The buzzing of my phone against my thigh distracted me for only a moment as the nurse recounted her concerns about Walter Whitmore. I didn't have to check to see who it was that was calling me though - my father had been trying to reach me since the clock hit midnight and the day turned into October 1st - my 24th birthday. Whether he was reaching out to offer me a gift or even a simple card, I didn't want it because I knew that wherever it was coming from was nowhere good.
"Are you sure you want to take him?" the nurse asked, eyeing me up and down and likely judging me for the Celine dress I had chosen to wear that day. It felt like an appropriate choice in Metropolis, but here on the outskirts of Gotham, I stood out like a sore thumb. "No offense, but your recovery center doesn't exactly seem like the kind of place that can deal with a man like Walter Whitmore."
Although her words stung, I did not allow my face to reflect it. Especially since I knew exactly where she was coming from. Health Bridge Recovery Centre didn't exactly have the best reputation, not when the immediate client list consisted of a dozen nepotism kids who'd gotten their hands on coke a few too many times. The over-the-top facilities and accommodations didn't exactly help either. What I had thought would be high selling points had turned my center into a pretentious hideout for the rich parents of Gotham's finest to ship their kids off across the harbor into Metropolis, away from prying eyes. Although helping them - helping anyone - brought me joy, it was people like Walter Whitmore I truly wanted to help. People who had lost their way.
"I assure you, we're more than capable of making sure he's in good hands," I answered with a smile. And it was the truth. After all, I was the one paying for the highly esteemed medical professionals.
"He almost murdered his wife," the nurse said slowly. "I'm not sure someone in your position understands what that means. He doesn't need art therapy or hydro flasks or whatever your Rich Bridge center is offering. He needs real help."
Again, I did not allow my face to reflect what I was feeling, but I wasn't going to stand around and take her criticism either. "Look," I sighed, slumping my shoulders. "I'm here because an informant of mine let me know that your facility is way overbooked and they're going to give up his spot to let in someone else who they think needs this more. So it's either Hydroflasks at Health Bridge or the streets of Gotham."
The nurse narrowed her eyes at me but didn't seem surprised. Judging by her reaction, she knew this to be a common occurrence. Not just at this facility, but in all of Gotham. The rehab and recovery centers were flooded with patients and waitlists that were poorly supported by a limited number of doctors, nurses, and caregivers who were overworked to the core. Worse, the sheer number of criminals who cried insanity over a prison sentence and stole spots away from people who actually needed the help stretched into the hundreds. Gotham's streets were drowning in mental illness, drug overdoses, and criminals, yet my facility across the harbor functioned at quarter-capacity. And why? Because Gotham chose to ignore the problem and Metropolis refused to implement a system that allowed people whom they didn't deem fit into the city.
"You're going to escort back a murderer?" the nurse asked, her face contorting into one of judgment as she eyed me again. But it wasn't because of my dress this time. It was because she didn't think I could handle him.
"He's not a murderer," I said. While it was true Walter Whitmore would have likely killed his wife had it not been for law enforcement interfering, it was also the case that his wife, Ingrid, had been abusive toward him for over a decade; that Walter Whitemore had been diagnosed with severe PTSD from his years enduring her berating. And to blame Ingrid would be to overlook the fact that she too had endured an abusive upbringing and a job that took more from her than it could give. Yes, Walter Whitemore could have been a murderer, but he was not a bad man - he was a broken one, torn down by Gotham's failure to serve its people.
And as Gotham City's prince of crime put it: it only takes one bad day to make even the greatest hero a villain.
~~~
The boat ride across the harbor was typically a short one - no more than 40 minutes - and one that I had taken many times over, but something about this one felt off from the start. I watched with a very careful eye as Walter bent over the railing of the small ferry boat, enjoying the violent water splash below him as we headed toward Metropolis.
"Are you alright?" I said, taking my spot next to him.
He gave me a quick glance, an amused smile playing on his lips. "I'm not going to jump if that's what you mean."
"It's not," I clarified. "It's just that you haven't said anything about moving over to Health Bridge."
"I told the doctors no - that I rather take my chances on the streets," he admitted. "But then I found out it was free." With his elbows still against the railing, he turned his head to me and eyed the gold necklace around my neck, the bracelet on my wrist, and the wool on my coat. God, what was wrong with me? "You're paying for it, aren't you?"
"I am," I said simply.
"Why?"
"I think you deserve better than the streets of Gotham."
He shook his head, seemingly a little annoyed. "So what? You choose some random charity case from time to time and bring them back to your fancy facility?"
I scoffed, "Fuck, I wish. I'll take anyone they give me. I'll take everyone. My center is packed full of great doctors and therapists whose abilities are unfortunately being wasted on some teenagers who are just waiting for a clean piss sample so they can go back to partying it up with the rest of the one percent in Gotham. I want to help make Gotham a better place and I think that starts with people like you - good people who have had bad things happen to them."
He stared at me for a moment - quiet and unblinking before looking back down at the water. again. "You think I'm a good man?" he asked.
"I do," I gave him a reassuring smile, even though he wasn't looking to see it. "Do you?"
"To tell you the truth," he started, his eyes fixated on the crashing waves. "They treat you like a villain for long enough and eventually you start to believe-"
A thunderous bang sounded from the boat, sending a high-pitched ringing through my ears as the boat furiously rocked against the water. I was nearly thrown into the water, but Walter held tightly onto my arm, bringing it to the cold railing so that I could stabilize myself.
"Are you alright!" He shouted over the screams of the other passengers who were rushing toward our end of the boat as water flooded their feet behind them.
Shit.
Shit. Shit. Shit.
Were we sinking?!
Had we hit something?
The crowd of people rushing toward us nearly tackled me to the crowd, but I held on tightly to the metal railing that seemed to be the only thing preventing those along the edges from falling into the water. Walter, on the other hand, wasn't so lucky. A group of nervous bodies pushed him onto the ground, stepping on him as they struggled to find footing.
"Stop!" I screamed and let go of the railing to push them off him. They stumbled and fell back against other people. As the boat rocked forward, its now evidently broken middle bending toward the surface of the water, I fell down onto the ground by Walter whose eyes were shot wide open in terror. "Walter, are you okay?" I asked him over the cries and screams of the passengers, hurriedly looking him over for any signs of injury. The smell of smoke hit my nostrils and I realized that a boat didn't just snap in half. I think we'd been bombed. Fucking bombed.
To my surprise, I felt a firm hand grasp the entirety of my neck before squeezing hard. I stared down at Walter, my eyes wide as he pulled me down onto the cold metal floor of what was left of the boat and somehow mounted his body over mine, his hands crushing down against my windpipe. I tried a futile attempt for air, my fingers clawing at his hands, but it made no difference. I couldn't fucking breathe.
"Ingrid," he seethed, his eyes murderous. Fuck, he was having an episode. And fuck it must have been those people. But fuck I wasn't Ingrid! I thrashed what I could of my body and hoped, prayed, and begged for someone to see and help me, but we were on a sinking boat that had just been bombed and I was the least of their worries. My lungs burned with a fire I had never felt before, a pain I had no idea I was capable of experiencing and I knew I was going to be dead soon. Somehow, even through the pain of my nonexistent air supply, I felt the buzzing of my phone against my thigh and wished that I had answered his calls.
As quick as light itself, there was a woosh and a blur and suddenly I could breathe again. Coughing and gasping for air, I rolled onto my side as people screamed - not in terror anymore, but in happiness. Walter was gone, thrown off of me and against the railing on the other side of the boat. And towering over him, there he stood - mother fucking Superman.
Holy shit.
Holy shit.
Before I could even fully process the severe absurdness of the situation, I felt a hard thud land beside me as heavy boots hauled over the side of the boat. My gaze followed upward until I saw...
Holy shit.
Holy shit.
It was goddamn Batman!
He glanced down at me for a second, but just a split second before the boat tipped further down toward the water, causing the passengers to break out into a full-blown panic again. Before they could pummel me into the ground, I used the railing and forced myself to stand. While Superman hurriedly worked to fly passengers to safety, Batman worked to get them onto a Gotham Police speedboat, while more came our way.
Despite the fact that Walter was one of the closest passengers to where Superman had stood, the beloved savior in blue and red had not taken him during his first trip back to safety and I didn't trust that he would on his second or third. Despite everything in my mind urging me to hold onto the railing until it was my turn to be helped, I forced myself to let go of the cool metal and run in the direction of the same man who had just tried killing me.
Maybe I was the one who needed a therapist.
Walter was slumped against the ground when I reached him, half-conscious. Blood dripped from a wound on his head, likely where the railing had hit him when Superman had thrown him off me. At least he wasn't threatening anyone this way. Taking his arm, I slowly dragged his heavy mass across to the other end of the boat, the side where Batman was helping people. I was almost there - to the crowd where the other passengers stood eagerly waiting to be helped onto a boat when Walter's arm pulled itself from my hold.
I backed away as he stabilized himself and stood. I didn't dare speak, but I could see in his eyes that he wasn't okay. Whatever episode he'd been having he hadn't yet finished. I thought he'd come for me again, but it was another rocking of the boat that caused a different woman to slam her back into him. Walter's hands closed around her throat, but she managed to let out a scream before her air was entirely cut off.
I hurried to get him off her, but Batman was much quicker. He took a deathly grip on Walter's shoulder and pulled him away from the woman in one swift motion, while his metal fist met with the side of Walter's cheek, knocking him to the metal railing where his head collided with it in the same area of his previous, Superman inflicted wound.
"Stop!" I screamed, rushing toward Walter, but stopping dead in my tracks when I saw the deadly stream of blood streaking the white railing an unnerving shade of crimson. Walter's body slumped against the railing in a manner that was anything but natural. What was left of the passengers had gone quiet. The world had gone quiet. "I-" I glanced at Batman who stood very, very still, facing me. He watched me from behind his mask. "I-" I couldn't get the words out, and before there was enough time to try, there was a blue arm around my waist flying me back to Metropolis.
~~~
A swarm of reporters was already waiting by the shore when Superman brought me back to the ground. He didn't give me time to thank him, but I wasn't sure that I even wanted to. I was sure that I didn't. A paramedic rushed to me and placed a warm and heavy blanket around my shoulders. As the paramedic escorted me toward an ambulance, a reporter managed to stick a microphone in my face while a cameraman struggled to get a clear picture of me from behind him.
"How did it feel to be saved by both Batman and Superman?" The reporter demanded.
Looking into the camera with dead eyes, I answered, "They're both idiots."