A/N: So, I feel rather guilty for posting a chapter of a new story when I not long ago started a TDKR fic in which I haven't got round to updating again yet! Truth is, an idea came to me and as hard as I did try, I just couldn't get it to fit in with my other fic Redemption without completely disrupting the planned plot and confusing both myself and whoever may have stumbled across and read it. Sooo, I've decided to go with said idea in a new story just because I really was interested in exploring it!
I'm bored of reading about this mysterious, masked rogue in all of his muscled bounty ... said no one ever anyway!
I hope you don't condemn me to being a fanfiction floozey going from one story to the next and also hope you may even like my idea (once it becomes clear what it is!) and this chapter! I would love to hear your opinions as always so don't be shy, I promise I won't cry if it's terrible!
Chapter One
"Maria Griffiths here reporting breaking news live outside the Gotham Stock Exchange building-"
"Hey, turn it up, turn it up!" Marco, waved an impatient hand in the air towards the mounted TV on the restaurant wall. "Paulie go press the clicker, hurry up we're missin' it!"
With a sense of resentment towards Marco's constant orders, Paulie slung the tea-towel in his hand over his shoulder and made towards the old grainy TV. He was a short man so had to stretch up on the balls of his feet to reach the volume button on the side, but the voice of the reporter became clearer and filled the quiet restaurant.
"Witnesses say they saw men on moped style motorcycles approach the building but the identities of these men remain unknown. As you can see police have gathered at the scene, which is suspected to be a hostage situation."
Marco crossed his arms and leant against the counter, shaking his head in disgust. "Well would ya' look at that. Scumbags these days have no limits! What they gunna' steal from the damn Stock Exchange, computers?" He looked over to me for some sort of patronage.
I straightened up from my position slumped against the counter and smoothed out my apron shrugging. "Maybe it's a bit more complex than stealing computers Marco."
"There ain't no money in those buildings Frank, it ain't nothin' more than low lives tryna' get their hands on anythin' they can!" He shook his head again at his own assumptions and continued wiping the counter down.
I rolled my eyes and made my way around the other side of the counter grabbing a coffee pot. Marco was one of those people who always thought they knew everything about anything, and after a long shift at the restaurant his ranting often fell on the deaf ears of Paulie and I.
"More coffee?" I offered the only remaining customer, a middle-aged man in a dishevelled suit sat in a booth on his own. He looked up from tapping away on his phone briefly to nod at me in slight exasperation. Supressing the urge exhale at his rude manner, I lowered the coffee pot to his empty cup.
"Hostages are now coming out of the building, police are holding fire. We're unsure what is- Oh my…god!"
The reporters steady professional voice suddenly shot up into panicked tone and instinctively my eyes darted towards the TV. On the screen there was quick shot of men on mopeds shooting out from within the crowd of hostages coming out the doors. The camera angle was shaky and the motorbikes were gone before the camera man could focus.
"Did you get that?! Did you get the shot!?" The reporter's voice could be heard as the camera angle scanned the scene erratically before turning to focus back on the slightly out of breath Maria.
"The suspects have just came flying through the Stock Exchange doors on mopeds, stunning the police and everyone on scene. It was hard to see in all the chaos, but on each bike there seemed to be two people. Police have reacted instantly and engaged in hot pursuit of these riders."
"Hey watch it!"
The man in the suit snapped me out of my attention to the report and I quickly realised I was pouring coffee into a now overfilled cup and it was pooling down the sides and over the table. I yanked my hand up quickly and a blush of embarrassment heated my cheeks.
"I'm so sorry! Let me clean that up for you!"
I scurried away quickly to get a dishcloth, having to squeeze past the huge portly frame of Marco to get through the kitchen doorway. He paid no attention to me and seemed to not of noticed my mess up.
"The police are gettin' a mockery made of 'em!" He threw his arms up animation. "And they make out they're so good after that Dent guy died!"
My jaw shifted slightly as my teeth grinded against each other in a natural response to the mention of Harvey Dent's name. Marco was still ranting endlessly as I pushed past him and slapped the sodden cloth around on the table with more vigour than necessary, causing the suited man to recoil back slightly in disgust at the drops of coffee flicking in the air every time I turned the cloth over.
"I mean, these cops go on about how they've got rid of gang crime and all that baloney, yet these idiots let a robbery happen right under their noses!"
I flashed the man an insincere smile as he tossed a note on the table and slid out of the booth, muttering under his breath as the doorbell tinkled behind him.
"Paulie, what'cha think of this?"
I cleared the table as Marco now targeted poor Paulie, heading into the back kitchen where he too was scrubbing dishes, shooting me at exasperated look as I tipped the untouched cup of coffee down the sink next to him. A small smile spread on my lips as I dunked the dishes into the soapy water.
"I don't know Marco, crime happens all the time." Paulie offered resignedly, not wanting to get himself even more involved in the restaurant owner's ranting.
It seemed to work as we heard the TV switch off with an indignant huff and mumbling. For a moment there was just the sound of plates clunking around in the water before Paulie suddenly interjected.
"Oh!" He raised a soapy finger in the air. I wrapped one of the rinsed plates in a cloth and buffed it dry as I watched him carelessly wipe his hand on his stained apron and reach behind him into the fridge, the other hand still submerged in the dishwater. He pulled out a plastic container and held it out to me.
"A guy ordered the lasagne earlier and I kinda' made too much, and I know how ya' like it so I boxed the rest up for ya' to take home."
I placed the plate down on the counter and took the container from him gently.
"Thanks Paulie." I said and gave him a soft smile. "Though Marco's going to notice all these accidental extra portions you always seem to be making." I added light-heartedly as I put the lasagne down next to me and finished drying the rest of the plates.
He grinned and shrugged as he squeezed detergent into an old burnt pan. "He'd only eat the leftovers himself anyway, I'm savin' the guy a heart attack."
I shook my head in amusement as I dried my hands and threw the cloth over the tap. Paulie added something else as I placed the clean dishes away in the cupboards.
"And I know you got it hard Frankie."
I was thankful for the fact my back was towards him and my head was hidden in a cupboard when he said this in a low soft voice. It took a moment for me to regain my composure, but I quickly shut the cupboard door over and faced Paulie with a forced smile.
"Don't we all?" Before he could have time to try and say anything more, I grabbed my coat and bag from a hook on the wall and slid the lasagne safely inside. "Anyway I've got a programme recorded I've been dying to watch." I lied. "Goodnight Paulie, thanks for dinner."
He laughed and waved as I left.
"See you tomorrow Marco." I called over my shoulder as I stopped at the door to button up my coat.
"I don't need you tomorrow, have the day off Frank."
I paused with my hand on the glass of the door and turned towards Marco who was leaning against the counter scribbling something into the ledger.
"I'd… really rather come in Marco." I said slowly.
He looked up at me now with his small sunken eyes over the rim of his glasses balanced on the end of his nose. "Listen, I know ya' need the money, but I just can't afford to pay your shift tomorrow, I'm sorry Frank."
My lips tightened and I lifted my head in a slow unconvincing nod taking in the information. I really did need the money, probably more than he would understand. For a split second I considered asking could I come in and work anyway, just to avoid being at home, but it was a fleeting thought as I quickly recognised how strange that would sound.
"Okay." I tried to shrug casually. "I guess I'll see you… Wednesday then."
Marco's pitiful eyes burned into me. "Yeah, night Frank."
Knowing I didn't have the money to catch the bus home, I miserably shoved my hands into my coat pockets and set of in a brisk walk. It was late at night and the usual cold that hung over Gotham had turned even more crisp and unforgiving. Usually if I kept up a quick pace and didn't concentrate on the shivers that consumed me too much, I could make it home in around twenty minutes.
With a pink flushed face and slightly numb fingers I fumbled with my key and let myself in to my small apartment. The sight was always as depressing as the last time I came home; bare, unfinished and unwelcoming. Not to mention I hadn't been able to have the heating on for weeks so it was almost as chilly inside as it was on the streets.
Not even taking my coat off as I still needed its warmth, I set my bag on top of the kitchen counter and slid out the container of lasagne. Remembering glumly that the electric in the apartment wasn't on either, I popped the lid off and plucked a fork from the metal pot of cutlery on the side and slumped into my faded sofa resigning to a cold supper. Even so, I couldn't deny Paulie made a great lasagne - he really could cook and he was wasted in a place like Marco's. Unlike me, I was just lucky to have a job there.
Well, lucky was not a trait that would best describe me. Frankly I was at what felt overwhelmingly like rock bottom. I'd been stuck in this depressing empty rut for quite some time now and I never really stopped to question how I ploughed on everyday regardless. I just simply, didn't see another choice really.
I ate my food in silence staring at the peeling wall and then washed the plastic container and set it clean and dry on the counter to be returned to the restaurant before finally changing out of my work clothes. I piled on as many layers as possible before climbing into bed and soon after fell into an uncomfortable sleep.
My thumb tapped edgily against the wooden arm of the chair, a fast erratic rhythm. I stared with glazed eyes at the shrub in a clay pot in the corner of the room. It was so rubbery and fake and I noticed the artificially bright green leaves were lined with dust.
A voice that sounded abruptly proximate jolted me to automatically straighten in the chair.
"Miss Sinclair, thanks for coming-"
"What's going on? Why am I here?" I cut off the aged man quickly. He was dressed impeccably smart in a pinstripe suit and his hair was neatly combed over. I could tell he was important, probably high up, but I had no regard for who I was speaking to. Worry had consumed me whilst I waited in that professionally beige room and I felt like they had been toying with me, being so elusive and making me wait for any answers as to why I was here.
He coughed lowly and unbuttoned his suit jacket with one hand as he lowered himself into the chair opposite me.
"Miss Sinclair, I appreciate that this will be worrying situation for you as it would be for anyone in your position." His voice was even and he had a silky Southern twang.
I leaned back in the chair restlessly and leant forward again inhaling impatiently. "And what exactly is my position? As all of you here have failed to explain it to me, Mr…"
He finished my sharply spoken sentence with a professional ease. "Morgan. Prison Governor Elliot Morgan. Though I insist Elliot is just fine."
I completely disregarded what he just said, his smooth tone starting to get to me. Dragging a hand over my tired face I exhaled and pressed him further, this time in a slightly calmer voice. "Just tell me why I'm here. It must be something pretty important for the Prison Governor himself to request my time." My own words were shifting the buoyant nausea in the pit of my stomach.
From the way that he leaned forward slowly, as if his next words were so delicate that they would not reach me from where he was, I knew it. I knew he was going to treat his next words with care, and I knew from the way his eyes located mine and stared straight into them, that he had an awful burden meant for me.
"I asked to meet you personally, Miss Sinclair, as I believe you deserve more than a phone call or a simple letter."
All I did was watch him, watch him as words rolled off his tongue fluidly and danced around my ears.
"I regret to confirm your worries about the reason of this meeting being about your father, Alistair, Miss Sinclair."
He kept addressing me, as if to keep me in touch with what he was saying.
"I am deeply sorry to bear such news, but Alistair was found deceased this morning in his cell. The Coroner has determined that that Mr Sinclair had gone into sudden cardiac arrest which was due to undiagnosed atherosclerotic heart disease. He was found dead on scene."
From the word 'deceased' the rest of his words failed penetrate my ears, but instead floated out of his mouth and into the air around me. I felt as if I had suddenly fallen into a dimension that lacked any reality; my minds defence mechanism condemning it all as untrue. Yet I was in such a warped state that the unreality and reality hit me mercilessly at the same time and I found I could no longer see through my own tears.
Frantic thoughts in my head rejected it, demanded it wasn't real.
My body caved in on itself and I crumpled into quivering heap in the chair, my face buried into the crook of my elbow, my arms wrapped around my head tightly.
"Miss Sinclair, I am so sorry."
The thoughts in my head began to wither, and then I was no longer insisting it wasn't true, I was begging it not to be. Please no. Please no. Please no.
It was when the warm touch of a hand rested on my shoulder that I realised I was begging out loud, over and over, in that small quiet room.
I rolled over onto my back and stared blankly into the darkness. No longer did I jolt myself awake with a sharp breath, my skin moist and clammy with sweat. I had these dreams, this one in particular, so often that I seemed to just surface into consciousness naturally afterwards. Although my sleep never improved; every night I drifted in and out of disturbed consciousness. A doctor once hypothesised that unbalanced levels of stress were affecting my sleeping pattern, and even suggested depression. I took no notice of him; it was called struggle, not depression. And a pill doesn't fix a problem, it hides it and I'd need a lot of pills for a lot of problems, though an occasional glass of whisky couldn't hurt.
I turned over and buried myself deeper into the pillow, closing my eyes in vain of my incapability to sleep, as the faint cry of a siren outside passed and then dwindled away into the night.