HE MUST DIE.
HE MUST DIE.
HE MUST DIE.
There was no longer a distinction between James Gordon Jr and the Voice. The two knew what had to be done. They finally agreed. The two voices in one head had united. Joined. And now there was no guilt, no sorrow in the mind of James Gordon Jr. Only malice.
HE MUST DIE.
HE MUST DIE.
HE MUST DIE.
James approached his friend from behind. He could hear him talking, jabbering away. Always talking. "You know, James, sometimes I wonder what we're doing in life." He knew how he would do it. It was simple. "We've been here how many years now? And how many promotions, raises have we had? Hell, even bonuses? You and me, James, we do good work for this company. And they've got us as janitors, still! I mean, they don't even take us seriously! They've got us sweeping a grate up here! A metal grate, James! That's just crazy, if you ask me. James?" James let his broom drop from his hands. James pushed.
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Let's see, now. My memory is a little patchy for this next bit. I remember that I was talking with James, just griping about whatever. Then I guess I slipped, because next thing I knew I was falling.
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The man was falling. He had not slipped, or tripped, or anything else. He had been pushed. From his perspective, it happened almost in slow motion. The broom that had just been in his hands, twirling lazily before him. He reaches for it, as though it might save him. Looking past it, he sees his friend looking down over the rail. That rail was too short, he thinks to himself. I'll have to take it up with HR. And then he hits. It feels solid, painful. It would probably have been better if it had been. He would have died faster. Instead, he smacks into liquid. His misfortunes have only begun, and already he could not have worse luck. The tank he has fallen into is filled with a lime green liquid. Vivid, beautiful, toxic. The workers don't know what it is, only what they are told to do with it. And a part of what they are told is never, under any circumstances, are they to touch it. It is viscous, denser than water, maybe more akin to blood. Filmy, slimy, and sticky, this is not something you can get off easily. The man splashes into it, surrounded by a wash of white bubbles in a sea of green. Alarms sound, workers scramble into action. They might not know him well, but they must get him out.
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My next big memory is pain. Burning pain, freezing pain, neverending and instant. Even as I found myself on the cement floor, my clothes melting away, I was still in pain. I could feel it everywhere. I could feel it boring into every pore, lancing through my body. I curled as tight as I could, trying to hide from the pain. I couldn't get away from it. I blacked out again.
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I only remember patches of the next while. In the back of an ambulance.
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The man is strapped to a stretcher, writhing in pain. The pain that wouldn't go away. Wouldn't leave him alone. The EMT workers are scared. What they are watching is something that will not leave their dreams for some time.
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Then I was in a hallway.
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The man is being rushed through the corridors of a hospital, nurses hooking up an IV as they run. He needs it. Something is happening to him, and it isn't pleasant.
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Then there were some doctors.
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The man is in an operating theater, though no one is sure what procedure he needs. Specialists from various fields come and go, each trying to figure out what is happening to him. Several more watch from above, trying to piece together what they're watching.
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And then there's nothing for a while.
The best way I can describe how I felt when I woke up would be to say I had a decided wish that I hadn't. I was in a hospital room bed, an IV still hooked up, with a chair in the corner, next to a window, with a TV in the opposite corner. The doctors, ultimately, didn't know what to make of it. They called it a rapid albinization, which sounds like complete bull, and explained that my body had rapidly shed and regrown everything with melanin. A few times over. Including my hair, apparently, which no one could explain at all. I didn't have scarring, which I guess is good, because if I had, I would be covered in scar tissue. Just a huge, ugly nutsack of a human being. Heheh. No, instead I was absolutely bleached white. They tried to comfort me, saying that chemical burns are horrible looking, and at least this should grow back normal, eventually. Don't tell them, but I wasn't very reassured. I'm pretty sure this could actually be worse, in fact. Especially since they then came back and said that upon further inspection and tests, whatever I had fallen into had somehow mutated my DNA. Not in a way that gave me cool powers, though. Ha, I wish. No, now I'm just a freakish twist on albino except for my eyes. I got to keep my eyes. Aside from that though, what little it is, everything was horrible. I was still in pain, I was severely malnourished, despite the several bags of IV drip I'd gone through, and I felt like I hadn't slept in a month. Everything was horrible, and I couldn't even remember what happened. I fumbled around with the bedside table until I found the remote. I had to take my mind off things. I turned the TV on and saw my face. My face, without a name. They had me labeled as John Doe. Wasn't that what they called dead people? The newswoman was talking, and I tore myself from my picture to listen.
"New information continues to roll in regarding last week's accident at ACE Chemical, as the unnamed victim is now being accused of corporate espionage, following a complete lack of evidence that he had ever been in their employ, alongside company secrets found in his apartment. So far, the only identification we have for this man is a damaged company id card, which detectives were able to pull a home address from. He is expected to be released into police custody after he has been cleared from Gotham General, where he is being treated for chemical related injuries. Viewers will remember that these injuries were incurred after the John Doe was pushed off of a catwalk into an open silo containing an unknown chemical mixture by the late James Gordon Jr, who took his own life after the attempted murder."
A picture of James pops up next to mine. This wasn't right. James pushed me? That can't be right. James is my friend.
As the week went on, more and more came to light. It was originally believed that James had discovered my supposed espionage, and had pushed me in reaction to that. That idea was dropped almost immediately, once an investigation into James' personal life was mounted. They discovered that James had killed over a dozen women and was in the process of wallpapering his studio apartment with their faces. That was... shocking, to say the least. I didn't know what to think about anything anymore. The popular theory then was that I had discovered James' crimes and he tried to silence me. During all of this, no one came to talk to me. The discovered murder theory didn't cover his suicide, though, especially when the tape was inspected closer, and it appeared he had thrown himself off in an effort to save me. Unfortunately, he hit the side of the tank I had fallen into, and split his head open on the cement below. No one was sure what to make of this new development. After all of this, the only thing that came to my mind was that this was all such a joke. I had had a decent enough life, and then, out of nowhere, I'm a freak because my best friend, who turns out to be a serial killer, tried to murder me, and on top of all that, I was being prosecuted for corporate espionage, a crime I had never committed. Heh. What a joke. A pretty good one, too, if you look at it from the outside. Heheh. What if that was actually what was happening? What if there was a hidden camera somewhere, and my entire existence was a grand joke to some unseen audience? Ha! The idea was absurd. It was the only thing that made sense. Hahahaha! Ha! If life was just a joke, what did it matter what I did? I'd just be adding to the punchline! Hahahahahahaha! I couldn't stop giggling through the trial. Everything was funny to me. I don't know that I got a word out. The judge ruled that, due to my traumatic experience, I was unfit to stand trial. That was even funnier. They took me to Arkham Mental Institute. That was funnier still. Everything was so damned funny. They stuck me with some meds to try to get me to stop laughing and I didn't feel a thing. I don't think they did anything, especially since the hulking aids kept sticking me with more and more needles, getting more and more frustrated that I wouldn't stop laughing. That was still funnier. One of them punched me. I laughed. My reflection in the barred window was funny. I couldn't move my arms because of the stupid straitjacket. That was funny. The guards looked like caricatures. The patients were all jibbering morons. The doctors were so nice and caring, like kindergarten teachers. Everything was hilarious. I left that night. I got one of the nutjobs in there to open my straitjacket with his teeth, and promised to give him a butterfly. I caught my reflection in a window, with my sleeves hanging to the ground. I had to stop myself from bursting out laughing then and there. The idiots didn't even lock the doors. I just left. I waited until the guard outside was in the other side of the building and went through the front gate. I did have to beat the guy in the guardhouse up a bit. Okay, more than a bit. More than necessary, even. It was funny. I started walking towards the city, laughing.
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