oh no, i am all the things they said i was
The Gotham Metropolitan Area is home to nearly thirty million people, making it the second most populated area of its kind in the world, second only to Tokyo, Japan. Gotham eats its way through the bay and up into the hills through New Jersey, devouring what New York leaves untouched; the inexplicable deadspace in between the two constantly seems to be fighting a battle to remain as quiet as it is, holding a crowbar between them and stubbornly refusing to give in. In such a vast area, change - even needed change, wanted change - is slow-going and staccato, leaving so much of the population overlooked, left out, forgotten.
If midtown was all right, and the folks throughout Gotham City proper approved, what went on downtown didn’t matter. It was like they were afraid to step pass Mercey Island, now, leaving it as a jagged, rotting wound in the center of the city, reminding everyone of their collective failure, where Arkham Asylum stands like a dark trophy, casting its shadow over them all. The sirens go on and off at all hours, and the fires burn all throughout the night, and nobody ever forgets, because nobody is ever permitted.
At least that’s how Meredith feels, but she lives in fucking Harlow, and has to take two connecting busses to and from work each day and still ends up walking a mile and a half to get from the last bus to the dress shop and back again. She used to be able to take the monorail, but it’s been under construction for over two years now, and god only knows when it’ll be back up. They’ve got plenty of funding, the news says, it’s just sorting out the bureaucracy of who’s building what where, when, and how, who’s in charge, who gets to work there after - all bullshit that she doesn’t quite understand, but suspects is just that: bullshit.
It’s barely after midnight on a Thursday (now Friday, she figures), and she’s probably missed her first bus. It’s cold out but not freezing, and she’s got a jacket and tennis shoes, so it’s not that bad, but the temptation to hop in a cab is enough to make her falter at a street corner, watching the yellow-topped car idle outside a 24 hour deli. She winces, thinking about the fifteen dollars it’d be, and knows she can’t waste it, even if it is midnight in downtown Gotham. She’s made the hike before with minimal heckling, and it’s a pain in the ass, but she’s got a can of mace and a cell phone and hardened expression that says she’ll castrate anybody who gets within a six foot radius of her.
Still.
Meredith exhales through her nose, both weary and anxious at once as she walks down the grimy street at an energetic pace - sometimes the bus is late, there’s always a chance she can catch it. In her jacket pocket, her fingers are wrapped around her little can of mace.
It’s not long - too quick, in fact - before there are hurried footsteps behind her, and she whips her head around in defiance, long past the stage of playing coy and hurrying along, scowl on her face--
“Jerry!”
“Jesus, Meredith!”
The slightly younger teen exhales a nervous laugh as he slows next to her, having been jogging to catch up. Jerry works at the shipping company across the street from the dress shop, and they went to the same high school for a while before Meredith dropped out. They’re not friends, but they’re friendly, and inside she feels herself relaxing - Jerry only lives a couple of blocks from her. Looks like she’s got a buddy for the walk home.
“Sorry,” she says, though she doesn’t sound it.
“It’s fine.” Jerry shrugs, giving her a knowing half-smile. He’s soft-spoken and tall for his age, and he falls in step alongside Meredith, hands in his pockets. “Long day for everybody. Looking forward to the weekend?”
“Working,” Meredith says with a shrug of her own. Seven days a week. It didn’t used to be, but then her mom lost her job, so Meredith is picking up the slack. It sucks, but that’s life.
“How’s your brother?”
“Same old, hanging with some hoodrat girl.”
“Not like there’s any other kind, around here.”
She laughs, short and sharp, and shakes her head as she looks up at the sky. It’s not even truly black, tinged purple-brown like an old tv screen that’s just been turned off, and there’s no star in sight. Not from down here in bedlam. He cracks some more jokes in his quiet voice, and Meredith laughs, more and more genuine. There are still people out here and there, night owls and vagrants and criminals and weirdos and your average citizens pulling a terrible shift, and two kids heading home at a late hour don’t draw much attention outside being the least threatening things to wander by.
Things are all right, like this, the two of them filling the gloomy night air with soft laughter and conversation, mixing with the din of distant interstate traffic and late night construction somewhere far away. Other people relax, hearing them, and the men warming their hands around a steel barrel just watch them pass without comment. It’s never other people being around that makes her nervous, but when there’s a notable absence. There’s always a reason - like birds falling silent when there’s a predator in the woods, people instinctively clear out when there’s a threat lurking on the streets.
Now is no exception as they round a corner and see a black sedan idling down the way, bold and obvious, the area around it a void of life or movement. Their laughter quiets, and Meredith feels a familiar twist of anxiety and suspicion at the sight of it. There’s a white guy in the driver’s seat, and he watches them closely as they approach. Her eyes dart away, torn. She never knows what to do - ignore them? Act like you’ve got nothing to hide, nothing to prove, or do you stare in awe and fear, showing your belly in a promise as to how uninteresting and unthreatening you are?
It’s too late to turn around and pick another street because they’ve already been sighted, so they just head on, quiet, trying to keep their pace unhurried and normal. They make it a few meters past the vehicle before she hears the door open and close, and the driver steps out.
“Hey.” The voice is authoritative and demanding, and Meredith stops without thinking about it. Beside her, Jerry half-turns in his step, like he’s forcing himself not to just bolt.
“Yeah?” She hates herself for sounding so scared - that only makes it worse, and she knows it, but she can’t help it. Maybe he just wants directions, she thinks, maybe he’s lost, maybe he’s just some midtown-er, maybe, maybe…
Another man walks out of the convenience store they’re parked outside, ambling up behind him and eying the two teens. He pauses next to the driver and up-nods in the direction, asking wordlessly what the deal is.
“You’re out kinda late,” he continues, answering his partner by demonstration. “School night, isn’t it? Gimme your I.D.s.”
“What?” Jerry’s voice-- she wants to tell him to stop, he sounds too irritated, even as soft as he is. They’ll take anything and run with it. Doesn’t he know, or is he just tired and angry? “We’re walking home from work. We missed the bus.”
“He said show him your identification,” the second man says, slow, like he’s speaking to a child, a nasty edge to his voice. Meredith feels a flush of anger and bitterness at how helpless this makes them.
“I’m eighteen,” she says, shuffling around to pull her purse out and dig for her wallet. “I work at the--”
“Can I see your badges?”
She looks up when Jerry interrupts her, first at him and then at them. The driver scowls, disgusted, like he’s watching something vile. He pulls back one side of his leather bomber jacket to show his sidearm. “That’s all the badge you need. Come over here and hand your ID to me and then put your hands on the back of the car.”
“Wh--” this time it’s Meredith. “Why? We’re not doing anything, we’re just walking home!”
“If you’re just walking home,” the second man says, advancing on them, “Then why are you resisting?”
Resisting? Her eyes go wide and panic wells up inside her. No. This isn’t happening, this can’t be happening. She knows what this is, and the possibilities rush through her head, all useless, all insane. She could run, but they’d chase her or worse, she could scream, she could ask for their badge numbers, she could cry, but she knows now that she’s trapped. A part of her wonders in an abstract way what it’s like not to be afraid of the police - but everyone who’s grown up in Gotham lives with that weight. They’re all bad, every single one, and they’ll beat you, harass you, arrest you, detain you, shake you down for money, shake you down for fun, and there’s nothing you can do. It was better for a while - as the roster changed thanks to the Batman and the real good guys up in midtown doing real work, but now it’s back. The faces are new and the excuses are different, but it’s the same exploitation, the same intimidation, and Meredith feels the same fear.
Jerry is still arguing, polite but firm, and after he refuses to give in a third time, the driver grabs him and slams him to the nearby wall. Meredith startles and she drops her purse - keys, a foundation compact, and, oh-- god, god, the can of mace-- her eyes go wide and her breath hitches and the other policeman sees it just as she does and suddenly there are bruising hands around her forearms and the world is spinning. She coughs as she hits the floor, face and chest scraping against concrete, and she can’t breathe she can’t breathe it hurts--she yelps as her arms are wrenched back and something cold and hard slips around her wrists with a click-click, and she tries to gasp out and ask what she’s done, but it hurts too much, and all she can think is He’s not even reading me my rights.
She is Mirandized (paraphrased, laced with profanity and insults) in the car, she is called a prostitute, she is searched roughly for more weapons, she is told that she is resisting arrest and attempted an assault on an officer of the law. She doesn’t know where Jerry is. This is the new order, they tell her. This is how they’re going to clean up Gotham. They’re going to pull every stupid fucking whore like her off the streets and give her what she deserves. She is dragged from the car into the police station, where officers, male and female, watch impassively as she is forced into a cell without due process and stripped naked. Her jacket and shirt are cut from her wrists, the handcuffs never being removed. She is left alone in the cell with a male uniformed officer who holds her face against the cot of the bed and screams at her to shut up and stop crying. Only when she stops do they leave her.
She is held for twenty-four hours. No one comes to her cell. No one turns on a light. She is not given food, water, or anything to cover herself with. After twenty-four hours, a man and a woman come into her cell and remove her handcuffs before dressing her roughly and then walking her to the edge of station property and leaving her. She is never processed, she is never booked, she is never spoken to. No one will tell her why she was arrested, no one will tell her what happened to Jerry. No one will speak to her at all.
Meredith does not leave her apartment for six days, sobbing into her pillow until she’s too dehydrated and too exhausted to do anything but lay there. She goes with her mother to a community meeting at their local church (she hasn’t gone in years), and she sits in a circle with twelve other women (three are under eighteen) and five men (only one is over twenty-one), and they talk about what happened to all of them.
In the distance, a fire is burning on Mercey Island. The smoke is thick and black against the red sky, and she cannot see the city at all. She wonders if they can see them in return, and thinks that they don’t really care, either way.