Link : https://forums.spacebattles.com/threads/dead-tired-dc-sioc.391468/reader/
WC : 62K+
Plot : Necromancer MC in gotham. Kinda okay read. Still better than many out there.
Chapter 1: Welcome To Gotham: Check Your Sanity at the Door
Fucking Gotham. I bury my head in my arms to try to ignore the world around me and maybe get a nap. The subway car reeks of cigarettes and stale vomit, even filtered through my sleeve's smell of fresh-turned dirt and cheap soap. No wonder Gotham's criminal element tends to go crazy and dress up in clown costumes. I wouldn't want to live with this reality either.
An unremarkable man with a defeated look to him is going from passenger to passenger, who are ignoring him with the practice of city-dwellers everywhere. After a bit he got to me, heedless of my 'leave me the hell alone' aura. "Hey, can you-"
"No," I say tiredly.
"Look, I just-"
"I'm broke, man, and I don't want whatever you're selling." That is, apparently, the wrong answer, as his face suddenly freezes and he vanishes in a flash of light with an ascending scream.
That… almost certainly wasn't a person just now. Dammit, I'm normally better at telling than this. I look around, and yeah, general lack of reaction to a guy spontaneously combusting. Except the couple two seats over, who are casually edging away while looking everywhere but me. Great. I'm the crazy homeless person talking to nobody again. Things are already getting back to normal. At this rate, I'll end up in another psychiatric hospital by noon. Fucking Gotham.
Ugh, I don't think I'll be getting used to the smell anytime soon. Now that I think about it, I could swear that I can see a greenish haze in the air. The train shudders to a halt, but nobody announces the stop. The old lady sitting across the aisle from me wakes up with a snort and a quick patdown of her mountain of bags. "Damn track delays," someone mutters. I resist the urge to pound my head against the seat in front of me. I have an interview for an apartment in a half hour, and no phone to call ahead with. A fully furnished apartment, buyer to move in immediately, at a price that I actually could afford? Not letting that get by me.
A low rumble goes through the train car. Apparently I'm not the only one with places to be. The older guy in the other aisle is breathing into a paper bag and looks to be on the verge of a quiet panic attack. A nasty argument breaks out between the couple in front of me and everyone within earshot shifts nervously. The loudspeaker screeches briefly, then falls silent. We wait with varying levels of calm.
"You're all going to die." Oh great, the guy from earlier is back, and he brought friends. I resist the urge to respond and make myself look even crazier. Someone starts shrieking in the back of the car, and I don't dare turn around to check if it is an actual person having a fit or not.
"Attention, passengers. You have been selected to take part in a scientific experiment." Oh what is this telemarketing flashmob bullshit. "In each of the train cars, a different quantity of fear gas has been released-" And that's about all I hear, as the car erupts into commotion. People rush around to the exits, quickly finding them all locked down. The screaming is getting louder. I can't help but feel that this is all a bit of an overreaction, but I was new to town. Best to pretend to sleep and hope to go ignored.
A guy in a badly-fitted business suit starts pounding on the connecting doors and yelling, before he is roughly shoved out of the way by a heavily tattooed woman armed with a metal briefcase. She bashes at the door with the air of someone who smashes public property for a living. The intercom is still going, and whoever is talking seems to be working himself up into a full-on monologue.
The banging on the door redoubles, and the tattooed woman swears, backing up quickly. It takes me a moment to realize that the noise is coming from the other side of the door. Someone- several someones- are trying to get in. Whatever business suit man and tattoo lady can see through the window, it isn't good. They promptly reverse course on their attempts, leaning heavily on the doors and calling for help.
Which they aren't likely to get, because three separate fights have broken out and everyone not involved are huddled under seats or practically climbing the walls trying to get out. If it turns out that this is just what Gothamites do when the subway is delayed, I'm leaving the city, promise or no promise. Speaking of holyshit
I lunge across the aisle to grab the wrists of the elderly woman before she manages to gouge out her own eyes with her fingernails. She settles for raking them across my wrists and anything she could reach. I recoil and she curls back in on herself, mumbling something over and over, fortunately not actively trying to hurt herself. Distant gunfire is getting close, but I am too busy avoiding my train car full of crazy people to pay it any attention. I barely dodge the growing brawl, and decide that staying in my seat is probably the safest option for now.
Especially now that I've noticed the people fleeing in through the doors and along the tunnel itself. No wait, not people. Living people don't walk through walls, and they certainly weren't capable of running with injuries like those. What the actual hell is going on in the other subway cars?
"Getoutgetoutgetout!" one of them screams. He's dressed in a Gotham Subway employee's uniform, and he doesn't seem to notice that someone had scratched his throat out. Dammit, I hate it when the newly dead don't even realize what happened to them.
It is at this point that some lunatic in motorcycle gear kicks down a side door and starts shooting out the windows. I dive for the floor and stay there until there's a pause in the gunfire and flying glass. Against my better judgement, I stick my head back over the seats. Red helmet guy is arguing with someone, possibly himself. I don't know, I can't hear shit since someone decided to fire a gun right in my ears. He turns, glancing over the terrified, groaning bodies, and then he's gone, kicking out another door and leaping out.
…What the fuck, Gotham.
Chapter 2
Yeah, so suffice to say, I miss my interview time. Between the arrival of the paramedics and cops and general hysteria (I'm still not really clear on what just happened), it was all I could do to sneak off before someone stuck me in a hospital forever.
I end up lugging my heavy suitcase for six blocks to get to the apartment anyway, because where else was I going to go? It's this or go sleep in a graveyard again. Graveyards are basically the safest places in the world as far as I am concerned, but unfortunately come attached to back pain and biting insects. Woah, I think, sidestepping a guy dressed like an old school mobster, they have actual phone booths in Gotham City. I thought it was only Metropolis that does that now. Don't think you've won me over, Gotham, I know what you are.
The outside of the apartment complex is pretty much exactly what I was expecting. I'd been living in places like this on and off for years, though Gotham somehow managed to make low rent housing even grimier. Doesn't matter. Hopefully, I'll not be staying long.
The landlord is… uh. Certainly an individual. A member of a species. Presumably mine, though I'm not making any assumptions. He mainly communicates in grunts, and disapproves of higher communication on principle. On the bright side, he tactfully ignores my scruffy appearance and general twitchiness.
"I had a bit of trouble with the subway getting here," I try. He gives me a weird look and keeps walking. Is there still glass in my hair? Despite my being over an hour late, he leads me up to a tiny third floor apartment which looks almost clean. I tell him that I can pay upfront in cash, and he literally just hands me the paperwork. No background check, no pointed 'and how are you earning your living' questions. It's surreal.
The apartment itself has exactly one chair and a bed with a bare mattress. The walls are painted and patched in several different shades of gray, giving the whole room a mottled look. I close the door with a sigh, and flop down on the bed, turning to the growing crowd of ghosts that have been following me since the subway. Oh, and mobster-costume guy's here too. And apparently not in costume, based on the fact that he'd clearly been chewed by bullets at some point. I really need to get better at telling ghosts apart from regular people. "Alright. What do you lot want?"
Pandemonium. Of course. Someday I'm going to find earplugs that work on ghosts.
"See? See? I told you they were just ignoring us!"
"Hey! Hey lady, I need your help!"
"Pretty sure that's a guy, man."
"My son-"
"-AAAAAAAAAAAAAAA-"
"I'm buried-"
"That traitorous-"
"-AAAAAAAAAAAAAAA-"
"They killed-"
"I need-"
"How come you see-"
"-AAAAAAAAAAAAAA-"
…Good fucking damn. I should have brought some ghosts along from my last stop, this was going to take forever. "Hey, hang on a second while I unpack a notepad. And someone shut up the screaming guy for me."
At least I'm not going to have to do the explaining bits much after this. Little old ladies have nothing on ghosts (some of whom are former little old ladies), and gossip moves fast through the graveyards. Little known fact about those who have mostly shuffled off this mortal coil: they are all bored as hell and have no boundaries whatsoever.
I stash my get-away bag under the bed and wander over to the kitchen. After a couple months of couch-surfing, punctuated by stays in cemeteries, I really missed being able to cook. Add groceries to the list of normal human things I need to be doing.
Huh. Did whoever the former owner of this apartment was get disappeared or something? They probably didn't die, judging by the lack of angry ghosts telling me to get out of their room, but I doubt anyone would voluntarily leave this much stuff behind. There's food in the cabinets. And not just a forgotten can or two left by a previous tenant, there's enough to feed a small army, presuming that the small army is willing to consume only mac n'cheese, granola bars, and coffee. I'd probably mutiny.
When I turn around, I notice that the crowd has gotten noticeably larger, and more are filtering in. Great. "Okay. Let's do this. Missing persons first. If they still haven't found your body or you're a John Doe, I'll need your name, location, cause of death, and date." Ghosts tend to get pretty flakey after a while, but there are some things that never leave them. Which is good, because the best way to send restless ghosts onward? Justice, or at least a proper burial. And murder mysteries get a lot easier when one can talk to the victim. Of course, verifying said victim's claims is always a little more difficult. Especially when they lie to make themselves seem badass.
"For the last time, you did not get killed by the Batman." Vinny the mobster (no seriously, that is his name), has apparently appointed himself fact-checker and general skeptic of the criminal contingent.
"I'm telling you, I did! He killed me with his Bat-Magic!" Does Batman have magic? I mean, he's on the Justice League, but I always just assumed he was a smart brick. Super strength or something. Although shadow powers would make sense. I met a guy like that in Opal City, he's super sneaky with it.
"And I'm telling you, the Bat isn't magic! He's obviously a vampire!" …Okay, that one I could buy.
"Vampire magic!"
"Those are bullet holes," I point out, uselessly.
"Okay, okay, it might not have been Batman, exactly. But he was totally there! I saw 'im!"
"Then who was it?"
"Might have been one of my bosses." I wait. "…Might have been Scarface."
"What, the ventriloquist guy?"
"No, the puppet! I got shot up by a damn doll. You happy?"
"Fucking hell, man."
I sigh, and make a note next to his name. "Next is-"
"AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA"
"-Not him."
As much as I want to ignore my responsibilities and crash for a few hours, work comes first. List in hand, I go looking for a payphone. Time to do what any necromancer worth their grave dirt knows to do: delegate.
"Welcome to the Gotham City Anonymous Tip Hotline" At this point, I can basically mouth the standard script. Your call will be recorded, now let's play music that nobody likes. "…Please hold while your call is transferred."
"Hello, this is the-" Oh wow, she sounds almost as tired as I feel. I consult my list.
"I'd like to report a found body?" Well, more like twelve. And some of them aren't even murders! Progress, Gotham.
"I- alright?" Tired and new, then.
"Terence Plumr, died February 2000 due to super villain warfare, currently buried in cement under the intersection north of the Gotham Cathedral. Err… the more famous one." How many fancy gothic cathedrals can a city need, anyway? "Steve Lawrence, same date and location."
"Uh, excuse me-"
"Mary Holm, died Thursday in her home of natural causes, still not found." At least she doesn't seem like she is going to give me much trouble. Also she very helpfully gagged screaming guy and threatened to do worse to the ones who tried to skip ahead in line.
"George Cooper, current or former John Doe, died May 3 2004 after being mugged by an unknown assailant and found May 5 2004. One living nephew, also named George, yet to be contacted." It goes on like that for a while. Some of the ghosts knew their killers (or claimed to), while others had died so suddenly that they hadn't realized it at the time. Or had died an actual normal person death. Gotham, what the hell.
I hang up before she can start asking questions, and dial another number. Man, helping ghosts is hell on my quarters. "Hello, is this Maggie- yes, yes. I'm an associate of your mother's. She had a box that she wanted to give you before her death. It's in the crawlspace of her house…"
A half hour and several dollars in quarters later, I'm done with all the ones that don't require personal investigation. A couple calls got the right house but the wrong family, which is to be expected of ghosts who lose track of time. Chores done. Now to go pay my respects to the graveyards and talk to some people who actually make sense.
Chapter 3
It's easier to settle into a routine than I thought. Talk to ghosts, do research at the library, call the hotline, call families with information the ghosts wish to pass on (sounding varying levels of crazy depending on the request), visit another graveyard, repeat in no particular order. I wish I could say that I'm making a dent, but the truth is that no matter how many people I send on to the afterlife, there's always more filtering in. There's always going to be more dead than the living.
I'm also starting to realize that the haze of anxiety and exhaustion I'm feeling is coming from all around me. Gotham just feels like this, apparently. Great. I make a mental note not to even look at the island Arkham Asylum is located on.
There's no denying now that there is something very, very wrong with Gotham. Nowhere has this many ghosts. Most people, if they stick around after death at all, only do so until they are buried. Certainly, there's always a bunch hanging around the cemetery waiting for a spouse or watching over their children, but they're faded and passive. And as for the other kind- ghosts who leave the safety of the graveyard tend to deteriorate quickly.
So why the actual hell are there so many of them? Not only aren't they fading, they're so vivid I keep confusing them for living people. In Opal City, I had trouble making murder victims stick around long enough to answer questions about their own case! It's almost as if something is making it easier for them to stay, and harder to leave. And of course, there's no convenient blinking sign pointing at the source of the problem. Because that would be easy.
And now people like me have to work overtime because some bright spark decided to build a city on a hell mouth. Presumably just to see what would happen. This kind of shit is why I was ordered here in the first place. Well… asked. Nicely. By someone I'm pretty sure I literally can't say no to.
"Guh." Too much thinking.
"Are you well?"
"Yeah, I'm fine," I turn to the ghost floating at my side. Old Mary Holm has taken to death well, though she keeps cycling through different ages based on her mood. 'You're only as old as you feel' can be surprisingly literal when your body is made of ectoplasm. At the moment, she looks like someone out of a fifties ad for vacuum cleaners, if you ignore the hollows under her eyes and thin, brittle hair. Yet another person who probably shouldn't still be here. "This city just gives me a headache."
Hanging around in graveyards is quickly becoming a necessity to keep me functional. Gotham outside the cemeteries is like walking under a cold cloud all the time, and the cloud has weight. I sigh, tilting my head back. The sunsets are pretty, at least. The light has started to fade to pink embers, painting the crumbling gravestones in softer colors and shrouding the city beyond the gates in haze. If I don't look too hard, I can pretend that it isn't there!
"Overworking often has that effect on a person." Hey, Mrs. 50's housewife, dead people shouldn't criticize! You don't need to work at all! "We'd understand if you took days off, you know. Talked to the living, maybe go on a date." Oh hell no.
"It's not my job to take care of living people," I say, ignoring the jab at my romantic life with the ease of long practice. All ghosts are just old gossips and meddling aunts, I swear. "Besides, talking to the living residents of Gotham? The only people who are willing to talk to me tend to be kind of terrible. I'm pretty sure it's a miracle that I haven't been mugged yet, anyway." Either that speaks well to the self-preservation instincts of the common Gotham criminal, or I look too poor to bother with. Mary is giving me a faintly pitying look, so it's probably the latter. Damn.
The caretakers have started doing their rounds, looking for drunk teenagers and tired homeless people to kick out before they close the gates. I'm sitting in plain view, perched on a gravestone (hey, she said she didn't mind), but they walk right past me without even a glance. Heh. I'm never going to get over how cool that is. Having the freedom of the graveyard is one of the few job perks that I wouldn't give up for anything.
"Speaking of which, are you about ready to move on? No pressure, or anything, I just want to have an ectoplasm jar ready." I might actually miss her when she's gone. She's the most normal person I've met so far.
"No, I don't think so," she smiles, a little wistfully. "I've been alone for so long, you know. Wanting a bit of excitement, someone to talk to. Eternal rest sounds lovely, but I'd like to tire myself out first."
"I could take you to a theme park?" Hey, I've done weirder.
"No, no, nothing like that. But if you'll permit it, I'd like to haunt you for a while. You meet such interesting people, dear."
"I- yes? If you want to? But I hope you realize that I prefer to run away from excitement."
"Nevertheless."
"Your funeral, then."
"I had that yesterday, actually."
"Oh, yay. Ghost jokes."