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Jonathan undid the bolt securing the heavy sliding door to the warehouse, pushing it open with a groan. It had been a long day—he’d been running around between errands and meetings, seeking out the resources he would need to lay low after his most recent Arkham escape. It had taken hours, but he was finally home with drugs and lab chemicals in hand. His contacts had all been briefed on the situation, just enough information for them to act appropriately but not so much that they could give up his whereabouts. The last thing he needed was a swarm of cops closing in on his temporary hideout—or worse, the Bat himself. No, that was something he certainly didn’t have time for.
As the door slid open he could hear the clacking of a keyboard, a voice chattering about something or other. The voice was recognizably Edward’s, but who could he be talking to? Jonathan hoped he hadn’t been stupid enough to invite someone here. Closing the door behind him, he made his way deeper into the warehouse toward the little office space Edward had set up for himself. It was only a few boxes stacked to form a table-like surface and a worn swivel chair that had been rescued from the sidewalk, but it appeared that Edward had acquired a small lamp and a laptop while he was out. He was sitting hunched at the makeshift desk, typing away on the laptop and talking, apparently to himself.
“…just want to reiterate that I am so sorry for the unannounced hiatus, though I can’t promise it won’t happen again!” he was saying. As Jonathan continued his approach it became clear that Edward was speaking into the computer. He appeared to be filming himself, a small webcam video of him visible in the corner of the screen. “The Arkham orderlies were very insensitive to the fact that I have a captive audience depending on my every word and I was not allowed internet access, so you have them to thank for my absence. For anyone who’s just joining us, I was just wrapping up a little demonstration of how to make a simple computer virus in Python. I think next we’re going to move on to something el—”
“What are you doing?”
Edward leapt about a foot in the air at the interruption, a noise of surprise squeaking out of him. “Jesus Christ, don’t sneak up on me like that!”
“Didn’t you hear the door?” Jonathan asked, peering over his shoulder at the computer screen. There was a small, vertical window open on the side of the screen with quickly moving text highlighted in different colors. There were several other windows and tabs open in addition to whatever software he was using to film his strange broadcast. Jonathan didn’t know how he could focus on it all at once.
“My attention was occupied elsewhere.” He cleared his throat, preparing to address the computer again. “Sorry about the intrusion, chat. I’m sharing an… industrial style apartment with a colleague of mine for the time being, so he might pop up now and again.” Edward swiveled around in his seat to ask Jonathan, “Do you want to say hello to the stream?”
“What stream?” he asked, setting down the bag he’d been carrying.
Edward gestured toward the computer screen. “I’m live streaming right now. There’s people watching.”
Jonathan was vaguely aware of the concept of a live stream, though he couldn’t fathom why anyone would want to watch Edward’s ramblings, live or otherwise. “So they can see me?”
“Yes.” He pointed at the window with the text and Jonathan was able to glimpse a few messages that seemed to be referencing his entrance before they disappeared from view—he noticed “and they were roommates” and “omg they were roommates” going by more than once. “They’re asking about you,” Edward said. “Feel like giving a little introduction?”
“Not particularly.” He reached into the bag, retrieving a small glass jar of marijuana and a pack of rolling papers. He’d been looking forward to a relaxing smoke after a very effortful day, but it seemed like the effortful day was not yet at an end. That didn’t mean he wasn’t still going to smoke, though.
“Come on,” Edward pressed. “Just stick around and answer a couple questions with me. Give the people what they want.”
“You should know by now that I don’t care about giving people what they want. That’s you,” he pointed out. “I just want to get stoned and go to sleep. Am I not entitled to that?”
“You can get stoned while we do the stream,” he suggested. “Stay for as long as it takes you to roll and smoke a joint, and then you can be done and go to bed, how does that sound?”
Jonathan sighed. It was becoming clear that he was not going to get out of this as easily as he had hoped. “Fine,” he conceded wearily. “But I reserve the right to not answer things.”
“That’s alright.” Edward sprung up from his chair, crossing the room to retrieve another box to function as a second seat. “We’ll start easy. I saw a lot of comments about your height; care to tell us just how tall you are?”
“Six ten,” Jonathan said flatly, sitting down on top of the box.
Seemingly realizing Jonathan had no plans to elaborate, Edward returned his attention to the chat box. “Let’s see, hotpotato wants to know if you’re a rogue as well.”
“Yes.” He sighed, pushing Edward’s laptop aside slightly to start setting up the joint. “This is stupid.”
“No it’s not,” Edward insisted, adjusting the computer again. “Oh, what about this? Playboyprincess12 wants to know how we get contraband into Arkham. You have some strategies, don’t you?”
Jonathan considered this as he broke one of the fragrant buds down with his fingers, plucking out the stems as he did so. “Up the ass is probably the best way to go,” he mused, sprinkling the ground weed onto the paper. “They don’t do cavity searches at intake. Or you could try swallowing it, but that’s a lot riskier. If you’re trying to get contraband after you’ve already been incarcerated, it pays to know someone. An orderly or something—plenty of them have a questionable moral compass and will do whatever you want for the right incentive.” He shrugged, raising the half rolled joint to his lips to wet the glue strip with his tongue. “It’s really not that difficult to get things into Arkham if you know who to ask,” he said, folding the sticky end of the paper over to seal the joint.
“Can I have a puff?” Edward asked, watching him intently as he twisted up the end and placed the joint between his lips.
“Ah, so that’s why you wanted me to stick around so badly,” he muttered around the mouthpiece as he retrieved a lighter from his shirt pocket. “Trying to smoke up all my weed.”
“That’s not why,” he replied indignantly. “Fine. Be stingy, I don’t care.”
Jonathan raised the lighter flame to the end of the joint, burning through the excess paper before smoke began to rush into his mouth. He sighed, exhaling the smoke, and offered the joint to Edward. “Here,” he said.
A smug smile played on Edward’s lips as he accepted the smoldering joint, taking two small puffs before returning it to Jonathan. “Okay,” he began, coughing delicately. “Next question. Oh, lord, people want to know who you voted for in the last election.”
“Can’t vote,” Jonathan said between tokes, “convicted felon.”
“Shit, that’s right,” Edward murmured. “So am I.”
“Makes politics less stressful,” he offered, noticing the disappointment in Edward’s tone.
“I suppose,” was all he said in response.
“…Are there more questions?”
“Oh, um, yes, of course. Uhh… from riddlersaystransrights—yes I do say trans rights, thank you for noticing. Anyway, from riddlersaystransrights: which one of you has a higher body count?”
Jonathan frowned, puffing thoughtfully on the joint. “Are we talking about sex or murder?”
“Doesn’t specify.” He glanced over at Jonathan. “It’s probably you, though. Either way.”
“Probably,” he agreed. “You have plenty of time to catch up, though.”
Edward’s round cheeks flushed and he quickly busied himself with the computer again. “Favorite pizza topping?” he asked, voice cracking slightly.
“Anchovies.”
He wrinkled his nose, shaking his head disdainfully. “You’re disgusting. Chat, please tell me you agree that anchovies are the worst pizza topping.”
“What’s wrong with anchovies?”
“They’re creepy, gross little fish and they don’t belong on a delicious pizza,” Edward answered as if it were obvious. “Look, people agree with me.”
“They’re not gross, they just taste like salt,” Jonathan said, feeling unusually defensive.
“They taste like salty fish ,” Edward corrected. “Bad. Not tasty. Does not belong on pizza. Next question.”
“No, no more questions,” Jonathan said. He had smoked through the joint and he stubbed the butt out on the concrete floor. “Joint’s done so I’m done.”
“Oh, don’t tell me you’re offended that we all agree you have bad taste,” Edward said lightly. “You can stay even though you like anchovies.”
“Gee, thanks,” Jonathan grumbled, getting up from the box he’d been sitting uncomfortably on. “But I’ll have to decline because I… don’t want to. Good night.”
“Oh alright.” He turned back to the computer. “Everyone say goodbye to Jonathan. He’s an old man so he needs to go to bed at eight thirty.”
“You’re going to have to do more than say I’m old if you want to embarrass me in front of your little friends,” Jonathan called on his way out of the room.