Chapter Text
Modern Day, 8:45pm.
A suburban neighborhood somewhere in the Pacific Northwest of America, a modest two story house. Cloudy, rain filled weather. Early spring.
“..Teenage angst has paid off well,
Now I’m grown and old..”
The lyrics to Nirvana’s ‘Serve the Servants’ opens in a low drone from a beat up record player, the scene opening to the messy bedroom of a modern teenager, the walls painted a dark green. One half is lined with fake plants, posters of botanical diagrams, paintings, and miscellaneous art. There’s a plain, half-left-open dresser, a library book cluttered desk, and a small stand with the record player, a wooden crate of records accompanying it. The carpeted floor is covered in an array of comic books, school supplies, and laundry. (Whether clean or dirty, it appears unclear.)
The other half is nestled with a rumpled, unmade bed, housing a confusing multitude of bedspreads and comforters. Sheets with little mushrooms on them, a unicorn bedspread that looks old but comfortable, a heavy looking butterfly themed quilt, along with a multitude of simple but soft looking blankets.
Accompanying the walls of this half are plastered panels of various comic book characters, a large collage of pictures of various musical artists, various album’s cover art, and miscellaneous band posters.
Particular things stick out..the poster of a singing Siouxsie Sioux, old art that looked like a child might have made it, the poster of the iconic Spider-Man variant Hobart ‘Hobie’ Brown, or Spider-Punk, hanging in one corner.
And in the middle of it all is obviously what appears to be a teenage girl. (Ambiguous gender identity, mind you.)
Clad in nothing but an old band t-shirt and plaid fleece sweats, reading a library book titled ‘A Tolerable Anarchy’, and lounging haphazardly in an office chair.
One might wonder, how could our story begin with a normal, albeit perhaps rather eccentric, teenager?
The answer lies in the fact that this kid, as eccentric and multi-faceted as they appeared, lately longed for something outside of their current reality.
Or rather, longed to get away from it all.
Call it a lack of zest for life, perhaps a child’s dream, maybe an escape from the pressures of modern adolescence, or even depression (though the latter was the most likely). But this child, the one with short, obscenely colorful dyed hair and evident dark roots, this child, unassuming and yearning, was about to have their world turned upside down.
In fact, soon they would instead wish for the life they had here, instead of a life anywhere else.
“ ..Serve the servants, oh no..
Serve the servants, oh no..
..That legendary divorce,
is such a bore..”
The bedroom rumbles and shakes, the teenager looks up from their book, expression incredulous. Dark eyebrows furrowed, they mutter, “..What the—?”
“..As my bones grew they did hurt,
they hurt really bad..
..I tried hard to have a father,
but instead I had a dad..”
The walls seem to growl, the rumbling grows louder, somehow the record player distorts and the sound blares, the mournful rasp of Kurt Cobain’s voice continuing its verse as the teenager grips the arm rests of their chair, book forgotten in their confused fright. Reaching for their smartphone with haste, wondering what kind of disaster could be embarking.
“..I just want you to know that I,
don’t hate you anymore..
there is nothing I can say that,
I haven’t thought before..”
And as the chorus drones again, Cobain’s voice serenading their departure, a hole as black as one would imagine space to be opened above the teen, and before they have any room to scream or exclaim, they're swept into the apparent nothingness.
Book forgotten, office chair toppled over, record player persisting, singing even with them gone.
The portal closes, the teen gone with it.
──── ୨୧ ────────୨ৎ──────── ୨୧ ────
𓆝 𓆟 𓆞 𓆝 𓆟𓆝 𓆟 𓆞 𓆝 𓆟𓆝 𓆟 𓆞 𓆝
──── ୨୧ ────────୨ৎ──────── ୨୧ ────
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╰┈➤ .𖥔 ݁ ˖ P̶̛̭r̴̗̿ë̷̡s̸̩͋e̸̯͘n̵̑ͅt̵̬͆ ̷̡̇D̸͂͜ą̸̓y̵̯͠,̷̫̓ ̸̰̂1̵̥̆:̶͓͑5̵͕̈2̸̺̿p̸͖̉m̸̦̐.̴̢̉
A̷ ̷f̶o̵r̸g̷o̴t̵t̸e̵n̸ ̶b̷a̶c̷k̵ ̶a̶l̸l̵e̷y̴ ̵l̸i̶t̵t̷e̴r̵e̵d̷ ̶w̴i̴t̶h̴ ̸t̷r̸a̶s̴h̴,̴ ̴b̴e̷e̶r̸ ̵b̷o̷t̶t̴l̷e̶s̶,̶ ̵a̶n̷d̶ ̷f̶i̴l̵t̴h̷. Sm̷o̸g̴g̷y̵,̴ ̶c̸l̸o̴u̶d̵y̶ ̸w̶e̸a̶t̴h̵e̴r̸.̶ ̸T̴h̵e̴ ̵u̵n̷m̵i̵s̸t̵a̸k̴a̷b̶l̴e̷ ̷s̶o̴u̴n̴d̴s̷ ̷o̸f̴ ̶a̶ ̸b̵u̶s̸t̴l̶i̷n̶g̸ ̸c̶i̷t̴y̵.̶.
I hit the filthy pavement of the alley knees first— my skin burns where it meets asphalt through my fleece sweats, and I can already guess that the fabric has torn from the impact.
A gasp of pain escapes me as I hit the muck covered street, and for a moment I simply clutch my knees and stew in my shock and pain, teeth gritted uncomfortably.
Not 90 seconds ago, I was in my bedroom. Now, looking around at my spinning surroundings as I suck in sharp, shaky breaths, the stench of urine, stale beer, and bodily fluids I don’t want to think about assaulting my nose, I wonder in vain what had just happened to me. The pain in my knees is grounding, but it doesn’t stop the panic rising in my throat like bile.
Think, Isis, think. I repeat internally to myself, hands on my knees, the concrete digging into my bosom where I sit sprawled in the alley. You were reading.. sitting in your office chair. Trying to forget about reality. You were reading. Then.. then you were flying upwards into the nothingness of whatever that was, like a dream. Floating on open air for a split second, and you couldn’t see anything. And now you’re in an alley that’s filled with trash and smells like shit and your knees are bleeding. Your knees—
My hands reach for my pant legs, pulling them up with deft, quick movements despite the pain. Olive skin and unshaven legs aside, I check over each of my knees— grimacing at the bloodied, bruised state of them. I judge that I’ll live.
However, the sound of a car alarm to my left startles me greatly, heart seizing in my chest.
I look to my left and quite literally watch as a man breaks through a car window, climbs inside of said car that is clearly not his own, and promptly scuffles around inside of the driver's seat of said glass strewn vehicle.
“What the fuck?” I mutter aloud to myself, immediately scrambling to my feet, and despite how my legs feel shaky, I’m booking it out the right side of the alley to the best of my bare foot ability. No way am I sticking around for that shit.
Finally, as I make my way out from the scant space between the two sprawling buildings that made up the alley I landed in, I can take stock of my surroundings.
“Holy shit, I’m not in Kansas anymore..” I say breathless and choked as my brown eyes do what I can only assume is comically widen at my sprawling surroundings. And internally I find irony in my own quotation of ‘The Wizard of Oz.’
Because I was in a bustling, bigger than I’d ever been in, architecturally insane, smog ridden, grimy city I’d never been in before. Parts of the sidewalk beneath my feet are littered with glass I struggle to avoid stepping on. The building to my right is at least 7 stories high, red and black brick, with at least seven boarded windows that I can count from my viewpoint.
The street in front of me is lined with cars that have seen better days, and beyond that is some kind of city park nestled between sprawling buildings as far as my eyes can see. A sign sits somewhere in the park as I walk towards it to get a better look, quickly jay-walking across the dirty asphalt and onto the opposite side of the street.
When I get a good look at it, in faded letters the worn metal reads ‘Grant Park.’
“Helpful.” I mutter to myself, running a hand across my own face with frustration and tugging at my multi-colored hair.
I look around for someone— anyone who could tell me where I am.
There’s a woman in the park sitting on a tagged, wooden bench, reading a newspaper, one leg crossed over the other, minding her business.
I approach with haste, bare feet slapping against the pavement and then rustling through yellowed grass as I reach within a few feet of her and raise my voice. “Excuse me— Excuse me?”
The newspaper lowers to reveal the deadpan stare of a pale skinned woman with a buzzcut. Dramatic neck tattoo of a snake evident, paired with dangling jewelry from her nose’s septum in a shiny gold.
Undeterred, I say again, “Excuse me? Sorry to bother you..I was just wondering if you could tell me where I am? What city, I mean..I know this is Grant Park.” I assure her in a ramble, already feeling uneasy talking to a stranger.
The woman looks upon me with a dry, incredulous stare for a few silent moments. I can’t blame her— a barefoot, pajama-clad teen with a brightly colored overgrown mullet in the middle of a public park was a strange sight.
The woman after looking me over with clear judgment manages in a distinctly thick New Jersey drawl, “..Gotham City, New Jersey. No, I can’t give you directions, yes you’re really in Gotham.” sounding monotonous and non-committal, before the newspaper is back up and obscuring her face.
I chuckle awkwardly— Gotham City? Is this lady on drugs? I’m thinking, though she said it with such serious certainty that I could almost believe it.
Instead I stand awkwardly next to her bench and say again, “..I really, really am sorry to bother you, but..could you really tell me where I am? NYC? Maybe a place in New Jersey where you guys really don’t like tourists and..have a lot of smog?..”
Her newspaper is down on her lap again with a swish of paper, a hard look on the woman’s face now. Her voice is clearly peeved and maddeningly flat. “Listen, kid,” Her Jersey accent has thickened with annoyance, “I dunno what kinda pranks you think you’re pullin’, but I ain’t got time for your bullshit. You’re in Gotham City. I’m not givin’ you directions to nowhere, got that? No directions. Now get lost.”
I stand stunned at this woman’s words and speech as she stares me down near harshly. Slowly, I back away from the bench. Stiffly. Awkwardly. I feel chastised, and like I’m being some kind of annoying tourist.
As I pad along the side-walk further into the barren, yellow grassed, oak tree clad park, I mutter to myself.
“..That was.. weird. So weird. This is so fucking weird. What kind of movie bullshit is this? I’m not fucking Bill Murray or Tom Hanks..” I’m rambling to myself— since it’s not as if I have anyone else to talk to. I stop mid-sentence and take a deep, albeit shaky, hopefully calming breath.
Then a few more after that. My knees hurt. My feet hurt. I’m okay. I can just..I’ll just ask another person. Maybe that lady really was on drugs.. My thoughts are swirling and my chest is tightening and my footsteps quicken as I quickly reach the edge of the park, coming upon a new, four-laned street as I exit through the gap in the park’s bordering stone wall.
I blow out a long breath as I look around myself from my vantage point on the sidewalk— a street sign on the corner to my right that reads ‘False St.’, buildings line the opposite side of the street, and the four-lane road in front of me is busy.
I search for a crosswalk. At this point, my bare feet are covered in dirt, and they sting with every step. I ignore it.
Walking around 200 feet and finding a crosswalk, I wait until I can cross. When the light turns from a hand into a little walking guy, I cross the wide four lane street.
Out of the corner of my eye I look at most of the cars— they really do have license plates that read ‘New Jersey’ for the most part. I judge that I’m somehow on the east coast.
Reaching the opposite side of the street, I look around at the tall buildings. One is another apartment building, the next looks like some kind of business, and the one after that is some kind of hotel.
I walk the length of the street to my right until I reach another street corner— none of the previous buildings having been helpful in my search.
I look to my left, and then I see it.
Where the road ends and turns left, a few buildings down, lies a very distinct government building.
It’s at least a few thousand feet away, but from my vantage point I can still read the print on the building that’s in bold letters.
‘Gotham City Police Department.’
Goosebumps rave over my skin in a wave, a shiver rocking through my body at the sight. It feels final.
I judge that I’m probably losing my goddamn mind.