"Happy birthday, Sasha," said Sam, as she entered his cell – a new room, stark white and furnished plainly.
She paused half way across the room, frowning. "How?"
He smiled conspiratorially. "I have my secrets."
Though she smiled, inside she couldn't forget his words.
Chapter 8 Mortal
You are hereby invited to attend the charity ball held at the Wayne Mansion.
My hands held the letter, shaking. Me? A ball? It had to be Dick's idea but I'd told him I wasn't the girl people took to meet the family, the girlfriend material. He'd invited me anyway. Irritated, I was half tempted to tear the letter into shreds. There was no way I could go. Especially as a girl that didn't even exist. My anger dimmed. There was no way he could really understand why it wasn't good for us to go down the path of charity balls and family meetings. It was weird enough being introduced to his friends – as what? Girlfriend?
I set it down, smoothing down my shirt – an effort to distract myself. There was cleaning to do. Since Sasha hadn't around much lately, certainly not at all whilst I'd been back. I left the letter on the dining table and set off to work. It took a couple hours to vacuum, set the washing, then finished up with the garbage and I set a stew onto boil. By then the dusk beckoned, the city plunging into night. With the cold air seeping in I flicked on the heater, then shut all the windows. It'd mean the apartment would be stuffy by morning, and the bad smell that always seemed to kick up every time we used the heater.
Unfortunately when I slumped onto the couch the letter was still there. Staring at me. Despite my reservations I hadn't gotten up either to call Dick, to personally explain that I couldn't go. A small part of me, hunkered at the edge of my mind, wanted to go – to just be someone other than Meghan or any of the other people I'd been over the years. Maybe for a night I could be Max – whoever she was anymore.
"You always clean when you're in a mood," observed Sasha, her voice cutting through the silence like a blade.
I sat up sharply as Sasha walked in slowly, warily regarding me with her dark eyes. She didn't sit but she did drop her bag by the chair. For a long time neither of us spoke, the air poignant with so many unspoken words and angry insults.
"I haven't spoken to the League. I don't want their help," I said quietly.
"I know." Sasha let out a pent up breath.
My brow furrowed. "You know? Then why?"
"Because I was angry!" Sasha snapped; she paused, seemingly surprised by her own outburst. She closed her eyes and forced herself to calm. "I was angry you helped them, angry that I understood, angry that I was angry."
When her eyes opened and met mine, there were angry tears in her eyes, torment burning there. I was on my feet before I knew it, yanking her into my arms. Though I was still angry she ignored me, that she was angry enough to punish me for doing the right thing. I stepped back, wiping the tears from her eyes.
"Well, now that nonsense is over, we best continue our search for Sam," I said, determined.
Her gaze flickered beyond me, right to the letter. "Are you going?"
Are you going? Standing at the edge of the ballroom, all I wanted to do was run – turn on my heel, kick the ridiculous shoes off and go drink at Olympia. My hand tugged and smoothed my dress, the long silk dress a little tight around my waist. Which meant little eating, unless I wanted to tear the seam.
I looked about for Dick but only saw crowds of people I didn't know, all dressed in gowns and suits worth more than my apartment. Women looked my way, eyes narrowing at the sight of the one non-designer dress, as if their highly refined noses could smell the cheap dress. My fingers twitched – one snap of my fingers I could trigger the alarms, send them all running scared. It'd be so easy.
Taking a deep breath I set off in search, winding through the dignitaries and diplomats, my nose tingling with their perfumes. Half way across the room, no Dick in sight, I took a flute of glittering champagne from a passing waitress. Drink in hand I strode over to the edge of the room, where a long table of desserts beckoned in a colourful array. I downed the glass quickly and set it aside, looking around for a moment before I snuck in an éclair hungrily. There was, perhaps, little more than that I could eat.
Then I saw him.
Across the room, standing by his adopted father's side, dressed impeccably and laughing like he belonged. My chest ached. What I was I doing here? There was no way I belonged. But as Sasha said I had to lay low on the Glitch front, just for a little while. The information about what happened on the island had made her nervous. She said I needed to just be me for a while, give time for Foster's search to die down a little. Meanwhile, I left several nets out on the web for information, which was about all I could do. Whilst that was on I had decided to adhere to advice, if only to stop me from thinking too much about Sam and the search…and the strange box that had left me with another missing hour.
His gaze broke from conversation, straight to me.
I wasn't sure who moved first – my feet had already had carried me halfway when I realised where I stood, right before him. He stood just in front of me, silent for a moment. Surprise and relief in his eyes. He didn't expect me to come but seemed pleased I'd come anyway.
"Hi-"We both said at the same time.
"You came," he said quietly, his mouth curling into a smile.
Damn.
"Can't ignore the chance to drink it up with the rich and famous, now can I? That, and I know a friend of mine is here and I couldn't leave him alone to the sharks."
"That would be cruel," he confessed. "So, would you dance with him?"
I looped my arm through his. "I don't dance."
"Then it sounds like he has a lot of work ahead of him."
Bruce watched Dick and the new girl walk through the crowd, talking, and their heads bent towards each other. The girl was the same height, lean and was not the usual kind of girl Dick spent time with. She was not a model but she was striking. Yet there was something strange about her, something that niggled at his mind. Was it the way her gaze swept over the crowd, pausing at the doors – looking for escape routes?
He wanted to shake his head, dismiss the thoughts but they wouldn't go away. Turning to his side, where Alfred waited silently, he asked:
"Has Dick spoken to you about a new girlfriend?"
Alfred glanced at him, his brow lifting slightly. "I have not heard anything, Master Bruce. Shall I inquire as to her character?"
"No, I'll do it." Bruce strode through the crowd, passing several business men who tried to call him over, and approached Dick and the girl.
Dick saw him, stiffened slightly, and then smiled – a practised smile, the kind Bruce had mastered years ago. "Bruce."
"Dick, who is this beautiful woman here?"
It wasn't Dick who spoke; rather, it was the girl who stepped forward, breaking free of Dick's protective embrace, and held out her hand. "Meghan Willoughby."
Liar, whispered Bruce's inner thoughts. Whether it was the way she said her name, which sounded so practised, or the smile that she gave him. Something about her wasn't as it seemed.
"And what do you do Miss Willoughby?" Bruce asked, whilst Dick, from behind Meghan, stared at him warningly.
She blushed. "I'm a performer. Nothing fancy, I'm afraid. I sing a few clubs around town."
"There is great skill in performing and singing. Personally I find it admirable," said Bruce with his own practised smile. "It takes great courage."
"Mr Wayne!" A woman called out, striding towards him.
He glanced at her, wondering who she was. It took a moment for him to remember. The Mayor's wife, Margaret – or was it Mary? A man strode beside her, not her husband. The blood in Bruce Wayne's froze solid, though he kept his smile there – perfect, controlled, easy-going. Inside, however, his mind had spun into overdrive. Beside him Dick stiffened slightly and, to Bruce's slight confusion, even his date seemed a little pale. She wore an impassive mask, a slight smile there, but there was something flickering in her eyes. Fear?
Margaret – or Mary – stopped before them, one arm looped through her companion's arm.
"See, Mr Savage, I told you the man himself would be in attendance," gushed the mayor's wife. She beamed at them all, as if she hadn't brought over a mass murdering immortal psychopath. "Mr Wayne, might I introduce Vandal Savage - Mr Savage has recently come to Gotham and is looking for business partners. I told him you were the CEO of the best company in the city and simply had to talk."
Savage laughed and held out his hand to Bruce. "The game is up, I'm afraid. I was going to have my secretary call ahead, arrange a meeting."
Bruce laughed heartily. "It's fine. I'm sure we can manage. Might I introduce my son, Richard, and his date, Meghan Willoughby?"
Just as polished Dick shook Savage's hand. When the time came for Meghan to shake his hand she did, smiling pleasantly. Yet her grip on him seemed to linger for a moment, her eyes a little too focused and sharp. She pulled her hand back and moved swiftly back to Dick's side, angling herself so that it was like she was ready to protect him. To the outside world it was seen as an intimate gesture, the way she stood to Dick but to him, it was something else.
In his arms I should've felt safe. I should've been relaxed and carefree. Honestly, I would've been, if I didn't have in the back of my mind the uneasy truth that, from somewhere in the room, was Vandal Savage. I had no idea if he recognised me. It had been ten years since I was in the experiment and I had changed quite a bit in that time. Yet I had no idea if it was enough. I'd looked at him as I shook his hand, trying to see if there was any flickering of recognition.
"You're distracted," murmured Dick as we danced slowly in the middle of the room.
I rested my hand on his shoulder, hoping to hide my face from his scrutiny. "It's nothing."
"It's not nothing. You've been weird since you met Vandal Savage," he persisted quietly.
"It's nothing. Just forget it," I said, a harder edge to my voice than I intended.
Wordlessly he led me off the dance floor and through a double set of doors, out onto an empty balcony. I broke away as he turned and closed the doors. When he faced me I was relieved we were alone. If he'd persisted inside I was worried I'd snap at him, which was how on edge I'd been left after meeting Savage.
"So, what's wrong?"
"Nothing," I insisted, digging my heels in.
He sighed, exasperated, eyes fluttering shut. I felt guilty but how could I explain truth? Explain that Savage was part of the group that kept me prisoner years, their personal lab rat? The words died on my lips, trapped by fear and instinct. I couldn't look at him, couldn't see the look in his eyes. Though a twisted part of me wished he'd hate the way I kept him at distance, and that he'd cut and run. In the corner of my gaze I saw his eyes open, watched as he pinched the bridge of his nose, tension bleeding from his shoulders.
"Why you won't-"
"He's tortured people I know – okay?" I bit out. Not exactly a lie, as close to the truth as I could allow.
I met his surprised expression. "What?"
"He's known on the streets for running labs where Meta's are treated like lab rats, cut open and tested. I know some people that escaped from them. So, yeah, it's hard to look at him and smile and pretend like I know that his hands aren't soaked in blood," I said shakily, distant images of those sick experiences trickling through the cracks of carefully constructed walls. "I didn't want to say anything because you've got this view of me, like I'm some damaged little bird that can be saved."
"Meg-"
"I can't be saved," I spat, making a beeline for the door when his hand snapped around my wrist, stopping me.
He leaned in close. "You're not some damaged little bird. You're a falcon, a bird of prey. And I believe you."
My gaze snapped to his, piercing, studying. I couldn't speak a damn word.
The next night after the Olympia closed I said my goodbyes to everyone, ready for bed and a cup of tea. Three am beckoned Gotham with a quiet air, the streets eerily sleepy. Low mist clung like a second skin across the road, the chill biting. I slipped out of the club, my mind a world away.
My shoes clicked against the pavement, a rhythmic song that drowned out conscious thought. I let a low, nonsensical hum fill the air, a sweet melody, accompanying by the clicking heels. Walking down that street, with the self-made music, it was easy to think for a moment I was someone else – just another performer leaving work, eager bed, not eager for a stack of bills. I could pretend alone on that street that I was a plain old human, with mortal worries and debts.
Lost in my own thoughts I didn't notice the figure that emerged from an alley ahead until I was only a few metres away. I stopped, my heart leaping in surprise. It was a young man, barely twenty or so – a street kid, by the looks of his tattered clothes and sickly complexion. He stared at me, his gaze strangely glassy – like he didn't really see me. I glanced behind me but there was no one behind me. Looking back to him I smiled warmly.
"Hey – is everything okay?"
His eyes snapped into focus, tears in his eyes, and he took one step to me.
"Please forgive me. I can't wait any longer."
"Wha-"
Bang!
The world froze. I barely registered the smoking gun, aimed at me, dimly aware of the sharp feeling in my gut. My hand fell to it, felt the warm, sticky liquid ooze through my fingers. I looked down and paled. Blood.
Dizziness rushed over me, sending me staggering back. I looked up just as he aimed the gun, at himself, right at his head. Then he pulled the trigger. He hadn't even hit the ground before I spun around and ran, the world growing dark around me, and a single thought pulsing in my mind.
Run.
