Chapter Text
Prologue
December 25th, 7:06 PM, 25 years prior
The woman had never seen a dead body like this. At least, not up close, and never with such gore. She never needed to, and she never wanted to, despite the work she did. His ‘death eyes’, as she would forever now describe them, were lazy and lifeless, and yet as open as any man trying to fight sleep. His very soul was forever severed from his body. Blood draped his white jacket suit and spattered across the wall she stood near. She had never seen someone’s throat slit before, even after all this time, but by the looks of the gash alone, she couldn’t tell if it was the workings of a pocket knife or an extremely dull, sloppy guillotine.
She didn’t know what to think or even how to feel. She was frozen in shock, but she couldn’t be for a second longer; she had already wasted too much time. Why were her hands shaking? Trembling so just to reach for the gift shop bag on her arm? Because she was horrified, that’s why. ‘Good. That’s why,’ she thought. The whole apartment was dilapidated. Nothing was as grand or festive here as in his old condos from back in the day. The woman covered her mouth and took a second to do a small 360-degree turn in the invisible, minuscule circle she had laid out for herself. There was a sense of tragedy in the quiet. Tragedy in how nicely he wanted to keep his new base of operations. No matter how dim the lights, how barebones the furniture, or how depressingly small it was for a man with means like he used to possess, it took the depression from the crumby exterior of the greater building. And now look at him. All she could do was look.
His soiled tailor-made suit, his black fur coat loosely hanging off his shoulders, and that fedora kept snug tight around his head no matter how badly he slouched against the couch. It was cruel of her mind to now vividly remember him wearing that same coat during his housewarming party in what feels like centuries ago. He was so familiar and yet, wrong. Blasphemous, even. This was nothing like his old home. It was wrong no matter how nostalgic seeing him dressed to the nines would’ve made her feel had she been there. His gaping throat, his beady death eyes, were wrong no matter how much she could’ve seen this coming, or how much she thought he deserved this. She again gawks at the rickety living room. Nary a Christmas tree, lights, gifts, or even a tv—just a single, big cylindrical, golden, glittery box with a red organza ribbon tied over the lid that had toppled near him from his heavy fall against the coffee table. A bright red ribbon, one that completely juxtaposed with the now purplish blood that sprinkled over the present. ‘That red ribbon; all of that blood. Who knows how long he’s been like this for?’ she thought, managing to think more cohesively amidst the chaotic disarray of her mind, until her eyes snapped downward, thinking about that gift, why she was there to take it, and from whom.
“Remember Bludhaven? Jeff? Well, he’s gonna send the package here for me while he’s taking a little holiday for his family here in Gotham. Makes one of us lucky, at least.” He’d say in his usual passively aggressive way. “Anyway, in case something does happen to me, and forbid it God-Almighty and so on, he’ll be able to give it to her.”
That sinking, nauseating pang finally plunged into the pit of her stomach. She held her stomach, her long, drawn-out groans crescendoing into a loud, piercing shriek of grief. There’s that feeling. Guilt. She shrieked all the excess guilt out of her once again as she squatted down on the ground. She screamed until there was nothing left but her voice echoing throughout the apartment. She gave herself another moment to calm down before straightening back up and tip-toeing over to him. She leaned down over him, taking great care not to touch him, scooped up the box by the bottom of the ribbon’s bow, hoisted it up, and scurried out of the apartment and into the streets. She stuffed the box down into her shopping bag and speed walked to her car until she noticed a public phone booth near the bus stop from across the street. Right then and there, she made it up in her mind to do the last good deed she may ever do for him before saying goodbye once and for all. She rushed to the opposite side of the road, shaking and shivering in the Gotham cold, and shut herself inside the telephone booth. She scavenged her purse, retrieving her gloves to wear before picking up the handset and dialing.
“911, what’s your emergency?”
“Hi, hello. Yes, I’d like to report a noise complaint! There’s been some individuals, a group of men, I think? I don't know, but I’ve noticed them going in and out of the abandoned apartment at 1280 Parker’s Road by the deli?” She looked around to remind herself whether or not a deli had always been standing there. Sure enough, once she squinted through the snow flurry and looked, there was.
“A noise complaint, you said?” asked the phone operator, confused by all the gasping and frantic breath the lady on the other line was taking over a noise complaint.
“Yes, please hurry. I- I heard screaming, and- and fighting and- I, I don’t know what I heard, ma’am. I don’t know what I heard. But I don’t think it’s safe.”
“Okay, ma’am, how many men?”
“I- It’s hard to say, I can just barely see out in this flurry. I- I think one or two at most must’ve been there. I’m scared ma’am! Please hurry!”
“I’m so sorry, Ms., please breathe. Everything is going to be fine. 1280 Parkers Road, you said?”
“Yes!”
"And can you describe them, ma'am? What they look like, what you've seen, and from where?"
"I- I-" she looked around, calculating. She tried desperately to remember the weatherman's reports. The snow flurries that began around noon that day only got worse and worse, even by the time she arrived.
"I can't see, ma'am, I couldn't see. I think one of them was wearing white, but that was all!" she finally answered. She could hear the operator mutter to herself 'okay...okay...' before clearing her throat.
“And what’s your name?”
“Yolanda Clay, please?” She sputtered. Why did she stutter like that? She curses herself.
“Yolanda Clay, okay, we’ll have dispatch right out, ma’am.”
“Please hurry!” She hangs up. Prematurely, but it didn’t matter. They might find what they’re looking for eventually. And it’s not like she would have been wrong to call the police if she were a civilian. She never liked the name Yolanda Clay, but it was the only one she could think of where she updated all of the IDs for. She manages back across the street, unlocks the car doors, climbs inside, and huffs out a cold breath. She looked at the box for a moment. The bow was tied so elaborately that there was no way she could return the box to its formally untampered state before giving it to Marie. But would she even want to give it to her? She raced herself against the clock, picking at the middle knot of the bow with her pinky nail before it slowly unraveled. In a frenzy, she pulled the bow apart until finally all that was left was that golden glittery lid.
Her heart stopped, she choked back some tears before bracing herself for what could be revealed. She opened the lid and the first thing she saw was a Christmas greeting card. Quite an elaborate one at that. The cover had little teddy bears dancing around Santa’s workshop, one little bear failing to make toy trains at its workstation, another sitting by the fire, and one checking off a list. It looked mundane enough, but with him , especially in regard to her daughter, nothing was. Inside the card left interior of the card was a tiny little teddy bear in a Santa Claus hat holding up a disproportionately long list, with words written in red calligraphy ‘We Made Our Lists, We’ve Checked It Twice! And Novelty Claus Knows You’ve Been Beary Nice!’. That wasn’t enough to scrub salt in her emotional wounds. It was the right-hand panel of the card. It had a bigger white bear painted as a frame for its arms to hug around the page. There was a small picture pasted into the surface of the picture. No, it was the picture. She couldn’t scrape it, she couldn’t tear it off, not at her frantic state. Never mind the gibberish scribbled underneath. Why that picture?
“DAMN! DAMN! DAMN YOU TO HELL, DAUNTE!” Yolanda screamed, slamming the card up and down on the empty car seat. She let out one final scream just to get the anger out before she had to turn on the merriment for the holidays back home.
After a while, there was a sudden calm in the air. She had completely exhausted herself, but not from caring. Not about him, not about any of them. She finally shuts the door and sheds a few momentary tears before revving up the engines. She did her part. It was over. “For all it was worth,” she muttered to herself, “You deserved a lot of things, Daunte; Rotting away still wasn’t one of them.