasped suddenly, her life spared. A rush went through her as adrenaline coursed through her veins. Jeremiah didn't flinch in the wake of her potential death; instead, he smiled in her triumph and applauded a little.

"Good on you, Ecco." She stayed stone still as Jeremiah spoke. He started to turn away from her with a shrug. "For a moment I thought you wouldn't pass—"

Click.

Jeremiah snapped to attention as the gun clicked again. Ecco sighed again as a rush like no other ran through her. Jeremiah felt an amused smile cross his face. Ecco forgot everything at the sight. Jeremiah enjoyed it. She repositioned the gun to the bottom of her chin.

"Embrace the chaos, right?" Ecco smiled a little at Jeremiah's expression. She loved it when he smiled.

Click.

A snicker escaped Jeremiah's lips, like a schoolboy trying not to laugh in the middle of class. The nerves of the situation turned into laughter. Ecco found herself having the strangest feeling. She actually liked this Jeremiah more than the others; he smiled so much and had the cutest laugh. Ecco laughed along with him, covering her mouth momentarily. This only encouraged Jeremiah to stop stifling his laughter. He laughed fully, loudly. She loved seeing that. She needed to break him out a little more. She bit down on the muzzle of the gun and made a cartoonishly shocked face. Jeremiah clapped in approval and went quiet, biting his knuckle and waiting with gleeful anticipation.

Click.

Laughter burst out into the room, and the gun dropped to her side. The gun trembled in her hand as a hardy belly laugh came out. Jeremiah was guffawing wildly. He was howling with laughter and had to grip the chair to steady himself. It was the most she'd ever seen him smile or laugh. She had never been so happy in her life. He was right. The chaos was so liberating!

Ecco gripped the gun tight. One more time. Fifty-fifty chance. The final rush. She smiled in anticipation as Jeremiah watched in gleeful awe, as she placed it at the base of her neck, pointing it directly into her skull. She made a face, and he blissfully encouraged her.

She pulled the trigger.

It wasn't her fault or fate. Jeremiah thought in retrospect that he should have mentioned that the gun only had five chambers instead of the traditional six, but he was having too much fun to remember that little tidbit.

There was a loud POP. Jeremiah felt warm liquid spray his face. Ecco thudded to the floor; the gun clacked next to her. Jeremiah's laughing petered out into a few lonely chuckles. His action delayed. He looked down at her unblinkingly.

"Ecco," he called a chuckle still in his voice and nudged her with his foot as if she had simply passed out. "Ecco," He said it like he expected her to pull herself from the floor. When she didn't respond, he sighed, letting the last of the euphoria out and let his expression harden, "Damn."

Immediately, that pestering thought process came to mind, I killed her. I've killed Ecco. She was my only fr—

"Would you shut up?"

Suddenly, a couple of members of his cult burst through the door. They looked around for intruders. The blood on his face caught their attention.

"Jeremiah ar—"

"Get a doctor," Jeremiah said dismissively as he bent calmly over her and saw the shallow, twitchy breaths she took. "She's still breathing." He sighed again. "Oh, Ecco. I shouldn't have bought those faulty bullets from Penguin. A good shot would have gone clean through, and it would have been over." He pulled out his pocket square and applied pressure to the bullet wound. "Unfortunately, this is going to cause a lot more pain."

Jeremiah licked the blood off of his lips.

Bruce's hands were still trembling. Selina was sedated now, but he was still reeling from the last couple of minutes. He never thought she would—the thought made his stomach turn. He couldn't imagine having her dying. After everything they went through, she couldn't—he couldn't lose anyone else. She lost hope; she'd given up.

The oppression of their situation, her immobility, he understood why. Still, no amount of rationalization could ease the pain. He'd almost lost her. Maybe if he had done better, been more supportive if he had seen the signs. . . no, he couldn't think that way. Alfred told him not to blame himself; that it wasn't his fault. But still, he had to try, try and make her see hope again, maybe even see that "witch" the nurse kept talking about. Right now, he just wanted to be at her side.

Bruce sat there for a long while. A worried nurse and Alfred kept him company. Eventually, the nurse wanted to speak with Alfred privately, considering he was the closest thing Selina had to a guardian authority figure. He wished he could hear what they were saying, but he didn't want to leave her for the moment. That left Bruce alone, holding Selina's hand while she remained still in a medical sleep. He sat there, thumbing her hand. She was peaceful looking, but he knew that was only because of the drugs.

Bruce's head tilted down, he didn't want to see her like this, so lost. A speck of white caught his eye, contrasted against the floor. He saw something that had been knocked under the bed. Using his foot, he pulled a piece of folded paper out from under the bed. He tenderly picked it up and took a look at who it was addressed to. My Dearest Selina.

Bruce was taken aback, this was in his handwriting. The cursive loops, the little etches, it looked like he had penned it himself. Bruce didn't remember writing her anything, let alone giving it to her. He slowly opened it, and his blood ran cold.

There was a crude drawing of Selina bleeding out on the floor. She had a cartoonish frown. Bruce immediately recognized the drawing as a rendition of the night Selina had been shot. The other figure was Jeremiah, shown to be smiling; the gun in his hand had a cartoonish "Bang" flag coming out of it. A speech bubble appeared in Jeremiah's corner, "I hope I was entertaining enough for you!"

On top of it all, a personal message was written at the top.

Here's a get well soon to you!

Bruce's bestest friend,

Jeremiah Valeska

The card ended up a crumpled ball in Bruce's white-knuckled fist.

"I can't kill him. I can't kill him. I can't kill him."

So, I'm alive. School killed me, but I'm back. Then, I had some serious writer's block when it came to this story, so I worked on some others. For some reason, knowing I'm on the homestretch has made it a bit harder to write; I have to know that I'll be happy about the whole thing when I'm done. I'm not going to make any predictions about when this will be done. I figure if I do that, it won't be done for another decade or something. Just know that it's not abandoned or discontinued, and I am working on it. (And that all your comments are really nice and help motivate me to finish.)

Sorry that it took a quarantine for this story to get an update. Stay safe, everyone! Thank you for reading!