There's a storm brewing overhead. Thick, black clouds roll over the cityscape and cover the higher buildings in the descending fog. I glance up at the sky, grimacing as I realize how close it's getting. I've been trying to outrun those menacing clouds ever since I got off the plane earlier this morning. They've chased me all the way out here, to Wayne Manor, eager to spill out on me while I'm stuck outside waiting for someone to answer the door.
I rap my knuckles harder against the old, weatherworn mahogany. The echoes of my knock filter through what seems to be an empty house. Discouraged, I back away from the porch and flop down on my suitcase, situated just a few steps away. My father's letter lies crumpled at the bottom of my pocket, moving with me. I can feel the sharp folded edges poke against my hip as I sit down. Maybe he knows what I'm doing here – I surely don't. It's only been a few days since I got it in the mail, half-crushed and stained with greasy fingerprints. I'd opened it and read it on Monday morning, over breakfast in England, and now here I am – one day and two plane tickets later. At least the weather isn't very different from the perpetual London fog.
Maybe I didn't think this through as well as I could have. I'm sitting on the front steps of a manor that may very well be abandoned, waiting for someone to appear that may not even exist, while a nasty looking storm rolls in. Father seemed convinced that I should go, that there would be opportunities for me that I didn't exist in London. He told me that I had the chance to continue a very important legacy – that of the Pennyworth family. Technically, I'm a Remarque, and he addressed this very small technicality in the letter – but I'm his only descendent. You have inherited a great honor, my dear Julia.
It's starting to rain. I look up at the sky as it opens up and drops a flood down on my head.
"Brilliant," I mutter petulantly, searching for a hood on my woolen parka but finding none. Then I remember I packed my raincoat in my suitcase, along with my best wellies. It'd be useless to open it up now in this miserable downpour and get all my other things wet. So I bite my tongue, cross my arms over my chest, and resign myself to being soaked through and through.
I hear something rustling behind me.
And it occurs to me, for the first time, that I might have put myself in a bad situation.
If the manor really is abandoned, then I'm alone. There's no telling what sort of wild animals could be prowling about, looking for food, and I'm by myself in a strange place. I can't even bring myself to think about the possibility of other prowlers. A shiver runs through me, and it's not from the cold.
"What are you doing here?" A voice comes from behind me. "This is private property."
I nearly upset my suitcase as I bound away from it, turning around to face my attacker. He's not all that imposing. Not very tall, though taller than me, and thin as whipcord. I could take him on, if he got any bright ideas.
"Stay back!" I warn him. "I have mace…I know how to use it!"
His stern expression melts away, turning instead to one of amusement. His dark eyes crinkle, disappearing almost entirely, and the lines in his face begin to soften. "There's really no need for that. I'm more of a lover than a fighter."
"I don't care who or what you are!" I start digging in my purse, but it proves rather hard to find anything with my hands shaking so hard. "You lay one hand on me and you will lose it."
"If anyone should lose a hand around here, it's you," he replies, very matter of fact. "You're breaking the law."
"Right, and I suppose scaring the ever living daylights out of strange women isn't breaking the law in Gotham."
"Actually, it is. Intimidation is a misdemeanor in most jurisdictions."
The rummaging in my purse stops. It grows so quiet between the two of us that the rain becomes the only discernable noise for miles around.
"You speak fuzz?"
He inclines his head a little. "Sorry?"
"Fuzz. You know, the pigs, the big five-o…" I say. "You don't have police?"
"Look, this has been amusing and all, but I need you to tell me what you're doing here."
I take my hand out of my bag. It seems as though he has no immediate plans to hurt me. "Yes, of course…I'm here to see the master of this manor, but it seems like no one lives here anymore."
He peers over my head, staring at the house for a moment, then fixes his eyes back on me. There's a hint of something in them now, clouding their dark warmth with winding strands of ice – is that fear? "It's been abandoned for a couple of weeks."
"Really now? Well, that is strange. You see, my father told me I would find it very much occupied when I got here."
"Your father?"
"Yes. Alfred Pennyworth," I tell him. "He served the last master of this house before the man supposedly disappeared."
He looks unconvinced. "Maybe we should discuss this in my car."
"Are you loony?" My voice raises a few octaves. I have half a mind to start looking for my mace again. "I'm not getting in any car with you!"
"You can trust me."
"Those sound an awful lot like famous last words, sir."
"I promise, I won't hurt you," he laughs a little, holding out his hands in surrender - to show me there's nothing in them, no cruel looking instruments of torture. Not even a knife, the typical weapon of a hardened criminal. "You English girls sure are flighty."
"If being careful is flighty, then so be it!"
He changes his tone, dropping the playful timbre that runs through it. "I swear on my life."
"I'd rather speak to you out in the open, where there's enough room to run away if you get any bright ideas."
"It's raining-"
"A little rain never hurt anyone."
He puts his hands down. The raging torrent has let up a little, but we're still dripping wet. It seeps through his hair, the current swift and sure. "Fine. You don't trust me and you're smart not to. But can I at least see your father's letter?"
It seems a fair enough request. Besides, he might even know about what happened here, where I need to go to find this mysterious new occupant of Wayne Mano, or if he even exists at all. As much as I don't trust this man, I need his information more. He's a local – knows all the stories, the people, everything I need to know to sort this situation out. Maybe he can help…
"Yeah, all right." I point to a tree nearby with thick boughs, so heavy with rain that they scrape the soggy ground. "You can read it under there, so the ink doesn't run."
He gestures his arm toward the spot. "You first."
I watch him as I lead the way, my entire body taut with vigilance. "I could still beat the ever living shit out of you, you know."
He's laughing again, harder than before, though I don't see what's so funny about my threats. They are genuine. If he knew me, he'd be very much aware of the fact that I am no one to be trifled with, even if I am on the smaller side. "I don't doubt your abilities."
Once underneath the protection of the willow tree, I take out my letter and give it to him. He's a fast reader. His eyes skim across the page, taking in every word, and with each passing second his face grows more grim. It has stopped raining. It no longer filters through the trees, beating down on the leaning branches as it tries to reach us beneath their cover. A wet, heavy silence hangs over us. The storm has lifted...for now.
He folds the letter back in place, staring off at piece of earth in deep concentration. At last, he looks at me, determination carving deep lines back into his face.
"If Alfred Pennyworth has sent you, and it looks as though he has…"
Our eyes meet as he hands the letter back, pushing it gently into my waiting hands.
Thunder rumbles in the distance.
"Then you're looking for me, Miss Remarque."
a/n: I decided to make Scars a one shot and start this. I hope you don't mind too much...
disclaimer - i don't own john blake. he belongs to nolan and dc comics.