But, All the Same - Part Nine (SPOILERS for the Film!)
'Batman' and certain characters belong to DC Comics and Warner Bros., respectively.
What someone doesn't know won't necessarily not hurt them, but it sure makes it a hell of a lot easier to get things done, especially when the someone in question is Bruce, who's clearly a control freak of the highest order. Besides, Selina's not accustomed to having to think about anyone else when making important decisions. She's been the center of her universe for years now, almost a decade. All this with Bruce and John, it's going to take some time to get used to, time the universe will of course never give them. She wonders if this is how all those people who marry during wars feel, like there's only so much happiness out there for everyone, one big communal pot, and damned if she's going to let her share slip through her fingers and land in someone else's lap.
Because who the hell knows how long this is going to last? How long are they, the three of them, going to last? Bruce dies and comes back, like, every six months, and Selina's already on her fourth alias. John's reinvented himself at least once that they know of. And people die all the time in Gotham. People die all the time everywhere else too, but Gotham itself is like a black hole.
They need to leave, get out, escape while they still have all their body parts and are relatively sane. Holly'd had the right idea-just take off with whatever's handy and never look back. And Selina can't blame her for that. She'd wanted to, had tried, had gone through the motions, but mostly it was just jealousy and admiration. "That little bitch," she'd said a lot back then, and it was proud. Kid had had guts.
So, Selina's getting them sorted-without anyone else's input. She's got the money issue covered, now that Gotham's finally connected to the outside world again. A nice little nest egg's waiting for the three of them once they get off this fucking island. And she still has her contacts, even after burning her identity. The necessary people still know she's active, not on the market anymore but definitely not down for the count. All that's left now is to convince Bruce it's past time they made their exit-that, or drug him, get John's help in schlepping the big lug onto the airplane, and take off into the sunset.
Come a repeat of hell, high water, or Bruce throwing another non-temper tantrum, they are out of here next Thursday, or rather Irena Dubrovna, Grey Hemingford, and Todd Richards-or Caroline Hill, depending on the circumstances-are out of here.
But, there's still plenty to do before then, and a big part of that is swaying Bruce, and what that entails is setting the stage, so to speak, presenting him the best picture of both Gotham and anywhere else but Gotham in the hopes he'll recognize he's no longer needed here. That basically boils down to cleaning up the mess the best she can in the space of 9 days, and it's a lot harder than it sounds, and it already sounds impossible.
She's determined, though. No leaving anything behind, no sacrifices, not this time. She can be the bad guy if she has to, the scapegoat, the traumatized damsel, whatever's necessary, but they're not going to die here, and if they stay-that will happen, sooner, not later.
Money: check. Means: check. Papers: check, check, check (and check). That leaves the Amends portion, and so she starts with Gordon because he's the easiest. It's the work of a couple hours after having done her due diligence. She doesn't even have to fabricate anything, just assemble the parts, haul it up, and then carry away the rusted pieces already there. Should work like a charm.
Next, she sorts out the Narrows-well, attempts to anyway. There are clinics now, and she and some others, mostly cops and former military of course, beef up the security. There used to be protocol for things like hostage situations and natural disasters, but most of the staff who'd have known those procedures and drills are long gone, probably in the first wave of The Occupation. Do-gooders are almost always the first to go, seem to practically volunteer for it. There are a couple whom she's stumbled upon, purely by accident, who are still around and taking care of things, practical types who know when to keep their heads down and hands busy. Thompkins alternates between Oldtown and the Narrows, and she's one tough broad, has no problem running things and telling people what to do. Selina likes her almost immediately. Burke is up in Midtown, and he's mousier, more of a quiet yuppy, but he's still all there and willing, now at least, to step up and take control. She could break him in a few hours, get him back together inside a week, and have him hard as nails by the end of the month, but there just isn't that kind of time. He'll have to do.
The nurses and staff, though, might present a few problems. She and Brady, one of Gordon's lost sheep and a guy who, turns out, knows John from way back, check into some shady staff at one of Doc Thompkins' Oldtown clinics. They come up with two former residents of Blackgate and one Arkham escapee, as well three or four other personnel of somewhat dubious character, ranging from known gang and mafia connections to past felony convictions all the way up to the more recent cases of suspiciously dropped criminal charges. Thompkins is pissed but pleased with their work. Selina and Brady look into a few more clinics, and some of his buddies do the same for others, including both Doc Burke and that asshole over in Oldtown, Elliot.
The true test turns out to be what the doctors and staff do once the jig is up and everything's out in the open. Thompkins gives everyone a little lecture, and, by the end of the next day, six people have left, four more have signed on, and everyone's given something of a clean slate. Gordon's got himself another weirdo from Arkham to take back and two more thugs Bane and his posse had let out. Meanwhile, there are guys like Creedy, who for instance 19 years ago did 10 for B & E and Assault against his wife of the time, and they surprisingly become model employees. It kind of makes Selina smile a little. Some folks flourish in bad times, some flounder. Maybe all he'd needed was a chance, and in this new shithole that Gotham's become Doug Creedy got one.
Doc Burke too runs mostly clean operations, some gray characters here and there but nothing dangerous. The "background checks" flush out the worst, and whoever sticks around, well, is probably going to stick around. Selina makes the introductions between Doctors Thompkins and Burke and is pretty happy with the result. Someone's got a new puppy to boss around, and Burke stands not a chance against the freight train that is Leslie Thompkins' will. It's a match made in medicine heaven.
Then, there's Elliot. She leaves him to Brady, washes her hands of it. That guy himself is shadier than shady. Hopefully, she's wrong, and he's just a typical surgeon with an ego the size of Texas and no bedside manner to speak of, but that's not likely. Her instincts are good, and even John had gotten the willies from Elliot. She wonders what Bruce will think of him, assuming he'll wait to have the stitches in his side taken out and not just bypass that step and remove them himself.
When the houses of healing are themselves clean, she goes back to a favorite pastime of hers-bounty hunting. The crooks at Thompkins' are just the start because those chuckleheads were harmless compared to what else is now free, roaming the streets and alleys of Gotham at all hours, stealing, destroying, murdering. The Commish has his hands busy evidently, liaising between everyone out there and everyone still in here, and his men and women are, well, they're decent at what they do. She can admit that. They're trying, and it helps knowing John and seeing now what being a cop in this city really means, what it used to mean before, and during, The Occupation.
In the process of reducing Gotham's overabundance of freaks, there are a few-incidents between her and these hardworking officers of the peace, and a few times, when she gets back to the apartment after one of her turns around the neighborhood, John gives her this look.
One time, it's when Bruce is in the bathroom, showering and shaving, and John's got actual bread and honey and fruit on the table. No butter, no milk, no sugar, but honey's just as good, and fruit is-fruit is incredible. The peaches are small, just bordering on under ripe, and divine.
But, there's John, Mr. Disapproval, and he's just standing there, ruining the moment with his raised eyebrows and downturned mouth.
"What?" she finally challenges, making a grab for another peach but getting slapped by John when she's not quick enough.
"Wait," he says, jerking his head towards the bathroom and by extension Bruce. So they're going to have a meal, right-a nice family breakfast? How charming. Meanwhile, she hasn't eaten anything since yesterday morning, and that was cereal with water, and there wasn't much of it to eat.
"I'm fucking starving here," she hisses back, making another grab, but this time John just takes the whole bowl of fruit away. He sets it behind him on the kitchen counter and squares his shoulders like he's preparing for a fight.
"You can hold out another five minutes," John then tells her, and that note of smugness in his voice is extremely irritating .
"Easy for you to say. You're not the one out there for hours on end running down freaks in four-inch heels!"
Even as she's saying it, she's inwardly slapping herself in the face for being so careless. Shut your goddamn, mouth, Kyle! You're going to give it away, and the guy's less than 50 feet away down the hall.
John, for his part, is shocked into silence for a good 30 seconds after her little outburst, finally coming back with a droll, "The freaks were in four-inch heels, or you were?"
"Oh, you're a riot!" she responds, and he just smiles, visibly relaxing for a moment before tilting his head and looking at her more closely. There's the look again, the knowing kind. It's not a cop look. In fact, it's the reverse of a cop look.
"What are you up to, Selina?" he suddenly asks, and it's quiet, and it's also one of the few times he's called her by her first name.
It's always Kyle. Does this mean something?
Probably.
He comes back to the table, takes a seat in the chair to her left, and she just looks at him-this kid, this little tough guy with the big chip on his shoulder. He's not abrasive, certainly not like she is, but he's not smooth either. John should've been a PI, one of those guys from the noir stories, always getting his man, always saving the dame and strolling off by himself. He just seems out of place here.
"I'm just doing my part, John," she eventually says, and his eyes go narrow when she says his name. Tit for tat.
"Yeah, that's what I'm afraid of."
"Oh, stop worrying," she tells him, pushing her chair back and, quick as you please, slipping around him and over to the unattended bowl of actually pretty pathetic fruit. He gives an audible sigh when she snatches up another peach, and as she turns around, already taking a huge bite, he's looking at her over his shoulder.
"You're determined," he remarks, mouth quirked up in a little half-smile. Selina nods and then considers again what he just said. It could just be about the peach, just something superficial like that, but it's not. The tone's wrong, for starters. He sounds tired, too tired and nervous for some casual observation about her general lack of patience.
And it's John, and every word he says pulls double duty. His sentences are loaded, and he doesn't even say all that much really.
She finally decides she'd better respond, not just leave his comment hanging out there awkwardly, so it's, "I prefer tenacious," which she punctuates with another bite from the peach.
John just turns his head back around and nods at the tabletop. Then, he does something strange and actually lets that cool exterior of his crack a little. He heaves a big sigh, and, from where she's standing behind him, she sees him run his hands over his hair and then down his face. His voice muffled by his hands, it sounds like a confession when he says quietly, "Just be careful. Promise you won't do anything. . . " He trails off, and she wonders what he'd originally intended to say.
Excessive? Wrong? Really illegal?
Selina finishes chewing and swallows too quickly, the peach like a lump in her throat. "Hey," she says, her voice just as quiet as John's, "I don't have a death wish, unlike some other people around here. I take precautions."
Again, John nods, but he doesn't seem reassured. Of course, she's only judging from what she can see of him from behind, but posture says a lot about a person. And John doesn't normally slump.
So Selina walks back to the table and resumes her seat next to him, and the look on his face proves her right. He's got this hound dog expression, all big eyes and pouting mouth, and she's actually somewhat taken aback. He's sad and worried, visibly so, and about her, about what she's doing, which he's no doubt heard tell of from his cop buddies. This feels significant somehow, this moment, and he's a good guy. He cares about people and does a lot, goes out of his way a lot, to help out, and he doesn't get a kick out of being a hero. John isn't in it for the accolades.
He's just-a nice guy, and he cares. He cares what happens to her. Selina carefully sets down the half-eaten peach on the table and, meeting John's eyes, reaches over and snags one of his wrists, pulling it towards her and away from where he has his hands interlocked in front of his face. Then, she kind of smiles at him, feeling awkward and uncertain, and he smiles back after a few seconds.
He turns his wrist in her hold, his hand sneaking underneath her own to grip her wrist in turn.
"Feels like something's coming," he says, whispers, and the hair on the back of her neck stands up. She feels goose bumps on her arms, and a shiver slides across her shoulder blades.
"Well," she says, and it sounds too loud and cheery, but she's not going to let them fall into this trap of anxiety and fear, "it can't be any worse than what's already here."
John looks at her steadily, and eventually he nods a little and fakes a small smile, but his eyes don't lie, and his hand's cold around her wrist.
***
She rounds 107th and Pike, slowing briefly at the corner to make sure the way's clear and he hasn't stopped to ambush her, and then pushes on again. It's uphill this way, but she's not on top of her game enough to take an alternate route to try to outrun him. And she doesn't even know where he's going, not for sure, so she can't risk losing him by going the wrong way.
He's fast, really fucking fast, and he's been steadily outpacing her for three blocks. Everything's against her right now, but she's not giving up. Period. Maybe if it were someone else, some low-level enforcer or sleazebag, she wouldn't be going to this much trouble by herself. Some other goon, she'd stop and hunt down Brady and tell him or just spread the word around the area herself. Keep your kids and belongings close tonight, folks. There's another psycho on the loose, and he's armed!
No time, though. She's running out of options. Her feet were already aching, but now they and her ankles and her calves and thighs are screaming bloody murder at her. Feels like her body's pumping acid, and she knows she's breathing too fast.
God, crazies should not be in this good a shape. Why isn't he like everyone else in this town and worn down, malnourished, and approaching emaciated? Fucking rabbity bastard!
Up ahead, Zsasz rounds another corner, this time going left, and only when she reaches the top of the hill is she able to see it's an alley.
"You're determined," John had said, and when she doesn't slow down, just keeps going, runs right into the darkness between two rundown tenements, Selina realizes he hadn't meant "determined."
Rash, reckless, foolish.
Fucking stupid.
Ten feet maybe, and then something big and narrow and heavy hits her in the right shoulder, and she goes down like a bag of bricks. Shoulder socket, she thinks suddenly, and she's not screaming but moaning, groaning. Laughter farther down the alley, and she drops all the way flat against the ground just as whatever weapon comes swinging past again. She can feel it brush the top of her head.
"Those are some beautiful locks of love," she hears, and it echoes around the alley, the words "of love" repeating and repeating and repeating. Or maybe she's in shock.
There's still no time. Get up; something's coming. "Feels like something's coming."
She rolls sideways, and the bat, crowbar, 2x4, whatever, slams into the wet concrete right where she'd been. Twisting a little, she gets some momentum and swings her legs along the ground, catching whoever it is, Zsasz or the second guy, right in the ankles. He goes down, and she is getting up. She is getting out of the puddle of whatever it is on the ground and running on these motherfucking razor heeled boots like they're the best tennis shoes money can buy. She's getting up. She's up, up, up, and she takes off, and she's jerked back by her head.
The hair is going after this. It's toast. She's so sick of being tugged around by her hair like it's a leash.
She can't prevent a startled yelp, and the asshole who's got her makes a weird sound of pleasure, almost like a purr or moan of appreciation, and this is sick. He's not dragging her, though, just hanging onto her, one hand fisting her hair and the other jabbing something very sharp into her side, low, lower back.
"No need to be so rough," she says, trying for steady and nearly achieving it. He doesn't even twitch, though, no reaction at all. "I can't even see anything," she adds, quickly, "pitch black, as it is. . . "
"Mmm," is the response, and it's not dubious or angry. It's- it's cheerful, happy.
"Fucking slit her throat," says the other guy, the one still down on the ground, and she knows that's Zsasz now, recognizes his voice. That's him, on the ground.
Who. . . ?
Oh, God. Her brain instantly spits out the worst-case scenario, and she wishes the shock were still around, making her stupid and slow and not-because the worst-case isn't even all that far-fetched.
"Such a waste, I think," says this guy, right into her ear, and he's plastered onto her back, his chin hooked over her shoulder, the fucking knife burning as it's pressed into the leather of her suit. He's going to stab her if he gets much closer. Then, abruptly, she can feel him twist his head around and yell, "Self-control, isn't that what I'm always saying? The world is your oyster, but you're down in the muck. Oh, what are you moaning about?"
Selina tries not to struggle, tries not to breathe too hard, lest that knife slip forward. But then he's back, says, "Apologies, my feline friend," like he's savoring the words, rolling them around in his mouth like strange marbles. "My compatriot here, you see, he lacks the proper, heh, state of mind for male-female interaction." Closer, and he's breathing in her ear again, but the knife's gone. "I suspect the father, myself," he whispers, and his breath catches like he's laughing, like it's a dirty little secret between the two of them, "something about the way he eats so much sausage!" And then he's laughing outright, shrill and loud right in her ear, but he pushes her away suddenly, and it's not down towards the ground but forward, out. . .
She still stumbles, goes to catch herself on one of the tenement's walls and remembers at the last second to twist so it's her left arm and left shoulder getting the weight-not her right, fuck, the right. It's crushed.
"Fucking bitch!" Zsasz screams, but the laughter continues, and then there's the thudding sound of a fist or a foot or an elbow meeting flesh, and the gasping, desperate, wheezing of someone exhaling in a hurry.
She gets up, gets up and runs all the way back home, tail between her legs.
She's-determined.
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