#initialsubject

The one thing that Alexis has learned— through all her years stuck in this city that she calls home— is that it will always find new ways to destroy itself. Gotham has always been its own little version of hell. From conception, the city was doomed by the gargoyles that they installed on every single rooftop. It was doomed by the families that built it, and all the people that moved in after. Through all her years stuck in this city, she’s learned to be fairly certain that there would be no version of Gotham city that wouldn’t have decaying rats crawling out from the sewers.

It seems that she was right.

Something broke the world that she called her own little rotten home. Something took it and the fragile threads that tied its existence together, and snapped it into pieces. A plate thrown against the wall, and left in shatters on the ground. She didn’t see the point in mourning it, which saved her the energy necessary to avoid getting cut on what was left. Apparently, some had not yet caught onto this. She had found some that were still sobbing over the porcelain. She had founds a disturbing amount that were still stumbling through the room with their eyes sealed shut and their feet smearing blood across the tiles.

She has stood on this street corner for half an hour, fiddling with the handle of one of her knives and watching the same man walk the same route— unaware of the copies of him following each step. Their feet fall into the same places, as they move five or so minutes apart. A red shirt. A blue shirt. A polo. A suit and a tie. But he is always stuck in the same distracted haze that prevents him from looking up. She’s considered, at least three times now, throwing a rock at one of them to see if it breaks the loop.

In truth, Alexis almost did, going as far as to pick up a chunk of the cracked pavement and tossing it up in the air to test its weight. But her attention was drawn elsewhere before she got any further, locking eyes with the shape of a person not too far up the road.

Another thing about this city- the way that people materialize out of nothingness, as if the air itself coughs them up to turn them into something worthwhile. Or at least, to turn them from the product of pollution into the source. She almost finds it funny. At the very least, she finds it interesting enough to let the potential weapon in her hand fall to the ground.

"Nice night," she calls, her voice carrying across the street. The words go seemingly unheard by the man caught in his infinite, spiraling loop. Her heels click against the cobblestones as she makes her way towards the other. Like an animal sidling closer to its prey, drawing a blinded sheep into the wolf's den, with the promise that there is a warm barn inside.