Chapter Text
These past fourteen days have felt like fourteen years.
I learned a lot of things about human nature that I wish I didn’t. People can be cruel. When they’re desperate, they’re even crueler.
But I believe people can change.
When given the opportunity, when shown some kindness, when they want to, people can surprise you. Sometimes in the best of ways. Sometimes in the worst of ways.
I should know.
I am not the same girl I was two weeks ago.
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DAY ZERO: THE TRAGEDY THAT NEVER HAPPENED
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To understand how I got here, you have to understand where I started.
Let me tell you about Nathan Nakamura.
Tap, tap, tap.
A father, a cop, an interrogee sits at the interrogation table, tapping his foot to a nervous rhythm.
He’s one of those people who has never been comfortable around good things. Always skeptical, always questioning, always pessimistic. These are the qualities that have made him an excellent detective.
And, in my opinion, a shitty dad.
“Missing.”
Detective Nathan Nakamura blinks. “Excuse me?”
Thack, thack. The papers straighten neatly together in the Manila folder.
“Your daughter is missing.” Detective Harvey Bullock slaps the folder on the interrogation table. “And your ex-wife is dead.”
It’s with this discomfort for good things that he hardened himself—braced himself for the worst life could throw at him.
Divorced his wife, left his daughter, and married his job. A hotshot detective at the GCPD doing what he’s good at, doing what he knows; expecting the worst out of people.
And what can I say? He got comfortable.
Nathan flips through the folder. His eyes glue to the picture of his seven year old daughter, the first one he’s seen of her in three years. His wife, may she rest in hell, doesn’t look the same as he left her either. Her face is a little bit paler and her eyes are a little bit lifeless. A little bit dead.
His mouth tastes as metallic and cold as the interrogation room.
“I should’ve been there.”
Bullock’s small pig eyes are, for the first time, unreadable. “So, how’s the job going?”
Nathan stares at him. “Well, it was going shitty—but the usual kind of shitty—until you called me in here.” He scoffs in disbelief. “And now I discover my kid’s probably been abducted by a pedophile, and my ex—Jesus, a robbery got her? I would’ve pegged lions mauling her face off as a more likely cause of death.”
“Mhm.” Bullock takes a generous sip of his coffee. “And all for some mojo-no-jo serum.”
“‘Y-2759 serum,’” he reads. “The hell is this stuff?”
Bullock shrugs. “Some kind of experimental serum, I’m told. Stuff’s supposed to deactivate an activated meta-gene, but it’s still in beta. Nobody’s sure it even works.”
Nathan’s eyebrows shoot up. “Shit, this stuff could turn metas back into humans. The next kryptonite, huh?” He flips through the report a little more. “And why the hell was it in my ex-wife’s house?”
Bullock makes ‘gimmie’ motions with his fingers, and Nathan hands the folder back over to him. He skips over to the ‘Employment’ page.
“Your ex-wife worked for a genetic scientist by the name of Dr. Emily Sato. Real piece of work, that lady. Rumor has it experimenting on her little girl was her favorite pastime. She’s nobody important, but this drug she invented was supposed to be her big debut into ‘science high society,’ ” he air quotes. “But there was evidence—circumstantial, nothing concrete yet—of possible backhand dealings gone kaput with some kind of shadow organization. We don’t know much about them, either.
“We think your ex stashed the serum at her house when her boss got into hot water.” Bullock snorts darkly. “But we both know how that worked out for her.”
Nathan leans in, fury rolling off of him in waves. “Where’s my kid, Bullock?”
He tips his chair back with a resigned sigh, his coffee sloshing back and forth in the styrofoam cup. It’s nearly empty now. “Well, here’s the thing, Nakamura. How do I put this?” Nathan glances at the mirror next to them, and it hits him. “You’re not the detective on this case. You’re the primary suspect. ”
A cold flash runs down Nathan’s back.
“Ex-wife dead, daughter finally your’s after that nasty court case, and some extra cash for the trouble?” Bullock speculates, his small pig eyes narrowing. “Would set you and your daughter up for a pretty penny, wouldn’t it?”
The rage fills him quick and he can hardly breathe. He swipes the coffee cup off the table, swift and violent. “You think I would kill that bitch and take my daughter?! After all these years?!”
Bullock throws his hands up placatingly. “Hey, don’t scoop me into this. I know you, Nakamura. Worked with you for three years now.
“But there’s a difference between being a good cop,” he slaps Naomi’s picture on the table, and her smile haunts Nathan, “and being a good father.”
Nathan can’t look any longer, swipes a hand down his face. “Fuck.” Paces the room, around the table, drifts up and down the walls. “ Fuck me. ”
“Look, Nakamura, I don’t know what to tell you. The evidence–”
“ Fuck the evidence!” He slaps his hands on the metal, towers over the detective. “Right now, there is a little girl out there who is alone and scared shitless,” he points to his chest, “because I fucked up. Help me find her. Help me fix this.”
You know that moment when you think it’s going to go one way, and then the course takes a complete -180 degree turn into some parallel dimension?
Some point down the line, you’re going to think you know what’s happening. But rest assured.
You don’t.
“That won’t be necessary,” a voice says by the door. Commissioner Gordon stands proud and tall. His eyes smile. “I’ve got your daughter right here.”
He steps aside.
A little girl stands inquisitively in his shadow, watching the room with rapt attention. Her hair is a shocking white. Her dark eyes glitter like shattered glass. She looks lost in ways that can’t be found.
Nathan can’t take his eyes off her. Slowly, he kneels to her level.
“Detective, I’d like you to meet your daughter, Naomi Nakamura.” The little girl sniffles, wiping her nose. That’s disgusting. She looks like she’s about to cry.
“What’s with the hair?” He blurts out.
The Commissioner blinks. “Oh, don’t worry about that. We think it’s genetics–early loss of pigmentation and all that. Completely harmless.”
Nathan frowns. He and his ex don’t have any history of that. Must be further back in the lineage.
Her face is thinner and her nose is longer than in her photo. He pegs it to dehydration and malnutrition from the kidnapping.
Slowly, he pulls her into a hug.
Slowly, she relaxes.
It doesn’t matter, he supposes. All that matters is she’s home.
“Where did you find her?” Bullock asks as he lights a cigarette. The smoke drifts lazily in the air.
Gordon’s face turns quizzical. “Well, that’s just it. We got an anonymous tip that she was at Gotham Laboratory of Research and Genetics.
“We found her asleep next to two corpses: Dr. Emily Sato and her seven year old daughter, Lily.”
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Everyone’s got an origin story.
This one is mine.
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Seven Years Later…
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The poptarts jump out of the toaster with a pop.
Naomi plucks them out with the prowess of a surgeon, careful not to burn her fingers on the hot metal.
Perched on the counter, her cat sniffs the pastries. “No, Larry.” She tickles the spot just left of his chin. He purrs, colliding his furry face into her hand. “That’s people-food. You only get those for your birthday.”
“Morning.” Her dad enters the kitchen, already in his work clothes. They’re crumpled and wrinkled in some spots. She thinks he might’ve worn them the day before but she can’t remember.
She takes a bite out of the cinnamon-y goodness. “Morning.”
“I’m working late at the office again, so I need you to fend for yourself tonight, okay?” He puts in the little keurig cup and slaps down the handle. The coffee spurts into the mug. “There’s ramen packets in the cabinet–make sure you change Larry’s litter box.”
“Okay,” Naomi says.
“Do you need me to drive you to school or are you taking the bus?”
“Bus.”
“Okay,” Dad says.
He chugs his coffee in one go, tipping the mug all the way back. “I’m late.”
He tugs her head, kisses her hair. “Be good.”
The ride to school is uneventful. She picks her usual spot all the way in the back, turning her music down low so nobody can hear it in the dead silent bus. She thinks of little stories in her head, people she is and isn’t.
She gets to the top of the steps and makes sure to smile at the principal when he says good morning. The other kids don’t bother.
Naomi walks beside the row of lockers, making a detour for the bathroom. She fixes her hair in the mirror, smoothing down the black locks. Some girls are vaping in the biggest stall, while others are snapping pics of their shoes. She never understands why they do that. (Social media is weird.)
She picks the table in the cafeteria where her friends are.
Cho is scarfing down a tupperware of rice and fish, while Bri swings her car keys around her arm. Mia and Amaj are knee-deep in conversation.
“When I graduate, I’m going to Texas AM,” Amaj declares. “I’m getting as far away from this shithole as possible.”
Mia snorts. “Yeah, better get out quick before the Clown breaks out of Arkham for the third time this week.”
Naomi knots the hem of her shirt around her finger. “My dad’s a cop. He says the jails are crowded because of mass-incarceration.” She pauses and says, “I want to help people like him one day.”
“Oh. Cop, huh?” Amaj looks a little surprised at that fact, but then he stares at her with pity. “Parents aren’t perfect, you know?”
Naomi blinks. “What?”
Amaj and Mia seem to squirm away as a weird silence falls over their section of the table.
“So, Amaj, what are you planning to study?” Bri asks.
“AI, actually.” Naomi’s mind starts to wander, a weird feeling buzzing her head. What did he mean by that? Why were they all looking at her like that? What did she say?
Did she… say something bad about her dad?
Naomi looks down.
Something black is dripping down her shoulders.
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“Class, we are welcoming a new student today to our humble high school,” Mr. Frey, her algebra teacher says without an ounce of enthusiasm. “I expect you all to treat him with the same amount of respect you treat each other.”
She thinks of that one time she saw a bunch of teenage boys shoving each other and snickering in the lunch line over a cheese-dog. The kind of respect Mr. Frey is hoping for simply does not exist.
The new student in question struts into the room and Naomi’s jaw drops.
She’s seen a lot of weird things–this is Gotham, mind you. Clowns robbing banks, fear-gas polluted streets, plants growing out of skyscrapers on the news.
But this is less weird, which is below the standard of Gotham’s usual weird, which makes it weirder (if that makes sense?).
Damian Wayne, prince of Gotham’s high society, scowls at all of them.
He’s wearing a simple green hoodie, hands tucked into the pockets, posture relaxed despite the attention on him. His features are oddly elegant yet boyish, like puberty is awkwardly trying to catch up to the gene pool. If his sharp green eyes seem a little bit cold, a little bit cunning, the interviews certainly didn’t catch it.
He’s a far cry from the image she’d expect of a son of a multi-billionaire or regular teenage boy.
Naomi doesn’t think he’s either of those things.
Murmurs break out behind her and the front row. People are not-so subtly pulling out their phones to film him, hoping to catch a glimpse of the Wayne Heir. Some girls are muttering about how much hotter he looks in person than in the paparazzi photos.
She doesn’t get the hype. Ignoring the fact that celebrity worship is uncomfortably problematic in and of itself (looking at you, Kardashians), Naomi personally always felt a weird vibe surrounding the Wayne family.
It wasn’t bad but it wasn’t… good? Dark, maybe? Maybe.
The class holds their breath in anticipation as they wait for him to say something.
She’s half-expecting him to make a speech of some sort. Maybe something along the lines of “I’m attending this crappy school my father graciously donated to in order to hand out scholarships like halloween candy to much better ones!”
So naturally, what comes next is completely out of left field.
“Pythagorean Theorem? Really? ” The Wayne boy scoffs at the board like it personally offends him. “A child could do this.”
Naomi blinks, because that sentence didn’t make much sense coming from him.
“Well, if that’s the way you feel,” Mr. Frey remarks, not even bothering to look up from his monitor, “you’re welcome to take a nap in the back row.”
Mr. Frey doesn’t seem to get the hype either.
“Tt.” He slinks to the back of the room, roughly thirty pairs of eyes tracking him.
Briefly, his eyes meet hers.
And then he looks away so fast she’s left wondering if it even happened. Except it did, didn’t it?
Naomi tries to focus on the lesson as she feels two cold eyes boring into the back of her head.
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It’s a little bit odd, she thinks, that the Wayne kid has the same exact schedule as her, right down to homeroom.
Naomi doesn’t pay it much mind though. Lots of freshmen have similar scheduling; they’re taking core classes after all. The electives and fun classes come later, her dad says.
Just get through this year, he told her, and next year will be better.
So Naomi pushes the weird feeling to the back of her mind, fills it with daydreams and lessons, and tries to ignore the fact that no matter where she sits, Damian Wayne keeps sitting two seats behind her.
Damian proceeds to sit two seats away from her in the back row.
Her anxiety flairs up a little bit but she pushes it down. You make a big deal out of the smallest things, her dad tells her often. Stop spazzing out.
Nothing’s wrong.
She takes a deep breath, thinking of that cool time travel plot she’s debating on writing because her dad said she should start writing original novels instead.
Nothing’s wrong.
Ms. Wright has a troubled expression on her face as she tries to troubleshoot the failing projector. She keeps clicking buttons, but it won’t turn on.
Someone’s clicking their pen over and over at the neighboring desk behind hers. It’s distracting. She tries plugging her ears, but it doesn’t help.
Another teen is playing that running game with the little alien and the falling walls in space what-ya-ma-call-it on his chromebook . That game’s cool but Naomi’s never been too good at it–too nervous–
Ms. Wright can’t seem to get the projector to work. She keeps muttering to herself about crappy funding.
Someone’s tapping their pencil to a familiar rhythm. It sounds like Industry Baby, but Naomi’s not sure–
Someone’s talking behind her. “Man, I’m about to leave if this shit doesn’t work soon–”
“Ms. Wright, have you tried clicking the–”
Two cold eyes keep boring in the back of her head–
“Something’s wrong–”
All at once, every screen in the room cuts to black.
A hush seems to fall over every living thing in the school. Something suspends in the air, hanging on the edge of curiosity and disquieting.
Silence. There is nothing but silence.
Naomi stares transfixed at the blinking code of binary on her chromebook. It appears on everyone else’s screens too. The binary turns into letters and the letters turn into words.
We know what you did.
The letters become a photo. Naomi pales. A stone settles into her stomach and stays there.
She’s seen this before.
In the photo, there are two corpses: a mother in a lab coat and a young girl. Their blood pools like dark ink around them, their moonlight skin blown out by the police camera.
Frozen in time are their expressions of horror.
We know you lied, Naomi Nakamura.
She feels the weight of their gazes on her–but she can’t bring herself to look away.
Something dark drips on the keyboard. She’s crying. Her tears are black and dark like ink– like blood . She hasn’t taken a breath in over a minute and Naomi doesn’t think she’ll ever take another again.
Shame roils in her stomach, rising up and up like the truth. Invisible needles poke every inch of her skin and invisible hands choke the words to the back of her throat.
This is it. This is the end.
She knew this would happen one day.
It was only a matter of time, she thinks, before my whole world came crashing down.
And then it gets worse.
A new picture appears on the screen: her own smiling face taunting her, the crappy yearbook photo she took last year. A countdown hovers above her head, thick and black and bold and undeniable.
$10 Billion dead.
Below her smile is three simple words:
Naomi must die.
The message is horrifyingly clear.
You are the prey. Gotham is the predator.
Naomi looks up slowly at her classmates. Their reactions all vary, but the look in their eyes is all the same; hunger.
She thinks back to all those long nights sitting in the living room, crying, feeling something she could never quite articulate, as her father shakes his head. You’re always blaming everybody else for your problems, Naomi. But nobody is out to get you.
The irony would’ve been hilarious if it wasn’t so
goddamn sad.
Everybody is out to get her now.
And whose fault is that? She thinks darkly.
Hers. It’s always hers.
The bounty stays frozen on the screen, whoever targeted her having nothing left to say. But it left an impression behind: You are not safe.
“Did you see that–?”
“On the screen–”
“You think she killed them–?”
“You’re worth a lot of money…” Caleb, she thinks his name is, rubs his arms up and down, as if in disbelief. “And my mama’s in the hospital… cancer.”
“I’m sorry, I don’t–”
Hannah, one of the popular girls, sobs, cutting her off. “My dad died from the Scarecrow attack three months ago. We don’t have enough money to give him a proper burial!”
Naomi shakes her head helplessly, and scrambles out of her desk.
Some of her classmates are beginning to close in.
“Man, fuck a burial!” Tyrone exclaims. He shoots out of his seat dramatically, arms wide in proclamation, eyes wild. “My daddy’s in prison. My grandma don’ got ‘nough to pay for my college. ”
“I can’t help you!” Naomi cries. “I wish I could but–”
“But you can. ” Amaj steps in, blocks her way to the door. The dark fascination in his eyes scares her. “Who did you kill anyway?”
Naomi whimpers, clambers away. “I didn’t kill anybody. ”
Mrs. Wright is shaking, mumbling incoherently. “Ten billion, that’s–that’s more than I’m ever going to earn in my lifetime. ”
“So that’s it, huh? You’re just gonna turn your back on us?” Amaj snarls. “I thought you were my friend!”
He pounces on her.
“You wanna help people, don’t you?!” Amaj is crying. His nails dig into Naomi’s arm and he leans on her with terrifying fervor. “Then help me. Help us.”
Naomi is crying too. “Please…” Stop. Let me go. Don’t ask me.
In the corner of her eye, Justin, the quiet kid, stares at his sharp-edged protractor, weeping silently. His eyes keep cutting from it to her.
It clicks then, just how real this is. They’re gonna kill me.
Someone wrenches her out of Amaj’s grip. “ENOUGH.”
Naomi feels the cold press of metal on her throat and she chokes on air. She feels the warm press of a body against hers, the hot breath on the back of her neck, the taut arm with a green sleeve. Oh, shit.
“Back the fuck up, all of you!” Damian Wayne roars. The scissors hike up Naomi’s throat, threatening to draw blood. “I’ll slit her throat! I’ll do it! Don’t fucking test me.”
“Whoa, whoa, whoa, amigo, let’s talk about this.” Stephen Hernandez, a sophomore, holds his arms up placatingly.
“Let me through,” Damian commands with powerful authority. “Now.”
Her classmates make a wide berth.
“Fuck, man, you got all the money in the world!” Tyrone moans. “What ya need to kill her ass for?!”
“Open the door,” Damian orders. He hauls Naomi along with him to the front of the room with little difficulty.
Amaj opens it, his eyes cold. “You’re making a mistake.”
“ Tt. I never miscalculate.”
Something about the way he says it makes Naomi believe him.
The door clicks shut behind them.