A/N: So yes, second story. Not my magnum opus, but it's been flitting around my head long enough to warrant some actual writing. Can't promise regular updates, school and all that.
Warning: Spoilers ahead! Go watch the Dark Knight trilogy! Then come back! (Exclamation points!)
Wait a second… why are you even here if you haven't seen the movies? Whatever.
To all lovers of the Nolanverse: I am a hardcore Batman fangirl. I must say, the movies… they suck. But I suppose you just can't quite put something as awesome as the Bat in the real world, so here I sit proud owner of the trilogy. I have watched it approximately 47 bazillion times. The Dark Knight is the best, Batman Begins I don't mind so much, and TDKR is horrid and depressing. Therefore, I have decided to write my story during TDKR. Yes, yes, I know. I'm crazy. As for whether or not I express my disdain for TDKR in this little tale? We'll see.
Disclaimer: I own only Sylvie and Patch. The movies and, well, everything else belongs to Warner. Batman created by Bob Kane.
Day 1: Descent
"This great city, it will endure. Gotham will survive!"
The masked man's voice echoed in my ears as I dodged elbows and fists. I sidestepped as one of the rioters fell. He disappeared moments later beneath feet not as kind as mine. Thanks to my slim figure I was able to dart minnow-fast through the crowd, making me the first to enter the classy lobby of the Gotham Ritz. I dived left through an archway, sprinting down a hall to the hotel restaurant. Backpack bouncing against my back, I weaved through tables at top-speed, vaulting over some. Fancy crockery smashed in my wake, and a few morning diners shrieked in abject terror at the dirty street rat (me) dodging through their midst as well as the mass of people trying to jam their way in behind me, stuck in the bottleneck hallway.
Kitchen, kitchen, where's the kitchen? A waiter emerged from a swinging door at the back of the room, took one look at me, and dropped the dishes he was carrying. Wolfish grin on my face, I snagged him and whipped out my switchblade. Yanking his head back by his hair, I tugged him behind me into the kitchen. All of the cooks froze instantly. I held my blade up to the waiter's throat. "Out! Or Dishboy gets it!" One man's saucepan caught fire, but they continued to stare at me in abject terror. Or was it horror? The guy in charge of the kitchens (Or at least, I assumed he was. He had the biggest hat) waved the cleaver he had in his hand and frenched at me. I gave Dishboy a shallow cut, letting them see the blood. Big hat guy paled, and frenched some more. I assume it was a command, and I stepped aside to let them out the door. The chefs grumbled and trailed out behind big hat guy. I shoved Dishboy out behind them, just in time to hear them scream as they collided with the mob.
I unzipped my backpack and began to swipe some of the already cooked food off the counter. I got in some waffles, sausages, and a steak when the door burst open. I fled to the other side of the kitchen as the other rioters poured in.
Ooo, bingo! Fridge right next to me! I yanked open in the door and reveled in the. Into my backpack went fruit, a few assorted wrapped meats, and a chocolate cake. I glanced at the pantry, but reasoned there probably weren't any cans or non-perishables in such a classy place. Pity. My backpack was fit to burst though, so I figured it to be high time to leave. I slung the backpack on and snatched a few knives off the counter to add to my arsenal.
I glanced towards the front of the kitchen, and found that the rioters were nearly upon me. I weighted the blade in my right hand for a heartbeat, and then let it fly towards the closest person. The blade buried into his shoulder, sending him to a grinding halt as well as discouraging any followers. I wasn't there to see it of course. I had already darted out the back door. I dashed down the alley and popped out next to the façade of the Gotham Ritz. Rich people were scattered across the street, former residents of the hotel. I flew past their frightened faces, ignoring their cries of fear, sorrow, and pain. I clipped and old man in a bathrobe who had been holding his arms up in surrender, and leapt over a small girls with the glint of gold at her throat who was screaming for her parents. Tough luck girlie. Maybe you'll understand how I feel.
I ran until I hit Oldtown. Out of breath and sweating in my blue woolen coat, I turned down our alley.
"Patch!" I called gleefully. Two heads, one blonde-haired and blue-eyed ,and one small and feline, poked their heads out from behind a dumpster.
"Sylvie!" cried my little brother, dashing out to hug me. Scratch, Patch's calico, padded dutifully behind his master.
"The storm has broken!" I crowed victoriously. "Gotham belongs to us now."
"I know!" Patch nodded vigorously. "I was monitoring the channels and saw the masked man's speech. The president says that they can't risk an incursion into Gotham. It's like we live in an entirely different country! They say martial law is in effect, but they can't get the army into the city. They're just out on the bridges, making sure no one leaves. As if anyone would want to live. The police are all trapped too, and they can't get out because Bane's army is guarding all of the possible escape routes!" I grinned at my brother's enthusiasm. "Here, come in and I'll show you. " He tugged me back down the alley, and into our tent.
I guess I should explain that a little—Patch and me are orphans. He got shoved into some smelley boys home, and I got forced into juvie while they 'processed us'. Unfortunately for them, Patch is a genius hacker. He managed to access the boy's home computer and remotely unlocked my cell. I snuck out without a hitch through the vents. Sounds like a spy movie, right? Needless to say, Patch and I had a very screwed up childhood even before our mom died. I broke him out of the boy's home (he's not very good with manual locks) and we became street children. It was hard at first, but I knew enough to get us by. I even built us a home—our tent, made of stolen blankets, sheet, string, and tarp.
I crawled in behind Patch. "Y'know, we can take whatever we want now."
"What'd you get?" asked Patch, who was fiddling with a small radio that I had…procured… for him a couple of years ago.
"Food," I said dismissively. "But I don't mean what I got, I mean what we can get." Patch looked up, confusion obvious on his face. "Take our tent for instance. It's nice, but…"
"It smells funny, leaks, and is too small," said Patch.
"Exactly. Gotham's social order has changed. Maybe we can get an actual place. Y'know, four walls, roof, indoor plumbing…" I wriggled my eyebrows implicatively.
"Penthouse?" queried Patch.
"Penthouse," I confirmed. "And I know just the one."
…
The Wayne penthouse was pretty sweet. Considering I had to bust the lock on the front of the building, and Patch had to hack into the mainframe to get the private elevator to open and work, it was empty. Safe, too—Patch re-locked everything behind us. We stood in the slightly-dusty gleaming glory of the of the penthouse's foyer, admiring its class.
"Jeez! Sylvie, check out the view!" Patch pressed his head up against the glass, looking down. I shivered.
"God, how can you do that?" I queried in horror.
Patch looked up, confused. "Do what?"
I gestured at him. "Stand right up next to that kind of drop with only a sheet of glass between you and falling!"
Patch laughed. "Sylvie's scared of heights!" he teased.
I whapped him on the back of his head, then danced out of his reach. "I'm not scared of heights! I'm scared of falling! There's a difference, you know!" I proclaimed.
Patch started after me, but I dropped my backpack and further into the foyer, towards the sweeping minimalist staircase. Patch followed me, but got distracted by the TV. He whistled through his teeth. "Haven't seen one of those in a while."
I rolled my eyes. "C'mon, geekish. Let's explore our new home!" I darted up the stairs, without waiting to see if he followed.
Together, we tore through the place like twin tornadoes. Once-neatly folded clothing and sheets were tossed into the air, tumbling down like giant pieces of snow. We flipped over chairs and removed cushions. We fought with some pillows until feathers floated into the air. Evening found us flopped on the king-sized bed in the master bedroom, still slightly giddy from our childish rampage. Nothing was seriously damaged, though, so it was all good. I stared at the ceiling dreamily, flat on my back, while Patch sat crosslegged, Scratch in his lap, a tie tied bandana-style around his head.
"Sweet!" exclaimed Patch.
"What, brother dear?" I mocked, poking his side. He batted my hand away.
"This penthouse has a private gas generator! And a backup generator! We'll be able to get electricity no matter what!"
"As long as we can find gas," I said with an eyeroll. "How'd you figure that there's a generator anyway?" I sat up and peered over his shoulder. Huh. Frankencomputer was humming away as Patch pounded the keys, bringing up the files in question. I didn't really understand the lines of gibberish, but the file was clearly marked 'Generator.' " What's all this?" I asked, waving a finger at the lines of code.
"Some crazy-ass encryption." I whacked him for his bad language. "Ow. When I break this, I'll be able to access the remote activation for the generator, and we'll have electricity."
"Hmm," I said intelligently. A couple of minutes passed and I glared at the moving lines on the screen. Patch's fingers were a blur. The tip of his tongue clenched between his teeth, he battled it out in cyberspace. Then the pattern of lights changed, and Patch let out a breath.
"What now!"
"You freaky cyborg," I said, shaking my head. Patch leapt from the bed gazelle-like, landing cat-like next to his backpack. The actual cat yowled in protest as he was dislodged from my brother's lap. Scratch bolted away in a streak of multi-colored fur as Patch rifled through his bag.
"Here we are!" exclaimed Patch, as he pulled out Frankencomputer's cable and plugged it into the wall.
"Frankencomputer lurches on!" I laughed, pantomiming Mary Shelley's monster. Yeah, I know, very creative. Blame Patch the Brain. When he cobbled together a computer from spare parts, I lovingly named it Frankencomputer. I still tease Patch by calling him Victor sometimes. His first act when we hit a wifi spot was to download Frankenstien using our (admittedly stolen) credit cards. You'd be surprised how long it takes for someone to recognize the fact that their card has been stolen, especially when a certain sneak thief (yours truly ) does a little second story work and returns the card after a certain hacker (I think you know where I'm going with this) enters the number on a certain computer.
Patch gave me an eyeroll and I gave him an exaggerated one back. "C'mon," I said. "Electricity's on. Now we've got to clean up."
"Why?" queried Patch, a look of genuine confusion on his face.
"I'm not going to live in a dirty house young man!" I scolded. After all, I added in my head, we might be two reckless and deprived youths with a lack of respect for public property and not-so-public property, but we are planning to live here for awhile.
Hopefully.