Chapter Text
Things had become too hot in Gotham—sweltering in ways that even the darkest alleys couldn’t cool. The law was tightening around you, closing like a noose, and the thought of returning to that cold, damp prison feels like a death sentence. You could still feel the sting of those hard, clinical hands, shoving you from cell to cell, the echo of slamming doors reverberating in your head. The padded walls, the sterile lights, the endless torture they called “rehabilitation.” No, going back wasn’t an option.
So it was decided. You’d slip away, leave Gotham behind for a while. Jonathan had arranged it all, insisting you both needed distance—just a few weeks away, a breather in some backwater town where the shadows couldn’t find you. "Think of it as a little holiday," he had said, though there was a thinly veiled tension in his eyes that made it feel like anything but a vacation. While you were gone, the others would “organize” things. They hadn’t explained what that meant, and you hadn’t asked. Too much was already churning in your mind, setting your nerves ablaze with an anxiety you couldn’t quite name.
The station wagon rattles along the rough old Georgia road, its shocks creaking as potholes jostle you from side to side. The deeper south you travel from Atlanta, the lonelier the road becomes. Cornfields flank both sides of the highway, a monotonous sea of withered yellow and faded brown. The stalks are tall and brittle, stretching endlessly, each row perfect and uniform, a regimented march toward the horizon. There’s something unsettling in the repetition, like those stalks are watching, whispering secrets in the dry, crisp wind that funnels through the cracks in the windows.
You haven’t seen a tree in miles—just the relentless grid of fields, a silent and endless witness to your journey. You can almost imagine the plants watching, marking your passage through their barren land, as if sensing that you, too, are something uprooted, something that doesn’t belong.
On the roadside ahead, a weathered little pumpkin stand comes into view. It looks like it’s been there for years, barely standing against the wind. An old man sits on a stool behind it, slumped and smoking a thick cigar that hangs loosely between his lips. He watches you as you approach, his gaze shadowed and hard to read, his eyes catching yours through the dusty windshield. His expression doesn’t change, just a slight squint, but there’s a glimmer of recognition there—or perhaps suspicion, a curiosity about strangers in a place where they don’t often pass.
You drive by slowly, your gaze lingering on him as his follows you. The pumpkins in the stand are rough and misshapen, their colors dull against the rusted backdrop of the old pickup beside him. It’s clear this man hasn’t seen many cars today, maybe not even for days. As you pass, you wonder briefly what stories he could tell, what he thinks of this strange car cutting through his quiet, lonely stretch of the world.
The stand fades into the distance, you’re alone again, just the hum of the engine and the unyielding expanse of fields. For a moment, you feel like you’re driving through a dream, or maybe a nightmare—a surreal world that stretches on forever, each mile pulling you further from Gotham, but never quite far enough to shake the feeling that its shadows are still reaching for you.
Beside you, Jonathan taps his fingers restlessly on the armrest, his gaze fixed ahead, unseeing, or maybe just unwilling to see. His presence, usually a source of stability, feels different now, quieter, more on edge. You’re both running, and you both know it. The road stretches on, endless, unforgiving, leading you toward someplace quiet.
“So…” you say, breaking the silence that’s grown thick in the car, like the too dry air sucking away your breath. “What’s your hometown like?”
Jonathan glances at you, his eyes shadowed and distant, before returning to the road. “Small,” he replies, his voice flat, almost as if the word itself is an annoyance.
You wait a moment, hoping he’ll offer more, but he doesn’t. The engine hums steadily as fields blur past, and you feel the itch to prod a bit further. “What are the people like?”
His mouth tenses, and for a beat, you think he won’t answer. Then, with a faint shrug, he mutters, “You’ll see.”
A silence settles again, this one heavier, prickling with something unspoken. His eyes are fixed on the road ahead, but you can feel a weight in the way he’s gripping the steering wheel, knuckles pale against the worn leather. The small details start to paint a picture in your mind—of a town that seems to have seeped into him, shaped him, maybe even scarred him.
“You didn’t like it there, did you?” you ask, your tone gentle, testing the question.
Jonathan’s lips twitch into a half-smirk that’s both resigned and bitter. “That obvious?”
You nod, watching him closely as his gaze hardens, narrowing in on some point ahead in the distance. His face softens a bit, though, just enough to let you glimpse something underneath, a flicker of memory that almost reaches the surface.
He doesn’t elaborate, but you sense the tension building, an unease laced in his silence. It's as if he’s being pulled backward, a reluctant passenger on the same road that took him away years ago. You wonder what it is that’s so unsettling about this place for him—if it’s something that happened, or something that he himself became.
The car hits another rough patch in the road, jostling you both slightly, and the vibration seems to pull him back to the present. He clears his throat, shifting in his seat, as if shaking off the weight of old memories.
“There’s nothing there for me,” he says finally, his voice a little softer this time, barely audible over the steady hum of the engine. “Nothing that matters anymore.”
You open your mouth to ask more, but something in his tone makes you hesitate. For now, it’s clear that the past is something he’s not ready to unwrap. And as you let the silence return, you realize this journey isn’t as much about escape for him as it is for you—each of you running from a place that feels like it might swallow you whole if you linger too long and he is returning to his own nightmare.
The gas station looms on the horizon, a small, dilapidated relic from another time. Its red sign hangs crookedly, barely clinging to the rusted pole that holds it up, the paint faded to an almost washed-out pink by years of sun and rain. No bright lights display the prices here; instead, they're scrawled in chalk on an old, weather-beaten board out front, the numbers faintly smudged by rain and time. Only two options: gas and diesel. None of the city’s endless choices and additives, no promises of cleaner engines or higher octane—just fuel, pure and simple.
The orange station wagon coughs and sputters as Jon guides it into the lot, the tank hovering dangerously close to empty. You feel the engine shudder beneath your feet, as if grateful for the momentary reprieve. Jonathan’s eyes flick over the gauges, then he hands you his wallet without a word. It’s worn and cracked, the leather stretched thin around the edges, molded to the shape of cards and bills tucked away over years. Inside, a few creased bills and a handful of change are nestled alongside cards that have seen better days.
“You’ll have to go in and pay. I’ll fill it up,” he murmurs, his gaze distant, scanning the road and fields around you. You can tell why he wants you to go in—already, the people here are eyeing you both with suspicion, with that cautious, wary curiosity that comes from recognizing someone and knowing they don’t belong. People in towns like this never forget a face.
You step out of the car, pulling your sherpa jacket tighter as the wind gusts across the empty lot, bringing with it the sharp bite of autumn. Jonathan moves around the car, unscrewing the gas cap and fitting the nozzle, then leans back against the side of the wagon, his eyes drifting to the fields stretching endlessly beyond the station. His fingers drum a steady, absent rhythm on the side of the car as he fills the tank, his posture tense but calm, as though he’s bracing himself against an old, familiar ghost.
Inside, the smell of oil and old rubber mingles with a faint, lingering sweetness from the dusty candy shelves. A little bell tinkles above the door as you enter, the sound echoing softly in the stillness. It stirs something distant in you, a memory from long ago, hazy and fragile, but unmistakably familiar.
Behind the counter, a woman with a bleached-blonde updo glances up, her eyes narrowing with curious scrutiny. Her voice is both sugary and coarse, laced with the rough edges of a long-time smoker and a southern accent that’s thick and honeyed. “A new face, huh? Don’t see many of you out here.” She pops a piece of gum, her gaze moving from you to the car outside, where Jonathan is leaning over into the engine bay, checking the oil.
You hesitate a moment before answering, pulling your eyes from the shelves stocked with canned goods and snacks. “Just passing through. Headed to Arlen.”
“Arlen,” she echoes, with a nod of approval or perhaps quiet pity. You turn toward a shelf, letting her words settle, but the gnawing hunger in your stomach pulls you back. You realize you haven’t eaten anything since this morning, and that familiar, jittery edge of hunger is creeping up on you. You grab a small pack of sweet popcorn, something quick to tide you over, knowing Jonathan, with his notorious sweet tooth, won’t mind sharing it until you can reach somewhere more promising for a real meal.
As you approach the counter, you glance out the window, watching Jonathan as he checks the oil, his hands moving deftly, inspecting the engine like it’s second nature. The clerk’s eyes flicker toward him too, her gaze sharpening as she studies his movements. You set the snack and cash down on the counter, offering a quick, “Just this and the fuel, thanks.”
She leans closer, her eyes scanning your face, and you see a flash of concern ripple across her features. “Do you…need any help, darlin’?”
Her words catch you off guard, and you turn to meet her gaze, confused. “What do you mean?”
Her eyes drop to the faint scar tracing the side of your face, then dart back up, and her voice drops to a whisper. “That man out there…he’s a criminal, isn’t he? Did he do that to you?”
You feel your pulse quicken, a prickling heat rising in your chest. It takes a moment to find your voice, and when you do, it’s steadier than you feel. “Just this and the fuel, thanks.” The words come out cool, detached, and you realize with a jolt that they don’t sound defensive—they sound practiced, like a response you’ve rehearsed without ever realizing it.
Her gaze lingers on you, a mix of fear and uncertainty tightening her features. She doesn’t know what you are—victim, accomplice, or something else entirely—and it’s clear she’s unsure if she wants to find out. She hands you the change with trembling fingers, her eyes darting from you to Jonathan outside, then back again, as though trying to piece together a puzzle she isn’t sure she wants to solve.
You grab the small bag, nodding a quick thanks before heading toward the door. Outside, you cast a last glance back at the woman behind the counter, her expression one of open fear now, watching you with wide eyes as if you’re the embodiment of every horror story she’s ever heard whispered about outsiders. You meet her gaze for a brief, uncomfortable moment, aware of the silent question that lingers between you—a question she doesn’t have the nerve to ask out loud.
Stepping back into the crisp air, you walk over to Jonathan, who’s tightening the oil cap with one last twist. He straightens, watching you approach, his eyes flicking briefly to the store behind you before settling back on yours. Without a word, you pass him the wallet, sliding into the passenger seat and bracing yourself against the steady rumble as the engine roars back to life.
The station fades in the rear-view mirror, the clerk’s face a pale blur in the window as she watches you disappear down the road. And as the fields close in around you once more, you wonder how much she guessed, how much she’ll remember—because in a place like this, they never forget a face.
Arlen comes into view slowly, like a ghost town materializing from the dust. It’s a town stitched together by its churches—too many of them, lining nearly every block as though competing for a claim on the town’s collective soul. You’ve counted ten so far, each one unique, a mix of pride and neglect. Some of them sit in disrepair, their white paint peeling, revealing aged wood beneath, while others have been touched up just enough to keep their facades respectable. And then there’s one that stands out, looming over the rest. It’s new and sprawling, with tall arched windows that glint in the sun and a massive concrete carpark that stretches across half a block, bushes trimmed to perfection and glistening an almost unnatural green. Against the dusty landscape of Arlen, it’s a stark, imposing presence.
Finally, there are more trees here than in the endless fields you passed. A few clusters of pecans and oaks create patches of shade—though half their leaves litter the ground in hues of autumn—softening the hard lines of the sun-baked roads. They lend a sense of normalcy, like a reminder that life can grow here, despite the dry air and unforgiving soil.
The houses are a study in contrast—some are pristine, almost picturesque in their Americana charm. White picket fences frame perfectly manicured lawns, the grass kept lush by old sprinklers that hiss rhythmically in front of porches lined with rocking chairs. These homes look like something out of a magazine, tended with the quiet pride of long-time residents.
But just down the road, things look different. A few houses sag on their foundations, their lawns littered with rusted pickup trucks in various stages of disrepair, parts strewn across the ground like a mechanical graveyard. Paint flakes off their siding, and the fences, if they have them, lean crookedly, held together more by habit than structure. Children’s toys are scattered across the dry grass, their bright colours faded by the sun.
In the centre of town, the main street is little more than a wide strip of asphalt flanked by a small cluster of buildings. There’s a modest shopping arcade, its brick façade worn by years of relentless sun and wind, housing a handful of stores with signs faded to pastel shades of their original colours. A weathered movie theatre sits next to it, its marquee only half-lit, advertising movies that have long since left the screens of the larger cities. Across from it, the town hall stands tall but simple, a brick building that has likely seen generations pass through its doors.
And then there’s the diner—a low-slung building with a neon sign that flickers unsteadily, casting an inviting yet eerie glow over the sidewalk. It’s the kind of place that feels like it hasn’t changed in decades, with faded photos of Arlen’s glory days hanging on the walls inside. The smell of frying oil wafts out, mingling with the scent of dust and faint hints of blooming wildflowers nearby.
Arlen is a quiet, insulated world, its rhythms slow and steady, with an air of watchfulness that feels almost alive. It’s the kind of town where everyone knows each other, and outsiders stick out like sore thumbs.
You both leave the car parked at a casual diagonal on the wide, empty main road, settling beside a line of three dusty motorbikes on one side and a faded blue pickup truck on the other. The whole scene feels almost suspended in time, untouched by the pace of the modern world around it.
The diner itself is a relic, a classic from the fifties, and it looks as though it hasn’t changed a bit since then. The exterior is clad in chipped turquoise paint, with chrome accents dulled by the decades. The large plate-glass windows are clouded with fingerprints, and a flickering neon sign above the entrance buzzes faintly, its letters casting a pale pink and green glow against the dusty sidewalk.
Inside, the decor is every bit as vintage. Red vinyl booths line the walls, their surfaces cracked and patched in places with silver duct tape. The black-and-white checkered floor tiles are worn smooth from countless footsteps, their glossy sheen long gone. A jukebox stands in one corner, a relic in itself, playing a soft, scratchy tune that barely rises above the hum of conversation. The walls are cluttered with faded photos and posters, black-and-white snapshots of Arlen in its supposed heyday—local beauty queens, high school football champions, and even a sheriff posing proudly with his horse. The air smells of grease and coffee, with a faint hint of stale cigarette smoke lingering beneath the stronger scents.
The diner has a small scattering of patrons. The bikers—a trio of leather-clad men with sun-worn faces—sit at a booth near the window, talking in low voices, eyeing everyone who walks in. A few booths over, a group of teenagers leans over a shared ice cream sundae, laughing and bickering as they take turns with oversized spoons. Around the corner, a family is tucked into a corner booth, quietly eating their meal and glancing up occasionally with a mix of curiosity and suspicion.
“Darla, you got some customers,” calls out a middle-aged man sitting near the entrance, his face half-hidden behind a worn newspaper. He doesn’t even look up as he calls toward the kitchen, too engrossed in his coffee and newsprint to bother.
A large woman shuffles out from the kitchen, wiping her hands on an apron that’s seen better days. Her chestnut hair is styled in wide, immaculate curls, as carefully done up as the woman’s at the gas station, though her face wears a tiredness that no amount of styling can hide. Dark rings shadow her eyes, and her expression seems locked somewhere between hospitality and quiet resignation.
“Just sit anywhere,” she says, gesturing around with a wave of her hand. “I’ll come by with a menu.”
You and Jonathan slide into one of the cracked vinyl booths by the window. A moment later, Darla shuffles over with two laminated menus in hand, her eyes briefly sweeping over you both. The menu feels sticky between your fingers, the corners curled and yellowing, a relic as much as everything else in the place.
As she hands the menus over, she squints at Jonathan, studying him with an intensity that makes your stomach tighten. “I recognize you, son. You come from around here?” she asks, her eyes narrowing in faint suspicion as she searches his face.
“No,” Jonathan answers curtly, his tone flat. He looks away, hoping that’s enough to put an end to it.
But she doesn’t drop it. “No…” she murmurs, her voice trailing as she frowns, her gaze lingering, trying to match him with an old memory. And then, suddenly, her face falls. Recognition flickers in her eyes, and her expression hardens, her mouth setting in a firm line. She leans in close, her voice dropping to a low, icy whisper.
“You get out of my diner,” she says, her tone as sharp as a blade. “Don’t make a fuss. Just leave.”
Jonathan’s jaw tightens, but he doesn’t flinch. He meets her stare, his expression calm, even soft—yet there’s a glint in his eyes that hints at something darker. “We’re just here for a meal,” he replies, his voice just as low, just as steady, but with a subtle shift in his tone. The slight twang of a southwestern drawl creeps into his voice, one that sounds foreign to you, like an echo from a past he’s kept buried, He sounds almost like the demon that occasionally takes hold of his body and mind. It’s unnerving, a sinister undertone that prickles the hair on the back of your neck. “Can’t let my girl go hungry, now can we?” The words carry an edge, a veiled threat wrapped in politeness.
Darla straightens, swallowing hard, her face a mask of strained composure. For a moment, you think she might refuse him, but then she lets out a heavy sigh, pulling a notepad from her apron and crossing her arms.
“What can I get for you?” she asks, her voice now taut, each word clipped as though it’s costing her something just to speak.
Jonathan glances up at her, his gaze dark, challenging, and then leans forward, lowering his voice. “Two burgers, fries, and—” he pauses, his eyes glinting with something dangerous “—make sure you give me the one with the spit in it.”
Darla’s hand trembles slightly as she jots down the order, her mouth pressed into a thin line. She doesn’t meet his eyes as she turns away, heading back toward the kitchen with brisk, hurried steps, but you catch the look she throws over her shoulder, a mix of resentment and barely masked fear.
In the quiet that follows, you can feel the tension in the room, as if everyone else has sensed the shift but can’t quite place it. You glance at Jonathan, noting the faint hint of satisfaction on his face, calm as can be. And as you sit there in the faded booth, the weight of eyes watching you presses in from every direction, the faint buzz of whispers, a collective unease, like Arlen itself is holding its breath.
The diner falls into a thick, uncomfortable silence, punctuated only by the soft clinking of forks and spoons from the teenagers a few booths down. You can feel eyes on you—quick, sidelong glances from the other patrons who are too curious to look away but too cautious to stare outright. Jonathan is calm, almost too calm, as he drums his fingers lightly on the table, his eyes fixed somewhere beyond the diner’s grimy windows.
Minutes later, Darla returns, balancing two plates with a forced calmness, her face carefully neutral. She sets the burgers and fries down with brisk efficiency, muttering a curt “enjoy” before stepping back, clearly eager to be rid of you both. Jonathan’s gaze follows her as she retreats, a faint smile on his lips that doesn’t quite reach his eyes.
You pick up your burger, but your appetite has faded, replaced by a cold unease. Jonathan, on the other hand, digs in with calm indifference, taking a long, deliberate bite before glancing around, as if nothing were out of the ordinary.
"Long way from Gotham, huh?" he says, his voice dropping into that unsettling southern drawl again, the one he’s slipped into since you entered Arlen. There’s a flicker of something wild in his eyes, like he’s testing the air, seeing how much tension he can summon with a few simple words.
A door creaks open at the back of the diner, and a man steps out—a tall figure with a sheriff’s badge pinned to his chest, his gaze immediately locking onto Jonathan. His face is lined, his eyes calculating, the kind of stare that’s used to sizing people up, assessing threats before they have a chance to take shape.
“Evenin’,” the sheriff says, tipping his hat as he approaches. There’s a coldness in his eyes, a professional wariness as he looks from you to Jonathan, and then back again. “Didn’t expect to see you back here, Crane.”
The mention of his name drops like a stone in the silence. You can feel every eye in the room trained on you both now, waiting for the exchange that feels like it’s been building since you first stepped into Arlen.
Jonathan leans back in his seat, wiping his mouth with a slow, deliberate movement, his gaze never leaving the sheriff. “Didn’t expect to be back,” he replies coolly, his voice even, unshaken. There’s a glint in his eye, a spark of defiance, and you realize with a jolt that he’s enjoying this—the way they look at him, the way his presence stirs something old and dark in their minds.
The sheriff crosses his arms, glancing briefly at you, then back to Jonathan. “You’re just here for a meal, is that it?” His tone is almost mocking, like he knows there’s more to this visit, as if he’s challenging Jonathan to try and pretend otherwise.
Jonathan smiles, a slow, calculated expression that borders on a smirk. “That’s right, Sheriff. Just passing through with my girl here. A quiet meal, then we’ll be on our way.”
The sheriff’s gaze hardens, his jaw clenched as he nods slowly, his eyes flick between you and Jon. “Best make sure it stays quiet. We don’t take kindly to troublemakers here, especially ones who’ve overstayed their welcome.”
Jonathan’s fingers tap out a rhythm on the tabletop, a deliberate sound that seems to fill the tense silence. “Wouldn’t dream of it.”
The sheriff lingers a moment longer, his gaze piercing, before he turns and walks back to his booth, eyes still watching you both in the reflection of the window as he settles into his seat. The rest of the diner relaxes, but barely. You take a small, cautious bite of your burger, feeling the weight of the town pressing in on you, every face in the diner watching, wondering, remembering.
As you eat in uneasy silence, you wonder what past Jonathan is hiding here, what unspoken history hangs in the air between him and this town. His voice, his manner—he’s shifted into something different here, a version of himself you haven’t seen before, something harder, something with roots.
The sun is beginning to set as you finish your meal. Outside, Arlen’s streets are cast in long shadows, the light fading from the dusty horizon. You have the strangest feeling that the town itself is watching you, that it knows you shouldn’t be here. You can almost feel it breathing, each street and building holding secrets, memories you haven’t yet uncovered.
Jonathan tosses some cash onto the table and stands, glancing back at you with a look that’s both knowing and weary. “Come on,” he says quietly, his voice slipping back to its usual tone, but his eyes still carrying that unsettling gleam. “Let’s get out of here before they start thinking too hard.”
You step outside with him, back into the cool, dimming air. The shadows are longer now, stretching out over the cracked sidewalk and empty streets. As you walk to the car, you catch sight of Darla through the diner window, her gaze fixed on you, her face etched with both fear and something else—maybe a warning, maybe regret.
“Ready to go?” Jonathan’s voice pulls you back, his hand on the car door. You nod, and as the engine sputters to life, you feel a strange relief, like you’re escaping from a web you didn’t even realize was closing in.
As you pull away, you glance back at the diner, at the fading neon sign flickering against the darkening sky. Something tells you this isn’t over—that Jonathan’s past, whatever it is, still has its claws in him, and by extension, in you.