The T- Virus

Chapter 2- Left to mourn

A/n: Trigger warning for death of a parent, abuse, brief suicide references and mention of drug/ alcohol use.

It had been two weeks since I had moved into my new apartment. Two days since my mum died. Two hours since I'd thrown a phone out the window. The apartment was trashed, with bits of smashed cupboard doors across the the kitchen floor, a coffee table broken in two and several plates, glasses and cutlery thrown against the wall. Now I sat in a corner, shivering. I couldn't stop shaking, the shock chilling me to my bones. My mind was blank as snow, yet at the same time racing for an answer. The answer to who was to blame. Me, for sleeping in and antagonising Joker in the first place. The doctors and nurses for not realizing who that 'friend' asking to visit my mother was. Maybe Batman for not saving me and my mother in the first place.

No.

It was no-ones fault but his. He set us up, offered us to the Joker like lab rats on a silver platter, and now he had killed her, perhaps achieving his mission. Or just starting to put his plan in motion.

Either way he had succeeded again, and now my mother lay in a surgery for an autopsy, a dagger in her chest along with twelve additional stab wounds. The officer over the phone had been blunt, straight to the point, which in any other circumstance I would have appreciated. But not for this. It almost made me laugh. I had always thought my mother would drink herself to death, or get in a drunk driving accident or maybe even kill herself while in one of her 'moods'. But never that my father would kill her. How's that for daddy issues?

James Smith, a popular name for a very unpopular man. My parents met at 22 in a club, and had me at 23. They then split up before they reached 30, when things got real nasty, causing us to be isolated and move to Gotham to disappear. But he was back now, and my mums blood ran crimson on his hands. They had managed to catch him thankfully, but the thought of him and the Joker possibly making contact in the prison and hatching a plan made my shaking worse. Two merciless men, out to spill my blood.

There was a knock on the door, then I heard a key turn, unlocking it slowly. I didn't move from my corner, only glaring at the empty space until a vivid red helmet came into view. Red Hood. Part of my brain told me I should be surprised, but the shock was still keeping me fixed in the void of numbness. He walked in slowly, whistling at the devastation but not commenting. Two plastic bags full of groceries were set on the kitchen counter after he had wiped off the glass and pieces of the acrylic cupboard I had destroyed. Sighing, he reached up with brown leather gloves, clicked a button and removed the helmet. This was enough to startle me back to reality. He was younger than I though, with a chiseled jawline and mop of brown hair, a single white streak running through over his forehead. His eyes, undoubtedly piercing, were covered by a red domino mask, similar to the one Nightwing and the Robin's wore. Maybe him and Bats had a history, especially given the big red bat motif blazing across his chest. He began to clean up the surface, picking up the pans and some cutlery from the floor, a frown prominent on his face.

"Am I in trouble?" I asked, my voice strained and hoarse from my meltdown. The man sighed, looking at me again.

"No." He decided on. "But Batman wants to move you to a different location while they clean up here."

"So why are you here? I thought Batman was in charge of lectures."

"I'm here to make sure you eat." He motioned to his display of ingredients and cooking utensils. There was cheese and a grater, pepper, onions, some very blunt knife, four large eggs and a frying pan. "How does an omelette sound?"

I was about to protest, but my stomach beat me too it. The memory of my last meal was faint, all my time being taken up by caring for my mum and talking to the police. I had been left alone now though, save an anti-hero letting himself into my apartment to make me breakfast.