Chapter Text
Jeremiah fled from the two contrasting blurs of mismatched emotions and fractured impulses exuded by his pursuers toward the colorful neon sign that marked the end of his maze. He was so preoccupied with trying to disregard the unpleasant impressions that he didn’t register the more dangerous mind lying in wait around the next corner until it was too late. Jeremiah let out a small, startled gasp, flinching away a second or so before the action made outward sense.
“Hello, Brother,” Jerome’s gravelly voice greeted, full of sadistic glee as he stepped around the drab, concrete corner, gun raised to point at his twin’s head. Jeremiah was shaking like a leaf and he could feel the minor rush of his dark alternate’s gratification reveal the instant when he noticed. Jeremiah turned his head, pretending out of habit that he wasn’t acutely aware of every presence around him. Lenore had drilled that behavior into him repeatedly, and Ecco’s presence had reinforced it too well for him not to. He stared into Jerome’s wide, predatory grin, then internally berated himself when he saw it falter. There was a spark of curiosity in regards to Jeremiah’s failure to be as frightened as a normal person ought to be. Unfortunately, after the absolute, world-ending horror and trauma of so many others’ painful deaths screaming through his being on the night that obliterated Jeremiah’s childhood, fear had become as elusive to him as anxiety was inescapable.
Excited. Smug. Wrathful. Expectant… Jerome’s emotions and abstract thought-forms rolled off of him in a characteristic torrent.
“So, how ya’ been? Oh, you look great!” Jerome punctuated his incongruous greeting with an eruption of his trademark laugh. “And to think, I used to be the handsome one!” he quipped, forcing another laugh at his own joke.
Nervous.
“You should have stayed in your cell,” escaped as barely more than a whisper.
That got a sarcastic eye-roll from the more murderous twin, but his smile didn’t shift in the slightest.
“How did you find your way to me?” Jeremiah inquired managing a hoarse, yet more audible voice. He pursued the answer he wanted with a vague enough wording to present the question that was expected of him. Lenore’s damned unshakable training was still compelling the condemned to hide in plain sight.
“Oh, Bro,” Jerome replied, sounding just as disappointed by him as he was within himself. It was just for show. “We may not look the same anymore but we still think the same.” Jeremiah’s marred mirror image reached out to jab at his forehead for added effect.
“How I wish that were true,” Jeremiah muttered with dry resignation, finally able to gather enough wherewithal to lift the veil ever-so-slightly for a moment in reaction to their contact.
Jerome’s eyes narrowed at first, but his mind easily dismissed the soft spoken regret as a subtle insult. “You know I always used to see you drawin’ those stupid things when we were kids--”
“You paid attention,” Jeremiah recited the rest of his thought for him, realizing that after all those years of running and hiding he actually wanted to be found. He wanted to see what Jerome would do with the truth if he knew. Once again, his twin’s narrowed eyes caught on his own; he was finally starting to become unsettled.
Uncertainty. Denial. Interest… None of it was visible in Jerome’s expression, but Jeremiah was soaking it in. Emil had once confided in child-Jeremiah about his suspicions regarding twins. The adult now wondered if maybe he would’ve liked to have seen them confirmed, probably not like this. Jerome was looking past him, ordering his underlings to deal with the Detective and his partner. He was still outwardly calm and in control, then his glinting eyes locked onto Jeremiah’s.
“You know, I have been waiting for this day for fifteen years, ever since you ran away in the night like a coward,” Jerome accused in a falsely amiable manner, leaning against the wall with his gun arm. He allowed his weapon to hang, pointed harmlessly at the floor. Beyond the facade his eyes were still studying Jeremiah’s face unblinkingly. There was an unspoken question hidden in his words.
“I do,” Jeremiah answered, rebellious; what did he have left to lose anyway? The stoic admission startled real laughter out of his estranged brother. His next words silenced it, “I know that you blame me. I know that I’ve earned some of that blame, but the truth is: Jerome, you’re still a murderer. No one made you kill our mother but you,” his voice trembled over the last sentence.
Rage. Denial...
“Right, right, so your lies had nothing to do with it, huh?” Jerome interrogated flatly, anger overtaking the motley jumble of other signals. “Like how you made Mom think I was tryin’ to kill you. What was it? I know! I held a blade to your throat!” he mock-guessed, gesturing with his gun in a casual act of intimidation. “No, no. That wasn’t it. Oh! I tried to light you on fire!”
“I knew you wanted to,” Jeremiah pointed out, his tone bitter, vicious and jaded. “It was only a matter of time.”
Hurt. Sorrow. What?
Jeremiah stared, mouth agape in shock. “I don’t understand…”
Jerome was trying to figure him out. Wounded, perplexed, and furious as ever, he snapped “Understand what? You were the one tellin’ stories!”
“You wanted me dead! You did, didn’t you? That’s why you’re here! So why don’t you fe--” Jeremiah’s mouth snapped shut so fast they both heard his teeth click against each other. He suddenly wasn’t so sure that he wanted Jerome to know after all. Paradoxically, now that the moment had arrived, he realized that he needed to believe that one of them could make it out of this alive.
The rictus grin returned to Jerome’s face but it now belied something so much more unsettling and dangerous. “Sorry, what was that?” He cupped his ear with his free hand in a cartoonish parody of his own rapt interest, then purred out, “Finish your sentence, Brother.”
In an instant, Jeremiah was back in the midst of the mind-shattering panic that featured in his every nightmare. He was a small body curled tight in terror under his bed, clinging to a torn teddy bear while the massacre below overwhelmed his perception. It was the sudden gaping void where his new mom and dad were supposed to be, crackling fire and scorched flesh, the pounding of Lenore’s combat boots charging up the stairs to smuggle him out. Jeremiah hadn’t realized that his knees had buckled until he felt the vice-like hold of Jerome’s muscular arm clenching his waist.
“Okay. Qu’est ce que le fuck?” Jerome demanded half in jest, only to be startled by his own unexpected use of corrupted French -- a problem for another time. Twins, Jeremiah’s mind supplied with detachment.
He gasped in too-thin gulps of air, as if drowning on dry land. His glasses slipped down his nose to hang at a strange angle.
“Do it, Jerome. Finish it, now!” It was meant to be an order but the words were nearly smothered by his panicked attempts to draw in oxygen. The maze was spinning around him so he squeezed his eyes shut and anchored his mind to his twin’s.
“Nah, I think I’d rather have an explanation first. ‘Kinda ruins the fun if you get to decide when you go,” Jerome pontificated, radiating subtle but genuine traces of concern that only complicated matters.
“You’ve already killed me, Jerome. I’m just not dead yet. Don’t ask questions if you don’t want to go down with me,” Jeremiah rasped out in warning, having barely managed to wrestle himself back under a semblance of control. Another electric thrill of fear and adrenaline was rapidly closing on them from farther into the maze. It unbalanced the figurative tightrope walk of mastering his mind’s eye all over again. “Must go, must…” Jeremiah mumbled deliriously, fighting to regain equilibrium. Jerome frowned down at him only to tense when another voice met his ears.
“Must go! Must go! They’re after me and the Scarecrow!” Jervis Tetch yelled as the two criminals fled towards the exit.
“Look at ‘t this way. You c’n see ‘t’s too late to drive me mad.” Jeremiah was beginning to drift in and out.
“Yeah... Thing is, I didn’t let you in on that part of the plan yet,” Jerome corrected, taking the insanity of the implications of his observation in stride. Then again, why wouldn’t he? The Detectives were nearing them, filled with determination.
Jeremiah muttered out a curse as the darkness of unconsciousness swallowed him up.
Bruce Wayne strode purposefully into Gotham City’s Police Station and headed toward Captain Gordon’s office. He had to figure out Jerome’s game and how to stop it -- and he wanted to know what Xander Wilde had to do with it. He admitted privately to himself he’d been letting people down a lot more than he’d like lately; he didn’t want to add Xander Wilde to that list before they’d even met. Those dark thoughts distracted him, causing him to walk right into another visiting civilian. The other young man was nearly knocked off his feet by their impact, his taller, graceful, trembling form struck Bruce as deceptively fragile. Luckily, the billionaire’s lightning-fast reflexes and battle-forged strength allowed him easily to catch the auburn-haired stranger by the arms, supporting him upright.
“Whoa.” Bruce kept his grip on the other man’s forearms a little longer just to be certain he wasn’t about to keel over. Quickly, he suppressed his bafflement when he looked up into an impossibly familiar face. “My apologies, I wasn’t looking where I was going.” He smoothed over his slip by focusing on the mundane, noticing the other young man’s pallor. “Are you alright?”
Jerome’s less intimidating double shook his head shyly. “It was my fault. Thank you for the quick rescue. I think without it I would’ve fallen flat on my face.” His voice was as soft and nonthreatening as a kitten’s purr. Bruce tried and failed not to be charmed by it.
“Are you sure? You look rather pale,” the younger boy observed. He saw the taller young man freeze, fleetingly evoking a doe caught in the headlights of a truck.
“That’s what you notice about my appearance?” he questioned, timid and ready to bolt. “You don’t find my appearance familiar.” Bruce wasn’t certain what the other was testing for but whatever it was he figured honesty was the best policy.
“I’m familiar enough with Jerome Valeska to know that you are not he. I wasn’t aware that he had an identical twin, although I expect that was intentional on your part?” He offered his hand for said identical twin to shake. “Bruce Wayne, and I assume you must be Xander Wilde. I wish we could have met under less unfortunate circumstances.”
“It’s-- uh-- it’s an honor to meet you,” Jeremiah accepted the hand shake, confessing “As much as I appreciate the sentiment, Mr. Wayne, I doubt that we would’ve met any other way.” He cast his gaze about their crowded surroundings. “That-- I don’t mean to offend. I’ve made it a point to avoid… everyone.”
“I believe I understand. You won’t have reason to fear for much longer. Rest assured, your brother will be brought to justice.”
Mr. Wilde’s brows furrowed ever so delicately but before he could pursue Bruce’s obscure statement, Jim Gordon’s voice cut across the bullpen. “Bruce! Mr. Valeska, good to see you on your feet,” he beckoned them over to join him in his office, missing or perhaps simply overlooking Mr. Wilde’s flinch at the sound of his birth name. Jim plastered on a strained smile to address Bruce first, “What are you doing here?”
“I wanted to see how your investigation into Jerome and his connection to Mr. Wilde is going,” Bruce answered, making a point to distinguish the two as entirely separate entities. It did seem to put his new acquaintance more at ease. The somewhat sickly-looking man dropped heavily into the chair facing Jim’s desk, leading Bruce to suspect that he’d been having more trouble standing than he let on.
“I thought I warned you to stay out of this. Jerome is dangerous! I don’t want you anymore involved in the hunt for Valeska than you have to be,” Jim told his young friend sternly.
“I understand your opinion on the issue, Captain Gordon. I feel compelled to remind you that that didn’t stop you from coming to Wayne Manor yesterday to demand access to my father’s records,” Bruce responded, calm and collected.
Jim’s face hardened. “That was a necessary request.”
“With which I complied, therefore involving myself in the outcome.”
Bruce had already acted out this argument in his head a few times during his drive into town and Jim was responding predictably. Mr. Wilde’s lips quirked in a tiny smile. He folded his arms on the desktop and buried his face in the makeshift pillow; the poor man was clearly exhausted. Bruce and Jim were running through virtually the same conversation Bruce had imagined; he was even winning this version.
“Hey, Valeska 2.0.” Detective Bullock nudged the hunched redhead’s shoulder. “You awake?”
“Harv,” Detective Gordon chastened. “Go easy on him; the guy probably has a concussion.”
“Yeah, yeah, cry me a river, Jimbo. I don’t trust either of these freaks as far as I can throw ‘em.” Harvey punctuated his judgmental words by taking a huge bite of his cheese Danish.
“Doesn’t mean you have to be an ass,” Jim Gordon retorted with an even more patently fake smile. He was having a rough day too, it seemed.
Mr. Wilde blearily sat up and put his glasses back on, looking helplessly lost.
“That’s my seat,” Bullock bantered back, gesturing with his paper-wrapped pastry.
“Forgive me if I am mistaken, Detective Bullock, but isn’t that your desk out there?” Bruce intervened, courteous despite the degree to which the policeman’s casual bullying was getting on his nerves.
“With a small sigh, Mr. Wilde carefully picked himself up from his diminutive slump to vacate the rowdy Detective’s seat of choice.
“If Mr. Wayne is almost done here. I would like to request a ride back to my bunker. I’m sure you would all prefer to have me out of your way,” he suggested tentatively, straightening his already straight glasses in what Bruce recognized as a nervous habit.
“I’m sorry, Mr--” Jim began.
“Wilde, please --sorry-- I haven’t been part of the Valeska family for a very long time.”
“Mr. Wilde, then,” Jim amended. “Given the current circumstances I can’t in good conscience release you from police custody at this time. Once we have the manpower on hand I can pass you over to witness protection, but that is going to take a couple of hours.”
“I need to go home.”
“I understand how you feel--”
Mr. Wilde let out a sardonic scoff and muttered “You cannot possibly,” almost too quietly for anyone to hear.
“Listen, I know this situation is stressful. The fact remains that your brother and his goons already got through your maze once; your bodyguard is going to be under observation at Gotham General for at least another night and my people need time to prep a safe-house,” Jim countered with a warning underlying his carefully tempered voice.
“I can’t stay here that long,” was the swift, quietly spoken rebuttal.
“If I may, Captain Gordon, Mr. Wilde is welcome to stay at Wayne Manor until other arrangements can be made,” Bruce was happy to offer. It would be an excellent opportunity to gain more insight into the mind of his enemy. Aside from that, he felt the same utter certainty that he’d experienced when he saw Selina for the first time. He and this soft spoken, reclusive man had always been destined to meet.
Jim opened his mouth to protest, then closed it, thinking it over.
“I don’t want to impose…” Mr. Wilde said, uncertain. He looked braced to dart at the first sign of assent anyway, obviously desperate to get out.
“It’s no problem at all, this won’t be the first time that I have agreed to shelter a witness in my home,” Bruce assured him. “My butler, Alfred, served as a soldier in the British S.A.S. He should be more than equipped to ensure that you will remain safe during your stay.”
Mr. Wilde looked from Bruce to the police Captain, waiting for his confirmation.
Jim nodded, “Fine. I’ll call in a few hours about sending a patrol car to guard the gate.”
“That will be acceptable,” Bruce affirmed, looking to his new guest to see that he was already putting on his jacket to leave. “We’ll get out of your way, then. Goodbye, Detectives.”
Jim gave a stiff nod. As he was shutting the office door behind him, Bruce caught one last scrap of conversation from Harvey.
“Mr. Wilde, eh? What did I tell ya?”
It had been a refreshing, if uncourteous, experience for Jeremiah to arrive at Wayne Manor to instant awareness that the Butler wanted nothing to do with him. It had given him the freedom to hide away in blessed solitude for a couple hours before Bruce came looking for him. Jeremiah was lying flat on his back on a couch in the mansion’s library in a rejuvenating trance. The door drifted open, allowing the billionaire’s raven head to peek in.
“Xander?” he questioned in a hushed voice.
Jeremiah opened his eyes. “Yes, Bruce, I’m awake.”
“I did not intend to disturb you.”
“You didn’t,” Jeremiah told him. “Please, join me.” He pushed himself up to sit with perfect posture against the soft leather cushion. “I wanted to thank you again; it seems that you keep coming to my rescue.”
“Jim and Detective Bullock can be gruff, but I know them both to be good men. I would hardly characterize allowing you to come here as a rescue,” Bruce humbly disagreed.
Jeremiah shrugged one shoulder. The other one felt sore… Oh no, not his shoulder. “Everyone tends to see my brother when they look at me, aside from Ecco and now you. You may not think you were saving me but you did.” He felt so relaxed and safe around the younger man that he answered his yet unspoken question before he could catch himself. “I was meditating. It helps with the… anxiety.”
“Oh, I didn’t realize. I have always found the practice to be fascinating. May I ask where you learned this form of meditation?”
“When I was a child-- after I was taken-- I had trouble controlling myself,” Jeremiah answered, overlaying the truth with vague veils of deception. “My foster parents were looking for a way to make it so that I wouldn’t need as many pills. They called in a favor from a guard they knew, Daniel, to get me sessions with a well-respected man in our town. He taught me how to take control of my perception. This is the most effective of the methods that he passed on to me.”
“A respected man?” Bruce questioned with a trace of unease in his tone, even as he tried to keep it light. His attention had snagged on the words “control myself” and “so many pills.”
“I don’t really like to talk about him,” Jeremiah admitted. “Our association made me stand out when I was a kid. I guess avoiding it has become a habit by now.”
“How old were you?”
“Nine, but I was slow to develop. I needed guidance; that’s what I was given,” Jeremiah explained, tilting his head side to side in response to Bruce’s continued skepticism. “Bruce, I slept with a stuffed animal until I was thirteen and I didn’t have any friends my age until Ecco--You know, my bodyguard? They weren’t exactly wrong about me. My birth family-- I don’t believe in magic but if I did I’d call us cursed. There’s something wrong with us. Now I understand that that was probably what made me interesting to him, but my foster family was honestly doing the best they could to help me. I get… overwhelmed by other people.”
“Alright,” Bruce held up his hands, deciding to relent. They barely knew each other yet.
Jeremiah stifled a smile in response to the promise of “yet”.
“How does it work?”
“This method centers mostly on practicing acceptance: find a position that’s comfortable enough to last awhile; close your eyes and turn your focus inward; send your mind into each part of your body and catalogue every sensation therein, making your way up and out, and let everything else pass through you.”
Bruce looked at him askance.
Jeremiah shrugged it off. “A basic summary. From there it gets tougher to explain. How do you do it?”
On the lonely dirt road that connected Penguin’s inherited mansion to the distant woods around Jeremiah’s bunker-maze, a large, muscular silhouette slunk from shadow to shadow. Butch had been keeping an eye on it from the cover of Penguin’s black Cadillac. If he didn’t know better he could swear the other could tell when he was looking, but the cover of night made that impossible. The spy had been lingering on the periphery for a while, scoping them out. It gave Butch a sour feeling in his gut.
His foreboding only intensified when he ventured inside to report the problem to Cobblepot and saw the way Jerome straightened from his lean against the mantelpiece. The madman’s penetrating gaze had turned to him with frightening intensity. The freak knew something they didn’t. As far as Butch could tell that could only mean bad news.
Jeremiah made a point of turning his back on his decidedly unwelcome visitors to pour himself a generous glass of Cognac. He had been allowed to head back to his bunker under police guard, with Bruce tagging along behind him-- not that Jeremiah minded that last part.
“I watch the news. I know why you’re here, Captain Gordon,” he intoned, allowing a fraction of his true agitation to show.
Calm. Mild disappointment. Vigilance. Bruce wasn’t too bothered by his moody rebellion; so Jeremiah didn’t care to censor it. The others could go screw themselves at this point as far as he was concerned.
“And you must be out of your mind to think that I am going to be led like a lamb to the slaughter!” he added, secretly enjoying the new freedom to act out his frustrations.
“I understand your concern but your brother doesn’t bluff,” Captain Gordon began.
Jeremiah cut him off before he could start any pointless monologuing “You’re going to explain Jerome to me, Captain? You’re asking me to let him kill me because, once again, you’ve failed to put him in check. I would have to be brain-dead to trust you with my safety anymore!”
Captain Gordon placed a hand on the arm holding his liquor-filled glass, coaxing him into meeting the older man’s eye. “You have every right to be afraid.”
Jeremiah let out a small huff.
“Hey,” the Detective urged as if handling a cornered animal. It wasn’t too far off the mark. “I stopped him last time, didn’t I?”
Jeremiah swallowed the lump forming in his throat in response to the reminder of the last time he’d seen his maniacal twin.
Taking his hesitation as encouragement, Gordon hastened to explain his plan of action, “Lucius?”
“We can block his remote signal with this,” Lucius Fox pulled a metallic rectangle out of his coat and passed it over to the policeman.
“If you and Bruce can get within a few feet of him--”
Jeremiah let out a disgusted scoff, pulling away to take another fortifying drink.
“--it will disable his remote,” the stubborn man soldiered on. “We have snipers on the rooftops; once you take out his leverage they can take him down.”
A flicker of concern.
“Oh, for God’s sake!” Jeremiah placed his glass down on the drawing table with a harsh clack. “I will not do this again!” The outburst was over before it dawned on him how his words could betray him. Limetown’s youngest implanted subject remained bent over his drawing table, eyes clenched shut, following his breath in and out in order to sustain necessary mental control.
Worry. Sympathy. Doubt.
“Mr. Wilde,” Bruce’s careful, judgment-less voice drew Jeremiah back from the brink. He followed his mental anchor back to stability, opening his eyes.
“Yes, Bruce? Are you going to try to convince me now, too?”
“No,” his friend answered easily. He wasn’t giving off any impression to the contrary, so Jeremiah turned his head to regard him expectantly, willing to listen. The Wayne heir had rounded the table and was coming up on the opposite side of him from Gordon, eyes roaming over the schematics mounted to the wall.
“What is this you’re working on?” he inquired, his dark eyes finally turning to the scale model resting on the drawing board. “I don’t believe you had the chance to explain it to me yet.”
“I -- It’s a compact electrical engine. It generates power,” Jeremiah explained, beginning to calm, despite everything going on around them. It seemed that Bruce served as an even more effective anchor than Ecco. The two older men to their right were assessing their exchange, making assumptions about them both; Jeremiah barely cared.
“How much power will it generate?” Bruce was using certain terms on purpose, making clear his faith in Jeremiah’s ability to meet whatever goal he’d set out to accomplish. It reminded Jeremiah of Emil, eliciting a pang of loss that he probably didn’t deserve.
“Once completed, just two should be enough to power every building south of Westford Bridge.”
Admiration. Jeremiah blushed.
Bruce looked at him in open approval. “You have a brilliant mind.”
Therein, lies the problem, Jeremiah thought silently to himself. It didn’t stop him from smiling self-consciously back.
“We all hope that we can soon be rid of your brother so that you can carry out your work in peace.”
Jeremiah felt the turn in his friend’s sentiments as the latter began his own entreaty.
“I will understand if you choose not to help us. I, myself, have come to trust Captain Gordon and Mr. Fox to ensure my safety,” Bruce made his appeal, looking so earnestly up into Jeremiah’s increasingly resigned face. “Even if they cannot and I perish in the attempt, I have to believe that maybe, by standing up to Jerome’s madness, I can show the people of Gotham-- that by refusing to bow to terror, we can take its power away.”
There was a pregnant pause. Jeremiah allowed himself a measure of cynical amusement that he could practically feel the others’ ‘bated breath as his own. He picked up his glass and finished off his drink in one long draw.
“Inspiring,” Jeremiah stated, setting down the empty glass and staring into it, expressionless. “You’ve just reminded me of someone. A lot of people wanted to follow him, too.”
“I thought you preferred not to interact with others,” Bruce studied the inscrutable mask Jeremiah had taken on, caught between a hopeful smile and a bemused scowl. He wanted to see the cryptic phrase as a good sign for their future.
“Where is he now?” Fox questioned, although Jeremiah could sense that he already dreaded the answer.
“Oh, they’re all dead,” he confirmed his guest’s fears, turning to refill his glass as Captain Gordon’s phone rang. “I would prefer to finish my invention before I’m forced to join them.” Jeremiah wanted to leave something of worth behind, if only to give his survival purpose.
“Harvey?” Jim listened to his partner’s report, growing even grimmer. “The gas! Penguin told me the Scarecrow had a new toxin. Head over to the lab. We’re headed for the square.” He hung up, needlessly repeating the news to the others, “Jerome’s got a new weapon: poison gas.”
Jeremiah let out a heavy, world-weary sigh and let his full glass drop the scant distance onto the tabletop with a crisp clink. He stood and blindly grabbed his jacket off its hook on the wall.
Sympathy. Again.
“You aren’t going to die,” Bruce attempted to reassure him.
“Don’t,” Jeremiah interjected to spare them both and followed Detective Gordon out.
Jeremiah got out of the car and reeled almost instantly away from the oppressive wave of too many strangers’ PANIC, APPREHENSION, UNCERTAINTY-- A hand clamped around his bicep to steady him. This time it was Detective Gordon who’d reached out to him. That was unexpected.
“We’ll be watching you the whole time. You can do this,” he pronounced, confident in his plan. Jeremiah reminded himself not to question it.
He gave a curt nod and followed the Detective into the throng of people.
FEAR. EXCITEMENT. PAIN. SORROW. HUNGER. DISGU-- Jeremiah clenched his jaw almost painfully tight and focused on only discerning the impressions from Bruce’s mercifully disciplined mind. Determination. Nerves. Anger. Compassion. Optimism. There; that was better.
“Hey, look who finally decided to show up! Things were startin’ to get a little tense up here, especially for this guy,” Jerome jabbed a thumb in the captive Mayor’s direction. The middle-aged blond woman strapped into the seat on his other side looked like she might be about to throw up. “Come on up! Will my guests of honor, pleeease, take your seats on stage?” The madman directed with theatrical flourish, his usually light accent briefly becoming heavier.
The two “guests of honor” exchanged one last speaking look, then began slowly to make their way forward through the mostly apprehensive crowd. One of the grungier-looking men beside Jeremiah brushed his fingers over the sleeve of the hostage-to-be’s sky blue trench coat. A fan .
AROUSAL, EXCITEMENT, BLOODLUST. Jeremiah choked on his own spit, frozen in place. Disgusting bursts of too intimate sensation leaked from the pervert into him, unwanted. He couldn’t stop it! He had lost his anchor.
“Come on… Don’t be shy,” Jerome cooed into the mic with his usual manic grin plastered onto his face. His attention snagged on his twin’s still, staring visage and didn’t release. “Oh, BROOOOTHER!” he sang too loudly into the mic, forcing a few of his fellow Horribles to clamp their hands over their ears against the feedback. It snapped Jeremiah back to reality with a startled lurch. “Get a move on. We don’t have all day.”
For a short while all Jeremiah focused on was his destination, keeping his attention locked on his brother’s scarred face. He begrudgingly anchored himself to the homicidal maniac.
“Hi, Brother,” Jerome taunted, grinning like a campy TV villain. Jeremiah answered by cocking his head from side to side with pure unspoken sarcasm; childish. His brother found it hilarious.
A series of loud shots shattered the air, making the crowd around them duck and cower in fear. Jeremiah flinched from the pain of each death, plagued by the hideous, cloying emptiness that reached out from each extinguishment. He took more time than the others to rise to his feet again, blinking with purpose to chase the void from his sight while Jerome explained to the cops how smart he was. He called them forward with overblown cheer. Jeremiah obeyed. He allowed himself to be ushered over to a chair and strapped into it, sat still while they collared him with a bomb to match everyone else’s.
Jerome was giving his captive audience some self-pitying spiel about his terrible childhood-- likely explaining how and why it was all Jeremiah’s fault-- while Bruce’s eyes burned a hole into the side of his head. Worried. Jeremiah wasn’t blinking; he was not quite in a meditative trance yet. Jerome whistled shrilly.
“Wakey, wakey!” Jerome snapped a few times in front of his face. Jeremiah finally roused himself back to their level of consciousness, trying to condense the staggering magnitude of how pissed he was with his idiotic, murderous, jackass of a brother into a single arch of his brow. “We’re talkin’ about you, Asshole! You might wanna pay attention.”
The showboating maniac addressed the crowd while dropping into the empty seat between Jeremiah and Bruce “Can you believe this guy? Anyway, little Mr. Perfect here, he got adopted by rich folks, went to the top schools and the top college. Meanwhile, I got to spend all that time shoveling elephant dung for the circus, getting dragged around by our depressed, alcoholic mother.”
Jeremiah rolled his eyes at the rambling sob story, imagining a tiny violin playing comforting and apt music in the background. He stopped abruptly once he remembered who used to play it to him. Elephant dung, he thought bitterly, poor, whiny baby.
Anticipation.
“But I know something that Mommy and Daddy never knew. You’re as crazy as I am,” Jerome purred, getting up and moving to stand over him like a predator waiting to pounce -- only, something was off… He didn’t feel right. Jeremiah pulled against the bands trapping his wrists, watching his twin flip open a switchblade. Jerome leaned over him. “It’s in your DNA. We got the same blood runnin’ through us. We are practically identical.”
“No…” Jeremiah murmured, more out of uncertainty than a true response to his captor’s claims. Things weren’t matching up and he couldn’t fathom why.
Amusement. Annoyance. Impatience … Jerome wasn’t attacking. Jeremiah’s brows furrowed. His cheeky twin winked at him in the privacy of their close proximity. He cut each wrist strap with lazy flicks of his wrist and straightened up, grinning like a fool. Jeremiah was officially lost. He hazarded a sideways glance at Bruce. No help there. At least, he wasn’t the only one who was confused.
“Stop holdin’ yourself back,” Jerome told him in a low tone, meeting his bemused stare with utter sobriety. He pressed the knife into Jeremiah’s hand and it was back to the mercurial theatrics as if his strange lapse had never occurred. “You get one free hit, Smart Guy. Just let yourself go!” He raised his arms open wide too, welcoming the attack.
“I don’t want to kill anyone!” Jeremiah protested. His mind was racing to work through the odd and opaque mystery without anything to go on. His twin let out a fed up groan.
“Come on! Get with the program, Jere! Your time’s almost up now. Take your best shot!”
Frustration. Loneliness. Hope.
Impossibly, amazingly, the pieces all fell into place. Jeremiah called on all his carefully bottled distress, fear and impotent rage and channeled it into an animal scream, charging at his brother. His knife-wielding hand was easily caught and twisted into submission mere inches short of Jerome’s neck. He heard a strangled gasp from one of the seats behind him.
“Ya shoulda' gone for the gut,” Jerome growled, freeing the knife from his twin’s faltering hold and sweeping it across Jeremiah’s throat in a messy crimson arc.
“NO!” he heard Bruce shout.
Bruce’s Alarm. Horror. Desperation. Denial, ran through Jeremiah like an electric shock. He felt something sharp pierce his chest, bringing with it an unpleasant, numbing pressure. Jerome held his twin’s limp body close in a macabre mockery of a hug.
“Looks like I had the last laugh,” Jerome concluded straight into his ear, loud enough that everyone else onstage could hear it. He pressed a sloppy kiss to his now limp, unfeeling victim’s blood-flecked cheek. “Mwah! Oh well,” he dropped the body unceremoniously, turning away. “Moving on,” he gestured carelessly to two of the closest Horribles, ignoring Bridget's appalled stare. “Take ‘im down, pack him up, yada yada. I’m thinkin’ my new digs are gonna need some creative decorations.”
“You’re even sicker than I thought,” Bruce said emptily, watching them drag his fleeting friend’s corpse away, as inscrutable as Jeremiah had been back in his work room.
Jerome staged a theatrical yawn.
“You psychopathic monster,” sobbed out the blond woman. “I hope they burn you alive for--”
Jerome’s grin vanished in the blink of an eye. He held up the detonator and pressed her button with overblown malice. Nothing happened. “Huh?” he scowled and shook the malfunctioning device, then hit the button over and over-- A bullet blew through his shoulder. “Ah, that makes sense.” Jerome wriggled across the floor, cackling maniacally. “Well, that’s my cue! See ya later Brucie!” he crowed and scampered away, cackling like a lunatic.