#not item roulette but more like russian roulette cause i almost died with each turn i tried to get his pic

[hyunpic]

HYUNJIN: item roulette

[thegreenfairy13]

A Gotham Ghost Story - Part 5

When Oswald shoots Jim on the pier, his ghost is doomed to haunt the mobster. You can read the full story here. 

Thank you @mexican-texican for the beta! <3</p>

What follows feels like an onslaught. Jim is left with no choice but to follow the woman down gloomy corridors as he’s being pulled around corners and up the stairs. He wonders if death will always remain like this, being reduced to a sentient being that only observes but is unable to act.

A door behind him slams shut and the blonde hurls around to lock it. Finally, the cop can take a better look at her and gasps. He knows her, recognizes without a single doubt on his mind Gertrud Kapelput’s face however it can’t be . It’s a cop’s curse, being unable to forget a face, and even if he only ever saw her once he’s still absolutely certain.

But when looking closer, he notes how it can’t be, mustn’t be. The fragile woman might resemble Gertrud, they share the same nose, cheekbones, lips…but it can’t be. This woman is in her twenties, at most, and most notably, she’s got a ferocity and purposefulness to her that Oswald’s mother always lacked.

This young lady might be terrified but she’s not helpless. Jim observes her shoving a couple of dresses and some personal belongings into a bag before turning towards the window, for sure assessing the height and her chances should she be forced to leave the house by jumping through it.

They both freeze at the sound of steps coming down the hallway and before Jim can react, the woman does. “Hold the door!” she shrieks, looking directly at the Commissioner. When he doesn’t budge she repeats her request, more commanding this time.

Unable to process what’s happening, Jim does what he does best: saving someone. Turning, he drops his entire weight against the door. Closing his eyes, all he focuses on is the task at hand. James Gordon is still a cop and this woman is an innocent citizen demanding help. All he has to do is keep this door closed - at all costs. He sinks into the wood, feels each and every little atom, breathes the scents of wax, wood, and metal, imagines the lock fusing with the frame, imagines this single door holding up entire armies because if he doesn’t, whoever makes it through will kill her. He knows that with the same certainty he knows he’s dead, and he knows he won’t allow for it to happen.

The woman glances at him from the other side of the room, smiling gratefully. Jim smirks back at her and it suddenly hits him. She’s resilient, she’d make it without him too, but he buys her the time she needs. Another item follows the ones already in the bag and for a reason unknown, it makes him incredibly happy she’s able to gather everything she requires.

“I’m ready,” she states, already opening the window, preparing herself for the jump from the first floor. Holding out her hand, she invites Jim to follow her. Dazed, he takes it and for the second time today, he actually feels anything . He senses her warmth, picks up on her scent, which is also vaguely familiar, and vows to protect her.

“We’ll land softly,” she orders and Jim nods.

“You can see me,” he states, slightly awed and noting how his state of mind resembles being drunk. Not that he minds - it’s wonderful, as if someone had taken his brain and wrapped it up in clouds.

“Of course I can see you, silly,” she responds. “I conjured you,” the woman declares matter of factly. “I prayed for a guardian to watch over me and my child, I made the sacrifice - what good would it be if you’d appear and I couldn’t see you?” She shrugs as she tries ushering Jim toward the window.

Someone’s banging against the door already. However, Jim is certain they have all the time they need. Not a single second extra, but not one less, even. It’s a funny thing of her to say that though, that she made a sacrifice when he’s the one who died, he muses.

Jim already wants to contradict her when remembering he still has to get his facts straight first. “You’re Gertrud, indeed,” he asserts, waiting for her to confirm.

“Who else would I be?” she laughs a little bit, probably wondering what type of third-class guardian her magic procured. Given the circumstances, Jim accepts the concept of conjurings with shocking ease. Compared to dying, it’s not that outlandish though.

The lawman wants to laugh out loud. When truly taking in her physique, Jim wonders how he possibly could have missed her circumstances in the first place. Gertrud is delicate, way too thin for it to be healthy, therefore the slight swell of her belly should have caught his attention earlier.

“You’re pregnant,” he points out, feeling a bit foolish for stating the obvious the second time in a row.

Instinctively, she covers her belly with her free hand. “You’re here to protect him first,” Gertrud orders. “My safety is secondary. We made the deal, demon!”

“Demon?” Jim chuckles bemused and Gertrud’s face falls.

“You’re not…?”

“A demon?” the dead man finishes. “Hardly. I have no idea what I am. I only know I died and it was because of the baby you’re carrying.”

The women’s eyes open almost comically as she backs away from Jim in sudden horror. She grabs her bag, makes for the window once more, however backs down in sudden desperation.

“But you helped me,” she cries out, frantically looking for another way out. Feeling guilty, Jim raises his hands placatingly.  

The door behind Jim rattles again, louder this time, and the cop feels a sudden wave of urgency, as if he was forced to carry on, else he might give away his chances.

“I’m a cop, I help people,” he says matter of factly, opting for a soothing tone.

“You’re a liar, demon!” she accuses instead, eyes rolling wildly from here to there and suddenly, it hits him. Jim didn’t recognize her right away but now, as she’s pacing the room hysterically, running her hands through the strands of her hair, he perceives the madness.

In later years, her mental decline will be clear for everyone to see, but today the illness is nothing but a small seed. One day, she’ll seek salvation in the illusions her mind will gracefully procure for her and the thought alone saddens the cop. How must it have been, being raised by a mother gradually unable to differ fiction from reality? Is it the reason Oswald never told her about his true profession? It must have been easier, leaving her to her delusions and letting her see whatever she chose to.

Stomping her feet, she focuses all her rage towards the cop. “I’ll raise a good boy!” she declares with conviction. “I’ll have a beautiful baby boy, and he will be happy, he’ll be honest, he’ll be generous, and he’ll know nothing but love. I swore,” she almost screams and Jim shakes his head.

There’s something about Gertrud that makes arguing quite difficult, impossible even. “I said your baby is the cause for my death,” Jim sighs wearily. “I never said he’s responsible for it.” That’s not entirely true, but it’s a lie Jim can live with. Everything considered, dealing with men like Oswald on a daily basis is like playing Russian Roulette; he had it coming, especially after meddling with his freedom the way he did. Heck, he got ten good years, even.

Jim wishes he could close his eyes for a second, escape this new reality for a second. The only grace he’s being given is the ability to stare at a stain on the wall. He wills himself to focus.

“So it was an accident?” the future kingpin’s mother inquires curiously. “And even after your death, you’re here to help?”

“One could put it that way,” Jim admits drily.

The door rattles for the third time, a warning for the both of them to hurry up as a vivid image flashes before the cop’s inner eye: he observes himself stepping away, sees a lock breaking and wood splintering, he sees an outraged man storming inside, Gertrud screaming. Jim sees blood and he feels nauseous. He never could, could he?

Taking a deep breath, he imagines Gertrud’s lifeless body, a baby never born. It feels wrong and terrible, this death.

‘I will faithfully serve and protect anyone in need of a helping hand. I will never kill unless there is no other option to fulfill my vow.’ Jim silently recites the oath he took when joining the force, pushing away an image of his daughter running joyfully towards him. All of this is just a test, Jim tells himself. None of this is real and the past can’t be changed, he remembers his physics-teacher from fifth grade saying so.

Face lighting up, Gertrud claps her hands. “He’ll be exceptional, won’t he?” she muses. “What a man he’ll grow up to be, how much he’ll be loved when his friends even seek to protect him after their death?”

“You are friends, aren’t you?” she urges after a moment, giving him the same treatment he received the first time Barbara introduced him to her parents. It’s a look of pure scrutiny as she carefully sizes him up, for sure wondering if he’s good enough for her precious Oswald.

“We’re friends,” Jim rushes to clarify, fully aware he’s finally saying the words her son longed to hear for years.

Gertrud opens her mouth, indecisive. Jim isn’t sure why he’s secretly proud of the fact that she seems to be slightly disappointed in the statement before her demeanor changes again. It’s slightly endearing how much she and her son have in common.

Narrowing her eyes suspiciously, she assesses the dead man once more. “You said you’re a cop,” Gertrud recalls. “If you are indeed a cop, why would you , the corrupt scum of Gotham, be friends with my baby boy?”

Rolling his eyes, Jim prepares for his well-studied not-all-cops speech, the very same he bestows upon hesitant witnesses.

“I’d teach my child better than to hang out with cops and robbers,” Gertrud declares furiously and honestly, Jim can’t blame her, yet he’s got a trick up his sleeve that works even better than any type of persuasion.

“All honest cops have either quit or died,” he snaps back. “As we both can see, I’m the latter,” he adds drily.

Despite herself, Gertrud chuckles. “Can’t argue with that, darling,” he declares warmly.

“We should leave now,” Jim reminds her when he feels something pressing against his back. There’s no urgency though. He feels it again, this floating, unearthly sensation of being a mere pawn in a greater game, unable to act but to follow the path of destiny.

“Do you think you can help me?” he wonders out loud when taking Gertrud’s hand, leaping out of the window together with her.

He hears the wind rustling through the trees the very second she shouts her answer. They land on the grass, both chuckling in delight when she brushes off the leaves from her dress while Jim is still completely unaffected.

“Who was that lunatic anyway,” Jim wants to know, already running into the woods with her, admiring the long strands of hair dancing through the air. She looks so alive , like that, not even knowing how close indeed she’d been to death. If just one tiny thing had turned out differently, if she had tripped, if she had been silent instead of loud, if the door had not been made from oak, if…

Life always beats death, Jim decides. There’s no hidden romanticism in a life cut short, in a heart stopped from beating. Gertrud is gorgeous, and full of hope and love for her son’s future. He couldn’t take that from her even if there might have been a chance it would have stopped his own suffering.

Laughing in sheer relief, Gertrud runs through the trees, the bag flapping over her shoulder. “Who should it have been,” she grins. “My baby boy’s grandfather, of course.”

Even Jim has to giggle. For Gotham’s standards, that sounds like such a mundane family-drama.

“I need your help, though,” he shouts in lieu of an answer. “I need to be alive again,” he adds and Gertrud stops.

The good mood from mere moments ago is lost instantly and Jim swears he can almost feel the temperature dropping himself when his stomach falls.

“Oh, my poor baby,” Gertrud says, cupping his face lightly between her hands. “My poor, poor baby,” she repeats sadly. “The dead can’t return to life. Not like that. Either, they are gone, or they need to fulfill their purpose.” Jim hopes it’s only a trick of the light she suddenly sounds crazed.

After pondering for a moment, her face suddenly lights up. “But I can do one thing for you,” she proposes excitedly. “I told you I’d make sure my son stays away from cops. I’ll teach him not to befriend one, maybe…”

The gunshot echoes through the woods, cutting her line of thought short. That has been the last warning and Jim can practically feel the time running out as his mind is getting dragged through space and time, hurled mercilessly through the void back to where he started.

The feeling is similar to a cramp, only worse, and a hundred times more painful. Here goes his only chance for help, Jim thinks, as Gertrud leaves him behind, taking his ability to communicate with another living being with her. He screams after her, begs her to call him back, to help him however possible.

Turning, she reaches for him, tries grabbing his hand again yet they both already know she can’t follow. “I promise,” she shouts after him and Jim wants to weep.