𝑨𝒓𝒄 𝑰: 𝑱.𝑬. 𝑨𝒓𝒌𝒉𝒂𝒎 — 𝑺𝒆𝒄𝒕𝒊𝒐𝒏 𝑶𝒏𝒆.
*See 𝐎𝐋𝐈𝐆𝐀𝐑𝐂𝐇𝐘. (𝐏𝐚𝐫𝐭 𝐈 & 𝐈𝐈)
Jeremiah stood on the manor’s balcony, a glass of wine in hand that he promised himself he would not have, rubbing his temples with his free hand.
The man rambled, almost manically, to no one but himself. Pacing back and forth with vigor.
“—‘see what can be done—’ Oh, I wonder! I wonder— what can be done?
“Perhaps, you sell that costume of yours and help the city! I am sure it’d sell for a pretty penny—”
It was insulting, humiliating. A lecture on budgeting from a man who littered crime scenes with the fumes of expensive cars. He let out a scoff.
“—the only one not doing anything— the one encouraging criminal activity in a city on the brink of complete anarchy— and he dares speak to me—”
He stumbled, his face flushed red from the cold and mild intoxication— his jaw clenched tightly, his hands shaking and gripping his glass with whitened knuckles.
Arkham took a breath in, holding and releasing until his posture easing into a mild slouch. He leaned against the wall, his expression overcome with exhaustion rather than rage.
“Lord give me strength, my patience is being tested by a man in a bat costume.”
He muttered, weakly. He groaned, looking idly at the guard rail and wondering the logistics of inheritance if he hit his head in.
This was a city ran by how much money was in a man’s pocket. It did not matter, Jeremiah’s influence — not as long as Hill could pay for silence. Not as long as the Zehrhard could buy government cooperation. Not as long as Batman could afford better equipment than the GCPD.
It was not fair, the Arkham family was more than capable— more than influential enough to make it to the table. And yet, as long as his family was associated with illness, they would be disgraced. No one dare come to charities, or give money to their cause— as if shaking Jeremiah’s hand would infect them with a genetic predisposition to psychosis.
Whispers of, “Oh, poor child, their poor family.” never made it to their faces or their bank accounts, no. Only were their tragedy ever mentioned when their backs were turned, or if the press decided they wished to put on a show.
Jeremiah glanced back into his home, the place meant to be his serenity, more often than not, pulled apart to keep his patients satisfied. It was a miracle, to be able to afford both when running a nonprofit.
And yet, he sighed, it seemed the city was not the only thing no one was coming to save.
“I do not require him at all.”
