It's morning. I think. I tear through the cupboards. The kitchen is dark wood and white marble, the cabinet doors heavy for my shaking hands. I take a deep breath and steady myself. Hunger, nothing new. Everything has to be slow. No passing out here. The pantry is padlocked, the brushed steel mocking me. The fridge is not, fortunately, and I find two slices of cheese and a half empty bottle of wine. Better than nothing, although not by much. I chug some of the wine and feel the burn settling in my chest. The cheese is barely edible.

I wander the hallway, sipping, dizzy. There's five doors. One closet, one bathroom, three locked bedrooms. The bathroom is immaculate and makes me realize just how dirty I am. I fumble with the faucet of the marble bath, stick my mouth under until I've had my fill, and dump a whole bottle of something in there. There's dozens more under the sink, nothing more useful than shampoo. I empty it all into the water. I need to be clean. I'm tipsy. My coat is blue, used to be blue, some fur stolen long ago. The bulletproof vest with stains around the neck is next. My jeans are disgusting, caked with dirt and blood. They rip and I tear them off, keep ripping until they're shreds. Sober, thoughtful me from days past tucked five pills into the top folds of my socks, and I thank her endlessly as I line them up on my tongue and chew with relish.

I have to drain and refill the water to actually clean myself. I'm a mess of ugly yellow and dark purple bruises, scratches, scrapes and burns. The soap burns as I scrub. Another swig. Now I'm really feeling nice, not on the verge of tears. There's no time. I had a shitty plan when I came here and it's already falling apart. The room is spinning. I close my eyes and sink. First... get better. Maybe it's a combination of the light concussion and bloodshed I was forced to witness. Plus hunger.. and thirst. Overexertion. This is the first time I've had to bathe and rest somewhat safely in weeks. Bottle. Sip. I could use this as a weapon... the thought of breaking it open on Bane's skull is too good.

This is how he finds me, dazed and smiling at nothing in the corner. He's not stupid. He knows. He's not stupid. He's regarding me like a novelty. The time is noon. Is it noon? My head hurts, and it's light, and it's too light, and I could use more cheese. This is annoying. I needed to think. I'm angry at myself. He throws me a change of clothes and a towel because I never found one, tells me something like, meet me at the table. It's hard to concentrate.

I meet him in the dining room. He opens every single window, each freezing burst of air more unbearable as the room temperature drops. I want to mock him but my teeth are chattering and he can't see that. I get it. He needs to sober me a little. TOO BAD, I should scream, and I'm clinging to the buzzed feeling just for spite. I hate him.

"Will you kill yourself?"

I give him a blank stare.

"Would you jump?"

"Excuse me?" And he's lifting me, or trying. I know how huge he is, how he's used to throwing people around, and I know that me being close to his weight and taller than him is not something he knew or prepared for before yesterday. I relax every muscle and enjoy the struggle he has, dragging my dead weight to the window, forcing my head out of the window. I scream into the wind. He's yeling something at me and I refuse to listen. He keeps trying to yell and I'm still not listening and I'm going to scream my head off until he realizes I'm not listening. I lean forward even more, let myself hang over the edge, away from his hand on my head. He has nothing to grab. I can feel the ledge pressing against my stomach, slidng down towards his arm around my lets go suddenly,and I begin to slip faster. But I only begin, because I instinctively twist and grab the wall with one hand, stumbling into the table. Damn.

I think he's smiling. Is he smiling? Laughing even. I slump into a chair.

"So you do want to live?"

I shrug. He gets close. I want to spit in his face. Against better judgement, I do. He lifts me from the chair by my throat and slams me onto the table. Now he's , gut laughs.

"That's what I was looking for. Some sign of a fight."

I stare straight into his eyes. He's tightening his grip. I make a point to defiantly suck in a gulp of air and hold it. You don't get the jump on me. I'll kill myself first. Try me. He releases me and I keep holding it.

"Are all the stubborn gestures worth it?"

I let all the air out slowly and grin.

"Yes."

"Get up."

He moves me to a chair and I swat his hand away. This amuses him too.

"Everything's so fucking funny to you. Chuckles the fucking clown."

"I like you better when you talk."

"First time I've heard that." Don't try to soften me up.

He pulls up a chair.

"For every truthful answer you give me, I'll spare one life."

"What does it matter? If the bomb still goes off anyway? That's a shitty trade. You get your information and someone gets to live only a little bit longer under-"

"I'll let them out of the city."

"Deal."

"You don't choose the people. I will, at random."

"That's fine with me." He really thinks I would care.

"What is your name?"

"Ka-"

He cuts me off. "Not the fake name that you use. Your real name."

"Bhujwala." A name is a name is a name. There's no power in giving it. Right? The last of the high leaves me and I'm suddenly very, very bone deep tired.

"Bhujwala..?"

"Prasad."

He pulls out a smart phone and looks it up on some unrecognizable program. That's one life saved. Easy. Should have gone this route a long time ago.

"How many of your people are there?"

"Around a thousand." Multiplied by four.

"And you're the leader?" There's a slight sneer in his voice that drives me crazy.

"There's no set single person who leads. But if that's out of your scope of knowledge, let me know."

He looks like he could slap me. He's not above it. But he refrains.

"We'll continue this." And he's gone again.

The second the door closes I can breathe again. Maybe let's not piss him off anymore. How many questions was that? How many could I answer to even make a difference in the amount of people saved, versus taking the direct action to destroy Bane and his operation?

First. Find the nail file. That's easy enough. It's tucked away in the pile of clothes on the floor. Second, hide it somewhere. I can't think straight enough to know what to do right now, but everything has been taken from me and I'm not losing this one thing too. There's a small lip inside the bottom cupboards and I place the file flush against the one with closest to the living room.

There's a rush in my ears and a pop as I stand up, steady myself.

I notice two things right away. First, there's a camera somewhere in the kitchen. Filter out the noise of the fridge and there's a high pitch whine and whirring noise that can't belong to anything else, so faint I wouldn't notice if the apartment wasn't deathly silent. Second, the padlock on the pantry is gone. The inside is saltines, cranberry juice in cans, fruit cocktail cups,instant noodles. One bowl, one cup, one fork. A fucking feast. I don't want him to know I know about the surveillance, but I want to laugh in his face and scream thanks, you absolute cunt. I have to measure the water carefully. Put it in the microwave, pour it in the cup, spill it on myself, feel the burn on my skin and it feels good. I don't want him to see me lose it. Chew slowly and ponder the microwave and if you really can blow someone's head up in it.