Zinnia Floros paced circles in the empty showroom, slowly and with purpose. Her clicking heels echoed off empty walls, sounding like when someone claps in that sarcastic way. She pushed her dark hair behind her ear and a smile escaped, just a little. Just a museum room, one of many opening to the public. But her room, to do with as she pleased. How often does a linguist ever get to curate a museum project?
Zinnia couldn't help but feel lucky to get this position. The Gotham Museum of Communications was looking to expand and sell more tickets, get more members. Let's face it: there aren't a lot of takers for rooms upon rooms of old telegraph equipment and code-breaking reenactments. They wanted something more modern for the "new wing" (read: one room right now). Why they chose her she'd never know: her expertise was in accents, regional slang. She had an ear for accents, the way Mozart had an ear for melodies: hear it once, remember it forever. She was destined to study dialects, which is exactly what she did. Shouldn't they have chosen someone who studied texting, social media-ing, or something truly modern?
Her smile widened. No, she knew why they chose her. Life is funny that way. A few years back she'd done a study on how people talk during sex. It was part of a larger study on sex differences, the way men and women talk to each other, but she focused on the intimacy, and the words spoken within it. Ha! All her hard work on accents and regions, and this is what gets everyone's attention. It vaulted her to academic stardom so fast that she soon had trouble talking about anything else. And this, of course, is what the Gotham Museum of Communications wants, she thought. They want me to fill this room with sexy talk, without making it pornography. A fine line to walk, indeed.
She accepted the position on a few conditions, which the board was all too happy to oblige: she would stay on as curator of the linguistic wing, with the right to change the theme away from sex talk as needed. Also, she securd a position at the university, where she could teach classes not just on sex differences in communication – which everyone wanted to talk about – but also on her other interests. It was a good move, would expand her name beyond "the one who studies pillow talk." She loved doing that, but there was more to her. She couldn't risk getting pigeon-holed.
Visions of layouts, interactive simulations, surged through her brain, until she heard the noise. It was like a mouse scratching at a tunnel, so much that she bent down to check the molding against the floor. Would she need to call in an exterminator now too? As she got down on one knee to feel the wood, the big picture window above her crashed open, spilling glass on and around her. Hands over head instinctively, panting, Zinnia peered through her fingers at what had come through the window. I knew Gotham had crime, she thought, but this is the art museum sector. It's in the best part of town. What would a vandal want with an unused wing in a highly protected area?
Shock curled her into a ball as she saw what had come through the window: not one, not two, but three ninja-looking figures with hand-to-hand weapons she couldn't make out. Nothing made sense: it was bright as day in this room, compared to the darkness outside. They had to have known before jumping in – why were they dressed to blend into the night? What in the world did they want with an empty room? Not even burglar alarms were working in here yet. There was nothing to steal.
Strangely, the three figures seemed to know the large room was empty. With barely a glance around, they started for the holdings closet, located off the back. Of course that was locked; Zinnia herself had barely had time yet to look through it. Organizing that alone would be a full-time job, she'd thought. It had pieces from old exhibits, untagged electronics, stacks of love letters donated by some rich family who thought their great-grandfather's philandering was worth displaying to the world. How could these three even know what they were looking for in there? They seemed to know just where to go, though, and one of them expertly broke the lock. As soon as the closet doors opened, the one who'd broken the lock turned to the one in back and said, "stay out here." Zinnia couldn't help but intake her breath when she realized they were speaking Portuguese. Right now it does not pay to be a linguist, she thought, as two of the dark burglars turned towards her breathy sound.
Zinnia didn't need to be a genius to know she was about to be attacked. The one already in the closet was yelling to the other two, urgent curt commands like, "deal with that." She had precious few seconds before they crossed the large room. So she used what short time she had to stand up, brush off the glass, and pick up a large shard. She backtracked away from the open window in case more were outside, but kept her back to the wall, never letting them out of her sight. By the time the two got to her, she'd figured out which one was the better fighter. It was in the way he moved his body, more graceful and in control. She turned towards the worse of the two, pleading in English to let her go, fully knowing they never would. As his hand went back to strike her, she swept his legs under him, cutting across his arm with the sharp glass. One down, two to go, she thought. Now they know I have training. It's all downhill from here.
Zinnia picked up the weapon the bloody arm had dropped; it was a wide blade. These people don't use guns? Why? Lucky for her they didn't, anyway. She'd never be alive if they had, and the window was too high to jump back out of.
Ninja #2 took her measure. She was taller by an inch or two in her heels, and didn't have time to kick them off for balance. He looked strong, and didn't seem prepared to go easy on her because she was a woman. Fine, she thought. I can do this. Papa taught me a thing or two. She waited for his move, which was a surprising kick to her left side. It struck her off balance, but she spun back, blade in hand, crouching in to protect from the next attack. It was the same kick again, followed by a knife slice, but she was ready for it. Zinnia rolled under the kick and lifted her own leg up at the last instant, kicking into the man's groin and causing him to lean over. She didn't want to kill anyone, but she had to survive. She drove the blade into the man's leg, and kicked him swiftly in the head. As he crumpled, she ran full force to the fire alarm. It was on her side of the room, and she prayed she could get there before the last ninja emerged from the closet. She also prayed it was operational – this room had barely been used in decades. As she reached it and pulled, a deafening ring filled the space. The third man emerged from the closet, clutching an envelope. He turned to her, and threw a small knife her way in a last-ditch attempt to silence her before running to escape through the window. How was he going to get up there? She wondered.
The throw missed, and the man veered towards the far door after realizing the same thing Zinnia had – the window was too high. He stopped, as if gauging whether he should take her out, or maybe whether he could save his friends. He looked down at his envelope and back to her. It was then she realized he had no weapon. Either he is really stupid, a really good fighter, or I'm missing something. All her training kicked in: all the years of teaching from her father and his fighter-friends. She'd fought before, but never like this. Not for her life. But she sensed she wasn't safe if the man managed to leave. He would come for her.
She charged at him, yelling, willing her adrenaline to keep up with her bravado. What am I doing, attacking a man who might have a weapon, when I have nothing? He's certainly stronger than I am. Once again, Zinnia got lucky. He wasn't all that much stronger than she was – he must have been the brains of the operation, which wasn't saying much. He did have training though, and they matched each other hit for block, kick for kick, until she felt fatigue wearing on her. Where are the Police?
Behind her Zinnia heard a whoosh sound from the window, like flapping wings. She didn't take the time to look, but her opponent did, and she seized the opportunity, swiftly punching him on his exposed cheek. He staggered back, staying on his feet but barely, and she shook her hand out. It hurt like hell. Punching a face takes a lot of resistance in the arm, and she felt like all her fingers snapped on the contact. She jumped back, glancing towards the noise.
She'd heard of the Batman – everyone around Gotham had – but she was new here, and almost hadn't believed it. But there he was, big and foreboding just like everyone said. She and her ninja both instinctively took one step back, as if Batman took up more space than his body allowed. All she knew about him so far was that he was basically a thug against thugs. That he was on the side of 'good' gave her no sympathy for his profession.
Batman quickly assessed that the man in the ninja garb was the intruder, and had him in a choke hold before Zinnia could regain her breath. She sank to the floor, exhausted. It had been a long time since she'd fought against anyone for real. No matter how many martial arts you'd practiced – and she'd done a lot thanks to her father – a match is not the same as a fight. She knew she was lucky to be alive, and just wanted to sit there feeling grateful until the police came.
When they finally arrived, questioning did no one any good since the men barely spoke English.
"They're Brazilian," Zinnia said to no one in particular.
"How do you know." Batman turned to her, and she felt herself shrink a full inch feeling his full gaze. But her other, non-physical training kicked in. She found it interesting that he disguised his voice with a deep rumble – intelligible, but guarded. She cocked her head to the side. If I ever meet this man out of costume, she thought, I will still know who he is. His voice may be disguised to some, but not me. The thought disturbed her – she didn't really want to know who he was. It seemed like a dangerous thing to know. She wanted to get out of there, and sit in a bath thanking the Heavens she was alive. Well, anyway, Gotham had about nine million people living in it. The chances were slim to none that they'd meet again.
"I speak Portuguese. But their accent wasn't from Portugal."
"You are the linguist here." Batman spoke questions while making them sound like statements. He reminded her of Darth Vader, and she didn't like him very much. Is the city so bad that it needs a good guy who looks and acts like a villain? And why in the world would he know who she was?
"Yes, I am." She felt the weight of his eyes studying her, as if trying to make sure she was telling the truth, and also judging in that one moment whose side she was on.
His voice growled again. "You know Judo."
"Yes."
"And Pygmachia."
Zinnia smiled in spite of his serious tone. No one she'd met was familiar with this ancient Greek art. "Apparently, so do you."
Batman nodded slightly, giving her another long look. She knew she owed him no explanation, but she answered the question he hadn't asked anyway.
"I am Greek. My father owned a gym, and trained me too."
"Owned?" Zinnia straightened her shoulders despite being hunched on the floor. Why was he questioning her?
"He is retired now."
Batman registered the information with barely even a nod. Instead he continued the inquisition. "What were they here for?"
"I have no idea," she said. "If you know I'm the linguist you also know I'm new in town."
"Does trouble follow you?" He narrowed his eyes.
Zinnia's temper flared. She forced her legs to stand up, still shaking out her hand. "If you hadn't noticed, I was attacked here. I don't know what they were after, but I doubt it was me. We linguists don't see a lot of action."
"Could have fooled me," he said slowly with eyes still on her, clearly referring to the way she punched the other man. Zinnia shrugged. She was used to people being surprised that she could fight. It was old news, and here in a new city she'd have to start all over again, surprising people and explaining herself. She was practically a joke waiting to be told: a linguist who could do Judo. She'd heard it all before.
"Tell the police what you know," Batman said, lingering almost as if testing her. She figured she passed the test, because he turned away from her, spoke a few terse and gravelly words to the officer in charge, and then was gone.
"Goodbye to you, too," she muttered. The officer came over, and said, "Don't take it personally, Miss. Once you've lived here a while, you'll see he does that to everyone."
"Weirdest. Night. Ever," she said, sinking down to the floor again.
"Welcome to Gotham, Miss," said the officer, taking out his pad and pen.