Chapter Text
First time is always special, they say. Something inevitably changes inside you the moment you go through with it, they say. Something is lost when fantasy becomes reality, they add.
They lie.
He most definitely doesn’t feel any different than before, not really. Somewhat betrayed, he reaches deeply inside himself, searching for any sign of that proclaimed change, and finds none of it. Nothing at all bar satisfaction from a job well done.
The job in question is not spectacular at all. It’s simple. Just a message to be delivered, nothing more and nothing less. He wouldn’t want to warrant any attention besides what’s strictly necessary, now would he?
The time for that will surely come, but not yet. For now he is content to step away and patiently observe, planning his next move. It’s not like he’s got any faith in police department left, not to mention his rather intimate knowledge of its inner workings, but you can never be too careful in a pursuit such as this one. Who knows when a lucky pig or a bystander might show up at an inappropriate time and get away with it, after all.
And moreover, there is no such thing as a safeguard against stupid unfortunate mistakes which bite you in the ass when you least expect it. He now knows better than to believe otherwise.
JVJVJV
Jim remembers that fateful day on the roof. The chase, the bullets sent in Jerome’s hand and stomach, everything. He remembers his childish thoughts back then, filled with relief over the fact that it’s over, that the evil is gone for good. Dear Lord, just how stupid he can get at times? Of course it wasn’t over.
He also remembers the expression on remaining Valeska’s face; tear-stricken, almost crestfallen in a way. A fitting contradiction for such a contradicting, twisted person, he supposes. Not that he knew anything of the truths he now harbors at the time when it still mattered, of course.
He often wonders whether he could make a difference back then or not, knowing what he does now. Probably even not. Both Valeska twins have always been too smart for his liking. Jeremiah would have definitely figured something out if he tried to stop him, he reckons. Besides, it’s not like Jim could possibly press charges against him before the terrorist attacks, what with childhood traumas and gut feelings being somewhat questionable evidence of someone’s misdeeds these days and all. No judge in all 50 states would accept it, loyal to police force or not.
By the time he had solid evidence (metaphorically speaking, of course, as said evidence was literally blowing up in everyones’ faces), Jeremiah miraculously escaped custody. And so the sick bastard remained nowhere to be found up until now, just as his slippery fucker of a brother, leaving Jim to sort out their gaudy messes. Add on top of that damn honest to god serial killer on the loose, and you’ll get a very, very worn out Capitain of GCPD.
Come to think about it, Jim is actually rather surprised he hasn’t had a displeasure to encounter a fucking serial murderer in this Sodom of a city during all his years on duty until now.
Well, the Universe had apparently decided to remedy that and presented him with this missing opportunity. It must be sorely disappointed then, because he is no closer to catching the perp than all those months ago, when he received a call about first victim and foolishly thought it to be his highest priority.
The following months, constructed of sleepless nights, poorly brewed coffee, fruitless chases all over the city and consistently nagging feeling that something big is going on, bad omen of sorts, taught him better than that. The gut feeling evaporated after Jeremiah’s grand reveal, but other three components only grew out of any semblance of proportion whatsoever.
And to think that not long ago he in all seriousness believed bad times to be over. Ha.
Anyway, back on track. That day on the roof, the turning point. Jerome miraculously survived multiple bullet wounds and the fall from fucking nine-story building.
Things just went downhill from there onwards.
Of course someone from the hospital would snitch the precious information about Jerome’s continuous existence to the press, despite the utmost secrecy of the whole ordeal. Why wouldn’t they? It wasn’t like any organization in Gotham had been made to keep secrets. Besides, it was probably worth their several months’ salary. Rather appealing perspective for almost anyone with half a brain and dubious moral standing. In other words, almost anyone, period.
The public expectedly was in uproar. Demonstrations, acts of vandalism, even a few attempts to break in the warded hospital wing where Valeska was kept at the time. To finish him off, Jim supposed.
Not that he could blame those people, what with his — officer’s of the law — own hesitation back on that damn roof.
The fact that Jerome was in quite possibly eternal coma didn’t help any, it seemed. At least, not at first. Weeks flew by, however, allowing people to calm down and just breath. The tension dissipated.
And then the first body showed up.
Back then it was simple, really. Nothing flashy or noticeable, so unlike the others that followed close by with ever increasing frequency.
He would have been first to dismiss that first body as yet one more robbery gone wrong or something, if not for a few details. The details that changed everything, giving way to concern. Not that noticeable at first, of course.
Some poor kid with facial features resembling those of the infamous ginger psychopath got murdered in a fit of rage after the comatose state of said psychopath had been officially confirmed. Tragic, yes, but nothing too alarming.
However, after the first one was the second, then the third, and so on. The press caught on and called it a serial. After all, you didn’t have to be genius to trace the pattern.
On top of that, they had a definite signature. Each and every body sported scars on their faces, as if the perp was trying to extend the resemblance as best as it was possible. Done postmortem, to everyone’s relief.
Later guys weren’t that lucky to die peacefully, though.
And as body count haphazardly grew, so did the intricacy of each work, more and more resembling some bizarre form of art with every fresh corpse. Disturbing, sick, of course, but art nonetheless.
It was as though the murderer found a real taste for it. It no longer remained just about efficiently driving their point home, no. They became an artist, and Jerome-lookalikes — their canvases. This smooth transformation was (and still is, truth be told) one of the most horrific things Jim has encountered in his life.
At least now he’s got the first real chance in months to capture either Jerome or Jeremiah (or even both, but that has to be wishful thinking on his part). If everything goes according to plan — “Come on, be realistic,” he derogatory tells himself, receiving a couple of concerned glances from his coworkers — or as close to it as it gets, then he’ll hopefully be able to focus more on their reclusive serial killer for a short while.
Until the remaining twin blasts out his counterpart in order to further their never ending game of sick wits, that is. Honestly, he is not even sure they use that weak excuse of mutual hate themselves at this point, what with all those almost-favors to each other and identical insane laughter, disgustingly joyous and lively. He won’t stop hearing it in his nightmares til the day he dies, Jim believes. And even then he’ll probably just take it to the grave. Must be one of cruelest punishments in Hell.
With a shudder he returns back from torturous reminiscing. Today is the day he might possibly bring at least some of this madness to end, he has to focus on that. Constant vigilance and no stray thoughts distracting him from his purpose.
After all, today is The Day.