Disclaimer: I own nothing except Catharine. Not meant to be anything spectacular; just a thought I had after seeing this movie. I am making no profit from this ficlet.
The door bursts open. The hostages scream. Their fear is palpable. They cower, all hide their faces. All but one. He stares straight ahead, hands in his lap, legs crossed. The only sign he's even awake is the tremble of his shoulders. He's scared like the others, but he tries to look calm. God knows why.
Dalton stalks towards him, slowly...ever-so-slowly. He stops in front of the hostage. "Hello there," he says, a hint of menace purposefully placed in his voice. No reply. The hostage is either very brave or very stupid. Maybe a mix. Dalton kneels down, gun flashing. The others are still afraid, but they watch the exchange in silence, all the breath gone from their lungs. "You know, it's very rude to not say 'hello' back when someone greets you."
A deep breath. Eyes blink behind the dark sunglasses. "Generally-" it's a woman's voice "-it's ruder to make a lady strip before you even know her name...without paying her first, of course." Dalton chuckles. "Now, I don't see you handing me any cash, so you're the rude one here." He laughs outright. This one has spirit as well as a brain. Not like the loud-mouthed Jersey Shore reject in the other room.
"So you want a cut of this heist in return for me seeing you almost-naked? Don't flatter yourself, sweetheart." He stares at her. She stares back. A thought crosses his mind and he pauses. He has the time, and most certainly the interest. He stands. He pulls her up with him. The others scream again, but he's not interested in them right now.
He doesn't have to froce her to walk, not like everyone else. She follows without a struggle. No resisting, no mouthing-off, no crying, no begging. She's still shaking, but her steps are dignified, almost matching his longer strides. He notices her height and glances at her feet. Her shoes are strange, even for Manhatten. Patent leather four-inch heels with white on top to give the illusion of spats, miniature faux brass knuckles laced to the sides. That explains how she's nearly as tall as he is, all six-foot-three-inches of him.
Dalton motions to his accomplice and he opens the door to an empty office for them. Once they're inside he closes the door and walks off; he knows better than to hang around when the boss wants to talk.
Dalton puts the woman in front of a chair. "Sit." She does. He leans back on the desk, his posture relaxed yet still in control. "You can take off the glasses if you want. The mask, too." He's surprised when she removes them; she knows when a command is only masquerading as a suggestion. What's better is when the command is obeyed without question.
The girl is hot, he'd give her that. Green eyes look at him defiantly. A slight arch in her nose doesn't detract from her face, but adds 'character'. Long caramel hair disappears into her painter's suit, a chunk of bright purple in her bangs. Her pretty mouth is set in a firm line. Her shoulders still shake, but not nearly as violently as before. He notices her hands are clasped together, just as they were back in the other room. He breifly entertains the fantasy of looking her up after this job is done. "What's your name, darling?"
"Catharine." Simple, to the point, direct.
"Are you afraid of me, Cathy?"
"Catharine," she stresses. "And what does it matter if I am or not?"
"Such hostility." He grins under his mask. "You think I won't smack a woman around if she gets too smart?"
"What do I care if I get slapped around a bit?"
"You enjoy it, or something?"
"Number one, I've gotten in scraps plenty of times before. In this city, you don't back dwon from a fight and you don't win every one. Number two, pain doesn't last. The body doesn't remember pain. Yeah, you hurt like hell for a bit, but once it's over, it's over. What you remember is the fear. The fear of the pain not going away. Or, and this is more likely, the fear of death, of being killed with pain being the last thing you ever feel. No one wants to go out like that."
"And how do you wanna go out?"
She smirks slightly. "In a blaze of glory."
He can't help himself. He lets loose a loud laugh. The girl's a firecracker with the ability to rationalize. A deadly combination in the right hands. He notices she isn't smiling, her smirk gone as well. He glances over her thoughtfully. "You never answered my question, Catharine."
A pause. "Of course I'm afraid. What sane person wouldn't be in this situation?"
"What about your speech about pain and death and all that jazz?"
"From an objective perspective, pain is a fletting part of life and death happens to everyone eventually. I don't believe in either a place where I float on a cloud for all eternity or where there's nothing but hellfire."
"You an atheist?"
"Far from it. I just never liked the idea of either Heaven or Hell. The way I see it, whatever I believe in regards to an afterlife is what will happen to me."
"What if you're wrong?"
"Then what'll I care? I'll be dead anyway."
He laughs again. He's having fun now. "You don't care what happens to you tonight at all, do you?"
"I never said that." He cocks his head at her. "I don't want to be beaten up or shot or raped-"
"That won't happen," he interrupts.
"-but you're the one with the advantage. Yet you're not taking it. You hold dozens of lives in your hands yet you seem to only be concerned with avoiding the police outside." He decides not to correct or enlighten her. "You don't want to hurt anyone. Not too much, at least. So you won't."
"How do you know?"
"I don't. But convicing myself of that is about the only thing keeping me sane and in one piece right now. I'm not going to make a nuisance of myself, not give you any reason to hurt me whatsoever."
"And how are you so certain I won't just kill you right now?" Dalton raises his .357 to her head.
She doesn't glance at the gun, but she starts shaking again. "I'll take my chances." A long silence stretches between them. Both are still as stone until she speaks again. "By the way, you're not shooting anything until you pull the hammer back."
A short, tense pause before he's laughing again. He lowers the gun. "Goddamn, woman. You're good."
"I try." She almost smiles, but she seems to think better of it.
Dalton looks her over again, impressed with her. No false bravery, only objective reasoning and rationale. No bargaining or pleading for her life. The girl's honest, a rarity in this city. She's still staring at him, her eyes seeming to try to bore into his skull. "One more question, then I'll take you back: what's with those shoes?" He nods down towards her feet.
For the first time she breaks her eyes from him and glances at her distinctive heels. A nervous, suspicious chuckle. "IT's a romanticized version of '20s gangster fashion. Is it wrong for a girl to present herself with a bit of nostalgic class?"
He shakes his head slowly. "Not at all. They suit you."
More silence passes between them along with a kind of understanding neither fully comprehends at the moment. "Get your mask and glasses back on, Catahrine," he commands. She obeys.
He knows she won't struggle, but he holds onto her arm again anyway. They walk down the darkened hallway once more before he (gently) shoves her into the room she'd come from. The hostages cower again; it's sickening, really. "Sit down." She does.
Dalton's mind goes back to the larger job at hand. He closes the door and allows himself only one thought irrelevant to the heist: I just might look her up after all this is over.