gotham. a city with one foot in the grave, one finger on the trigger. walking into the precinct invites a choking surge of secondhand smoke to thicken in his mouth, a whole pack of marlboros right down his throat. gotham’s finest must be calming their nerves, in this spliced calm before the proverbial storm. nicotine and sweat and the human condition, clotting together to form a despairing city, bent and ribbed like a starving animal. half the city must be snatched up in holding cells right now, and he wonders just how many laws these officers have violated only in the past 48 hours. but, he isn’t here for them.
so, he shakes the officer’s hand. he doesn’t flinch at the sticky residue of grime and sweat and oil that cakes it, nor does he mention the snickering rat that’s burrowing a new home in the rotting trashcan at his desk, nor does he ask the man to step back another five feet, even if he is smoking, even if his lunch didn’t agree with him.
OFFICER MONROE, a fourty - something with a blooming lung condition and a raspy accented baritone is his guide. and oh, he’s a talker. ❝ this whole city’s gone to the fuckin’ dogs, i swear. between those riots and the waynes’ death and this CLOWN … what the hell’s goin’ on ? y’know, back when i was a kid … ❞ —— matthew says nothing, but he hmm’s at the right moments, and that is enough.
❝ i mean, look at this place – uhh, no offense, mr. murdock. ❞
❝ none taken, officer … monroe, was it ? ❞
❝ yeah, that’s me. huh. i’ll just warn ya now, you’re about to become the MOST HATED man in gotham short of this freak in here, y’know that right ? ❞
❝ i was well aware of his crimes when i was appointed his case, yes. thank you. ❞
the smoke worsens when the silence falls and monroe continues his slow - paced, executioner’s walk through the slender, sticky hallway of the police station. deeper, deeper they go, and matthew is not ignorant of the way they can’t quite talk to him right — somewhere in the middleof loathing and disgust and pity, the way you might talk to a rabid dog taken out back to shoot twice in the back of the head, or a fish about to be butchered into chum. he’s the defense attorney, all broken codes and no good, solid sense of justice — slicker than an eel, and he makes no effort to correct those preconceived notions of theirs. at the door, monroe slaps his palm to the curve of his back, and matthew does not flinch from this, either.
❝ ah, officer monroe, is he handcuffed? — [ … yeah, he is. ] — can we please remove my client’s handcuffs? they won’t be necessary. [ you sure about that, pal? ] yes, i’m sure. please leave us the room. ❞
❝ whatever you say, mr. murdock. it’s your funeral. ❞
❝ hello, mr. fleck. may i call you arthur ? my name is matthew murdock. i’ll be your court - appointed attorney for all future proceedings. – to start, i’d like to remind you of your attorney - client privilege. anything you say to me in here will not leave this room. do you have any questions before we begin ? ❞
what a night. a tale for the ages, the night that arthur fleck ascended to godhood.
his mouth was stale and crusty with dried, clotted blood. when he smiled, his face cracked. he giggled to himself, and when the madness of reality reared its stupid, bloated head and blew raspberries into the howling burning night, he laughed at that, too.
he slicked his tongue over his bloodstained teeth, just to see what it tasted like — it was only right that the fruits of his labors be tasted.
he drew circles with his fingers into the palm of his hand — a god’s hand. there was little else he could do, in these stainless steel shackles. but the worried murmurs tided him over — his deafened name dully throbbing through the precinct.
the night was like a feather in his throat, tickling at the top of his trachea. he started with a giggle, and then a louder giggle. an even louder one after that.
when the door opened, he didn’t move. when the officer — whose name had long-since passed his mind — removed his bonds, he didn’t move, either. he didn’t even move when the attorney addressed him, or rather, addressed the name of the husk he used to be.
fleck didn’t know how long had passed before he looked matthew murdock dead in the … tinted glasses, and with his greasepainted eyes, blinked,
he simpered, cocking his head, and baring his bloodied teeth like fangs.
𝙹𝙾𝙺𝙴𝚁
… 𝙲𝚊𝚗 𝙸 𝚑𝚊𝚟𝚎 𝚊 𝚌𝚒𝚐𝚊𝚛𝚎𝚝𝚝𝚎 ?