Beginning Note From Raith: For the purposes of this story, I've changed the timeline of the DCEU. Some events will be explained as the story progresses, but here's the basic timeline. This story takes place after Justice League and before the first Suicide Squad movie. This story was written because I was talked into watching the Snyder Cut of Justice League the same weekend as the new Suicide Squad movie, and several characters were born from that weekend. Don't worry about that now. This chapter is the start of Ryan's story. (Fair warning: I update when I can with absolutely no updating schedule, but I will try to update soon.)
Chapter One: Going Through The Motions
Date: 120 Days Since The Massacre
Date: 118 Days Since The Resurrection
Perspective: Ryan Lopez
When Kit first came for her, she had still been in the hospital. How much time had passed since that moment? Had it been hours or days? Between Kit walking into her quiet hospital room and escorting her onto an empty plane? Doctor Barrett hadn't wanted her to leave, had tried to argue that she wasn't ready to be released yet, but it was clear that she was more than physically ready. She'd been standing on her feet when Kit walked into the room and introduced himself, was standing on her own power, with no gaping wounds. Completely and totally healthy. Not that she had made that argument. Her and the good doctor both knew that she was physically capable of leaving the hospital; her body had healed and scarred and became whole once again long before anyone showed up looking for her. Kit had made that argument, that she was physically fit. She remembered seeing him smile, distorted in the window of her hospital room. She thought he had nice teeth. Doctor Barrett had said she wasn't mentally prepared to leave, after everything she had suffered. Suffered. He had said it quietly, like a secret. Like everyone in Banshee City didn't know exactly how she had suffered. The whisper was for his own conscience, the absolute bastard.
"Now that her grandfather has passed, her place is in Gotham at Wolfe Industries."
Ryan had recognized the names, as Barrett and Kit had started to speak in quietly clipped words. Gotham was the only city with a higher crime rate than Banshee, with more corruption and pain and terror and— Wolfe Industries was one of those big companies that everyone liked to talk about, when they were pretending to understand the corporate world and how corporations destroyed lives. (Which was all bullshit. People destroyed lives. Individual people with their individual choices, those were the real monsters. She thought she might have told Kit that, while he and the doctor were discussing her mental state.) Wolfe Industries. LexCorp. Steele Industries. Wayne Enterprises. Queen Industries. Before the hospital, she liked to read the paper in the morning. The actual newspaper, that left ink on her fingertips and stacked up on the kitchen table until she was reminded to toss the lot into the recycling. She'd seen the names written in thick black print, faces showing cold eyes and slick smiles. She'd seen Wolfe's face, in black and white, in bright colors on the evening news.
"Her mother wanted nothing to do with Wolfe or his company!"
At school, her first grade class had hosted Grandparents Day. All the kids with living grandparents got to bring them to class and introduce them, and Ryan had eaten the best chocolate chunk brownies she'd ever had that day. (Nonna. Ember's grandmother, Sienna Accardo. Her best friend's grandmother. Ryan's honorary grandmother, because Ryan didn't have grandparents.) When Ryan had asked her mother where her grandparents were and why they couldn't come meet her class, her mother had pulled her onto her lap and played with her hair while trying to explain in a way that a six year old could understand. Her father was in heaven with his parents, her grandparents. She'd asked about her mother's parents then, and her mother had answered while braiding her hair and not looking at her curious eyes. Her mother had said her parents were gone too, but she hadn't said they were in heaven. Ryan hadn't thought to question the distinction. She'd just accepted that all of her grandparents were dead. Now it seemed like that was true. Kit had kept repeating that her grandfather was gone, that she was the only one left. The last Wolfe.
"I am not a Wolfe. My name is Ryan Lopez. Similar, I know, but different enough."
Before speaking, she had turned away from the window to look at the men in the room with her. Kit's expression had shut down, the faint exasperation from speaking with the doctor faded into blankness. Barrett had looked away from her eyes, just like he had every time she looked in his direction. At the careful look and expected avoidance, she had wanted to scream. Wanted to grab one of them and scream until they understood. That person they were discussing? That wasn't her. She wasn't the last of any line. (Except she was, wasn't she? Weren't they all gone? Wasn't she the only one still left here?) She didn't belong anywhere, and she especially didn't belong in Gotham. (That city was too far away. If she was in Gotham, how would she leave flowers on the graves? She could sneak out of the hospital to see the headstones that the good doctor had paid for with his grief and shame, but she couldn't sneak across entire states every night. She belonged in the graveyard.)
"You have no right to come here and take her away! She is not a replacement figurehead!"
They had still been talking, Barrett and Kit, discussing her like she wasn't in the room. Like they weren't standing in her hospital room. She had listened to them and she had waited to feel something. Anger over people deciding her future. Grief over losing everyone she cared about. Loss over the last connection of family that she would never know. Amusement over the older doctor standing toe-to-toe with a man that looked like he could snap the doctor in half if he wanted. Instead she had felt nothing. Was aware of the tiles under her feet warmed by body heat. The hospital gown that scratched against her skin. Everything on the surface with nothing inside.
"Your grandfather left everything to you, his only living heir. His company, his home, his money."
Laughing without feeling amusement was a strange sensation. Air had moved through her lungs and her shoulders had shook, and the sound had been too loud and too sharp against the tiles. She hadn't been able to stop laughing, because why would she care about any of that? She'd only made it through one semester of college before dropping out, before deciding to work full-time, and she'd been an assistant at a vet's office. Before. She didn't know anything about owning or running a company. Her home had been burned to the ground, nothing of hers had been recovered from the ashes, and some stranger's home wasn't going to be able to fill that void. A few months ago, she wouldn't have laughed at the idea of a little extra money. With a little extra lining her pockets, she'd be able to add to Harry's college fund or help Bear go to space camp or take Chelsea to the big toy store over on Lakeview so she could pick out any toy that she wanted. Before. Money didn't mean anything to her, not anymore.
"The decision is yours, Ryan."
Seconds after speaking, Ryan had her hands locked around the doctor's throat. She'd allowed him to breathe, shallowly, and she'd made him promise while looking directly into her eyes. (No more hiding.) She made him promise that her family's graves would always have fresh flowers, that they would be mourned and remembered by someone other than her. She had listened to the promise, tightened her hold just long enough to see true fear in the good doctor's eyes, and then she had let go. The spark of rage that had prompted her across the room had been cold, had left her chilled, and she'd retreated back to the window. Had listened to Barrett talk to Kit, signs of what to look for, and she had waited. Clothes had been brought, not hers because nothing was hers anymore, and she'd changed. Put on a stranger's clothes and had left her city behind, left her home. Because it wasn't home anymore. Everything that had made it a home was gone, so why should she stay? She'd let Kit put her on a plane, had sat next to him despite all of the empty seats, and left Banshee behind her.
"This is your home now."
Neither of them said a single word during the entire trip. Not on the plane. Not in the car that had been waiting for them at the airport. Not in the elevator as they rode to the top of a building that gleamed even in the overcast city. She had stepped inside the penthouse, apartments alone at the very top were called penthouses, and just looked around. Clean and silver and glass and cold. It felt nothing like home. Messy and bright and soft and warm. It wasn't her home. She waited to feel embarrassment, for dirtying up the place by just standing in the doorway. Looked past her thrift store clothes to see if her thrice-owned sneakers were leaving marks on the floor, but the white marble was unchanged.
"I can't stay here. Tell me what I need to do to finish this."
Kit told her how to get to the bedroom, and clothes were waiting on the dark sheets for her. Dark slacks that were both soft and crisp. A green sweater that slipped across her fingers like water. Thick socks without any holes. Shiny black boots with the barest hint of a heel. Panties and a bra in a soft creamy shade that looked even more delicate against her ragged skin. She pulled on the clothes after showering, people were supposed to shower before pulling on clean clothes, and there had been bottles lined up in the shower just for her. Unless her grandfather had liked the smell of roses. She pulled the clothes on over skin that smelled like a garden, and she found Kit in the kitchen. While cooking, he told her that the clothes had been chosen for her but that he could take her shopping to pick out her own things. Her fingers pulled at the high collar as she listened to him. Water silk or not, it grated against the scars on either side of her throat.
"Your grandfather left something for you. A spoken will."
Once breakfast was cold on the dining room table, Kit placed an open laptop in front of her. There had been clicks, tapping, and then Kit was gone. Ryan watched the screen and willed herself to feel something, anything. The man talking to her had been her last living relative, and she should feel something at hearing his words. Because he had known that his death was coming. He'd been afraid but hiding it well. She could only see the fear in the quick darting of his eyes and the flat line of his mouth. He warned her not to trust anyone, with a couple of exceptions. No one at Wolfe Industries was to be trusted, except for Kit. The man was her assistant, mentor, protector, and butler all wrapped up in one silent package. He was also, according to the will, her keeper. Accountant and advisor. He was in control of her new personal fortune, for exactly one year after viewing the will. The video. Just long enough for her to adjust to her new life. Her new role. Kit would help her, teach her, care for her. Kit was the only one she could trust, except for—
"The only other person you can trust, in this city and possibly even the world if you don't mind the dramatics, is Bruce Wayne. Do not mistake me and trust all of Wayne Enterprises. You can only trust the man, Bruce Wayne. I am sorry to leave this—"
The video ended, and she stayed at the table until Kit returned. He closed the laptop and started to say something, but she stopped him. Asked him for some of her inherited money, and he passed over a black card. She waited for the edges to cut her fingers as she picked it up, but it was just plastic. Kit asked if she wanted company, his presence, and she shook her head. She'd been under constant supervision for weeks. (Months?) Only the good doctor and a single nurse ever interacted with her, but she knew that she'd been watched. She wanted to be on her own, if only for a day. Kit left with grace, without complaint, and Ryan ventured into the city. Into Gotham. Bypassed all of the pretty shiny stores and found the darker parts of the city. Slipped into stores that smelled like the home she'd had. She'd never spent money that she hadn't earned, but she couldn't keep wearing clothes that weren't hers. She bought clothes just for her, a little more coarse and a little less tailored and she didn't care what kind of mess the clothes left revealed, and she bought different things for the bathroom. The scent of roses was too strong, clung too tightly to her skin. She found scents that took away the smell of ash and burning flesh without making her smell like a graveyard.
"You new in town, miss? You got that look in your eye."
She bought a bag, a rucksack, and all of her new possessions fit inside with room to spare. With that task completed, she moved onto the streets again. Wandering and observing. Kids with dirty faces and searching hands smiled shyly at her in the darker parts of the city. As she moved into the cleaner areas, with buildings of steel and glass, people stopped meeting her eyes. Too busy as they hurried on their way. She passed by Wayne Enterprises with barely a glance, and she stopped a little farther down at a newsstand. The top magazine had a newly familiar face on the front cover. There weren't any real similarities between her and her mother's father, except for maybe their eyes. It was difficult to tell that he'd had brown eyes on the front of the paper, but she'd seen his eyes clearly in the video. She bought the newspaper and told the guy running the stand that she was just passing through, and she flipped through the paper as she walked. Read about the upheaval her grandfather's sudden death had caused. Learned that a starlet had been stood up by some bigshot. Got to see rounded up criminals who'd been brought in by a vigilante.
"—burden on you, Ryan, but Wolfe Industries is yours now. You owe me nothing, but the company can be your legacy. I want you to succeed where I failed."
Hours passed as she sat on a bench across from Wolfe Industries. The building itself was massive, looming over the street. Taller than the buildings surrounding it. Steel and glass reaching for the heavens. (She thought about that bible story while sitting on that uncomfortable bench. Of the people who had tried to build a tower to reach heaven. God had scattered them, divided them, ruined them. A lesson about pride.) People went into the building and left, and they all looked the same. Perfectly put together. Obnoxiously rich. She knew that Wolfe Industries was involved with several different things. Pharmaceuticals and medical technology, mainly. Clean energy and real estate. Dabbled in military tech. (She wasn't completely sure about that last one. She could be thinking about one of the other multibillion dollar companies.)
"Hurry inside, kids, or the Bat will get you!"
Returning to the apartment was strange. People on the street had barely spared a look for her, but she felt eyes on her the instant that she stepped inside of the lobby of the apartment building. She waited for embarrassment or anger, but neither emotion ever came. So she shrugged off the looks and whispers, hiked her rucksack higher up on her shoulder, and took the stairs up to the penthouse. The lights had been left on inside, because she clearly didn't have to worry about paying the electric bill anymore. No more scrambling to get the bills paid or worrying about having to shower with cold water in the dark. She walked through the apartment in her new shiny boots, still spotless even after hours of traversing the city, and everything was so bright. In the kitchen, she found a note on the counter next to the fridge from Kit.
Dinner is in the refrigerator. In the morning, I can take you to the office if you're ready.
She left the note and the cold dinner right where they were, and she stopped in the bedroom for a few minutes. Left her rucksack on a chair, cornered next to the bank of windows behind the head of the bed, and started pulling at her clothes. Stripped right next to the large perfectly made bed and left the clothes in a messy pile. Kicked off the boots and toed off the thick socks. Peeled the pants off and slipped the sweater over her head in one quick move. Unhooked the bra to let it fall and nearly ripped the panties in her haste to get rid of that softness. Once she was bare, she took in a slow breath and left the bedroom. The air inside the apartment was cool, she registered the chill, but didn't care that she'd started to shiver. It'd been months now, and she still couldn't feel things right. Some things chafed while others felt like nothing. She couldn't remember the last time she felt hungry. Sometimes there were sparks of rage, but those moments always left her feeling cold. Even now, standing in a beautiful penthouse apartment and staring out over a beautiful glittering city, she felt cold down to the marrow.
"It's trauma, Ryan. No one can survive what you did and come out the other side unchanged. This numbness that you feel, it will pass. I promise you, you won't feel like this forever."
The nurse who had been allowed to see her in the hospital had been a friend of her mother's. They had worked together for years, the woman had been to Ryan's home while she was growing up for dinners and picnics and even some holidays after her kids had moved away, and she'd taken it upon herself to be Ryan's therapist. Ryan couldn't even remember talking to her. Didn't know how much the woman knew and couldn't recall a single word she might have said. Had she really used the word numb? Because she didn't feel numb, not all the time. She could feel, just not anything that mattered. Ever since being pulled from the black, she had just felt cold. Cold and empty. She'd been more than this, before. Vibrant and loud. When she could feel things, she missed that person.
"You must be careful, Ryan. If the wrong person found out, they could hurt. Could kill you."
Before going back to the bedroom, she did a full circuit of the penthouse. Felt the way the air changed in some rooms and tried to enjoy the feeling of existing in her skin. Sometimes her fingers would brush against a changed place, against a mark on her body that wasn't there before, and she'd feel that cold spark again. Her body should still be healing. Should still be open and raw, she should hurt and bleed just from daring to breathe, but she felt perfectly fine. Better than she had. She was whole and healthy and it was wrong. She was wrong. She turned to face the bed and could see her dim reflection in the stretching window, distorted and grotesque in the glass. Could see the wreck of flesh she had been reduced to. Missing skin and mismatched colors across her body. Neck, shoulders, chest, torso, legs. Every single mark was a reminder that she wasn't supposed to be here. She wasn't meant to be alive.
"Wouldn't that be a shame, doctor? If someone ruined your hard work? God forbid anyone makes me happy."
She didn't have a death wish. She didn't even actively want to die. If that was what she wanted, she'd had plenty of opportunities in that hospital. Sharp blades and high roofs. Would have been easy, if that was what she wanted. The good doctor believed that she wanted to die. That she wanted to hurt herself. He was wrong, again. As she slipped under the cool sheets and settled onto the ocean-wide mattress, she closed her eyes and thought about the black. There'd been a moment, between the burning pain and freezing reality, where she had been at peace. In the dark, in the quiet, in the nothingness. She had died the way she was meant to die, she knew that. If she'd been brought back by normal means, maybe she wouldn't feel like this. Maybe she'd be different, if the doctor had rushed her to surgery and managed to piece her body back together. He'd done something other, something wrong, and she had known from the moment that her eyes opened again that she wasn't right.
"Everything is yours now. You will never want for anything ever again."
Everything was still wrong, besides the obvious. This wasn't her city, wasn't her home, wasn't her bed. She was still learning how to exist in her body, and the new environment had her on edge. Tense. Sleeping had been difficult since coming back, and she doubted sleep would come easily tonight. She was stuck with her thoughts, circling around and around inside of the fog, and she was so tired. Too tired to scream, to rage, to cry. A week ago, she was completely broke. Tonight, she was a billionaire. She owned a company with dealings across the entire world, without any knowledge on how to even run a company, and people were going to expect things from her. Weren't they? She'd be expected to interact with people, to live, to make decisions.
"You can only trust the man, Bruce Wayne."
Date: 09 May 2019
Perspective: Ryan Lopez
In the morning, she showered again. Scraped off the lingering scent of dead roses and replaced it with something that smelled faintly of cinnamon. Graveyards didn't smell like cinnamon. (Neither did hospitals.) She scrubbed herself clean and then dressed herself in clothes that she had chosen. Cotton panties and an average cotton bra, plain black. Nothing like silk or that looked delicate against her skin. Cheap jeans that clung to her legs and bunched at her ankles, thin socks in mismatched colors, heavy black boots that would make heavy thumping sounds as she walked. A loose white tank that ended across her midsection, to make up for the chafing from the day before.
She could see her reflection in the mirror as she brushed her teeth, twisted and softened by the steam still clinging to the glass. Could see dark red slashes and flashes of white against her skin, and she dropped her eyes down to the sink. She didn't need to see the scars. Didn't need to see them to know where they were. At any moment, she could feel the marks being made. Expanding metal cutting straight through her and being lodged into bone. Sharp steel slicing through skin and muscle. The injuries had healed, but some days those marks were the only real things that she could feel. So many marks, and only a few of them were on display. When she rinsed her mouth, she kept her eyes closed so she wouldn't have to see.
As her hand brushed across her skin, against smooth ridges and rough patches, she waited to feel something. Anger or grief over what had happened, over what had caused the drastic changes to her body, but she felt the same as she had the day before. The same as the day before that and the day before that and so on. It had been almost four months since the first incident, they all called it the incident like they didn't know the word massacre, and she was still unchanged. New city, new dwelling, new clothes. Same Ryan.
"You can only trust the man, Bruce Wayne."
Her eyes didn't open until she was out of the bathroom, away from the mirror, and she didn't spare a glance for the messy bed in the bedroom. Out in the penthouse, she paused and turned to look at the wall of windows. Weak morning sunlight was attempting to break through the clouds. She thought of being in a tomb, with a crack in the stone to let in the light, and she turned away from the struggling dawn. Lights came on as she moved through the penthouse, triggered by movement apparently, and wet hair stuck to her face and neck as she looked around. Cold and steel and empty. Her boots sounded heavy against the marble floors, and her hands scrambled against the front door in her haste before she could get it open.
Outside of the penthouse, she took a deep breath and went straight for the stairs. As she moved downwards, she reached up to tie her hair out of her face. She needed to see where she was going, and the wet weight kept swinging forward as she moved. With her hair out of the way, she hurried her steps and wasn't even breathing heavily by the time she reached the very bottom. Eyes moved over her as she crossed the lobby, but she didn't care. She didn't care what anyone in this city thought of her, about the whispers left in her wake. She was moving with purpose. Yesterday, she had done what she thought she had to do. Get her own clothes. Read about her dead grandfather. Look at the company she owned. Today, she was doing what she wanted. What did she want?
As she moved down the sidewalk, people moved out of her way. Some scrambled back, afraid. Ryan wasn't a large or intimidating person, but she'd always had presence. That was how Ember had put it, and they'd known each other their entire lives. (Except Ember's entire life was over now.) Ember had told her, more than once, that she walked with a murder strut and fuck-off eyes. She assumed that was why people cleared out of her path today, even the ones that looked half asleep, even if she wasn't trying to walk a certain way. She just knew that there was somewhere she needed to be. A few people glanced at her skin, bared in the cool morning air, before skittering away. She hadn't thought to buy a jacket the day before and could now feel cold wind against her exposed skin. Water dripped from the ends of her hair and trailed down her spine, and she continued forwards.
She needed to get to, she was going, here.
Glass and steel opened with the slightest bit of pressure, and she only paused for a moment in the large lobby. People were already moving around, despite the early hour, and none of them spared her a bit of attention as she moved across the lobby. Her boots thunked in sharp contrast to the quiet clicks, and she watched people step into an elevator. She needed to go up. Big bosses had their offices at the top. She was sure she'd seen that in movies, and wasn't art supposed to imitate life? Her eyes skipped past the elevator, to the far left, and she turned in that direction. The doorway to the staircase was hidden behind a large statute of something that she couldn't readily identify, and she slipped behind the statue and pushed the door open easily. Once in the staircase, she took a breath and just listened. If she had to guess, she'd say that the stairway was completely empty. Good. No one would get in her way.
Numbers flew by her as she moved continuously upwards, until she lost track of the floors. Didn't matter. She wasn't stopping until she reached the top, and she'd been right. No one else was using the stairs, nothing to slow her down, and she could feel her breath sticking in her throat as she reached the last landing. She steadied her breathing, reached out, and opened the door. The first thing she saw was a large plant, green and waxy, and she stepped around it to quickly scan the area. The whole room was open, a large desk to her left and a couch on her right far enough away from the elevators to keep things from getting awkward. Directly across were a set of doors, and she took a few steps in that direction.
"Good morning! Do you have a meeting?" The voice startled Ryan into stopping, she hadn't seen anyone else, and she looked to the left. A woman was standing behind the desk, a pleasant smile on her face, and Ryan only blinked at her in confusion. Was she some kind of secretary? Assistant? What was the correct term?
"No, I'm here to—"
"Cadence! Need you to cancel—Who's this?" This time, Ryan was interrupted by the double doors opening. She could see someone in her peripheral, standing in the center of those opened doors, but she was still looking at the secretary-assistant-whatever. Her body language clearly relaxed at the other voice, like she had been scared and was now soothed. Ryan looked away from the woman and straight ahead, and she prepared to introduce herself. Before she could, he continued. "Doesn't matter. Cadence, cancel this morning's appointments."
"Mister Wayne." Ryan said the name as politely as she'd been taught, but the man didn't even acknowledge her. He was looking at the woman, smiling as the woman eased herself into a chair behind the desk, and Ryan felt. She felt like, she didn't know, she couldn't think, she felt.
"I'll make sure everything is handled, sir," the woman was saying. Wayne was speaking again, light and jovial, and Ryan took a single step forward.
"Mister Wayne," she said with more force. His large form moved to block the open portion of the doorway, so that he was facing towards her. She'd never seen him in person but still easily recognized the lazy smile directed at her.
"Afraid you have me at a disadvantage, Miss, uh," he said and waved a hand. He was clearly expecting her to fill in her name, but her name didn't mean anything here. Why was she here? Why was he here? Bruce Wayne was known for being eccentric, for staying out at all hours doing all kinds of unspeakable things, and why was he actually in his office before regular office hours?
"Can we talk in private?" She asked the question while walking across the floor and had moved past Cadence's desk, and she was now standing in front of the man himself. He always looked larger than life in the magazines and on the television screens. For some reason, she thought he'd be smaller in real life. She'd been wrong.
"Depends. Am I going to like this talk?" He had a pleasant voice, soft and warm, and she hated him in that moment. Hated that he had any kind of warmth while she was still cold. She didn't care about the drawling tease in his voice or the sweep of his eyes, that seemed like the man she'd heard and read about, but she could feel something crawling under her skin. Something was wrong. Why was she here?
"Depends. You gonna let me in?" She sounded like she had, before. Her voice was a little more rough, probably from the blades that had slid through her throat, and she knew that those scars were clearly visible as she tipped her head back to meet his eyes. He held her eyes for a moment and then dipped his chin, and he took a step to the side and held an arm out towards his inner office.
"After you," he said once she was already walking. She could feel his eyes moving over her as she walked completely into his office, and her shoulders grew tense as the double doors closed behind her. She couldn't hear Wayne moving behind her, but she heard the quiet clinking of glass and looked to her right.
"Little early for a drink, isn't it?" Her throat was sore. She hadn't been drinking much lately, hadn't been talking much, and she was rusty. Rusty at talking and rusty at conversations. Over at the bar on the far side of the office, she watched as Wayne poured a healthy helping of amber liquid into a crystal glass. Crystal, looked heavy.
"Not if you haven't ended your night yet," Wayne said and winked over at her. It should have looked ridiculous. She waited for anger, embarrassment on his behalf, anxiety over being here at all. Nothing. As she carefully watched, Wayne walked from the bar and over to his own desk. Instead of moving behind it to sit in the large chair, he leaned back against the front of the desk and raised the half-full glass towards his lips. "Do I get to know your name now?"
"My name is Ryan Lopez. I am, I am now, something happened, and I am the new CEO of Wolfe Industries." The words tripped off her tongue and sounded more like a question, and she shouldn't be here. She didn't know anything about companies or corporations or enterprises or industries. She didn't know Bruce Wayne. There were moments when she wasn't sure if she knew herself, knew the person who'd been revived on that bloody hospital bed.
"Ah, yes." Wide shoulders lifted and fell with a quiet sigh, and Ryan realized that her hands were propped on her hips as her fingers curled inwards with bruising pressure. "I am sorry for your loss, Miss Lopez."
"It wasn't a loss. I never even met the man," she admitted. She had no reason to tell him that. He wouldn't care about her personal life, and she had no desire to give anyone in this city any information about herself.
"Oh, then, congratulations on your newfound wealth," he amended. For a split second, the space of an intake of air or a quick heartbeat, she felt a spark of heated rage. Of the kind of fury that burned from the inside out. What kind of person gave congratulations for a death? Just as quickly, the heat and the rage were gone. It was just her, standing in Wayne's office with frost under her skin.
"About that. I want you to take Wolfe Industries." This time, the words fell easily from her lips and sounded confident. "Oh," she thought. "That's why I'm here."
"Can't do that, Miss Lopez." She watched him bare his throat as he drained his glass, and she felt her teeth itch as she forced her fingers to relax. To stop denting her skin. Forced herself to breathe a little slower.
"I'm not asking you to buy it or anything, however it usually works. I'm not equipped to be CEO. I never even finished college. I answered phones at a vet's office and washed dogs. This isn't my world. It's yours. So take the company, for free." She pushed each word out until she was talking almost too fast, ad she could hear the panicked edge of her voice so she knew that Wayne had to hear it too.
"Why do you want me to take it? It's yours now." He looked confused, brows pulled down with a slight purse to his lips, like he couldn't understand why someone wouldn't want to own a company.
"It's mine because of some divine birthright bullshit." She watched his eyes widen, remembered that he owned his company for the same reason, and tried to soften her tone. "Last week, I didn't even know that I was related to George Wolfe. No one ever prepared me for this, and I don't want it. Wolfe said that I could trust you—"
"Georgie said that you could trust me?" The odd nickname and the surprised tone caught her off-guard, and she shifted on her feet.
"Georgie?"
"Thought that he hated me. Think he said it to my face, a couple of times. You sure he meant me?" Wayne asked and even pointed a finger at his face. His eyes were wide, mouth parted, and she had the urge to slam her head against the nearest hard surface. The wall behind her or possibly even the desk that Wayne was propping against. Tabloids called Wayne simple, said that only shiny things could keep his attention, but she had thought those would be lies. How could he run a company and be a complete moron? Was this the man that her grandfather said that she could trust?
"Unless there's another Bruce Wayne of Wayne Enterprises," she managed to say. Bruce's sudden smile seemed odd, felt wrong for some reason that she couldn't understand, and her arms crossed over her stomach so that her fingers could push against her ribs.
"Nope, just me," he answered with that same bright grin. Apparently, she'd been told to trust a complete idiot. Fuck it. Didn't matter.
"He said to trust you, so you can take it. Do whatever you want with it," she decided. She couldn't accept a company, couldn't take that kind of responsibility. Maybe Bruce Wayne wasn't the most responsible person, since it seemed like the tabloids might have been on to something, but he at least knew how this world worked. Wolfe had said he could be trusted. That had to be good enough.
"No." The quick and easily-delivered answer confused her, as did his easing posture. His empty glass was on the desk, his hands were braced against the desk behind him so that he could relax in a slight lean, and she didn't understand. Didn't companies love taking over other companies? Wouldn't he increase his wealth and his company's by taking hers? There was no downside for him.
"I don't want it," she admitted. Didn't want the wealth or the responsibility or any of it.
"Really not my problem, Miss Lopez." His tone was so easy, casual and light as if they weren't discussing billions of dollars, and she hated him again. Hated him enough to feel a trickle of warmth creeping into her veins. "Now, I have had a very long night, so I think it's time for you to go."
The double doors behind her opened, but she couldn't look away from the lazy smile on Wayne's face. She was being dismissed, and that shouldn't surprise her. Wayne didn't know her, coming here had been impulsive and a mistake, but she wanted to ask again. To keep asking until he took the responsibility from her. That wasn't fair to him, for her to push her burdens onto him. Looking at him, seeing the marks of too many late nights under his eyes and the slight crooked grin, she felt ashamed. It burned like acid in her stomach and tightened around her throat, and she dropped her eyes to the floor. She was preparing to apologize, for barging in and trying to make demands, when she felt hands. Skin sliding against her bare shoulders and fingers hooking around bone, and everything in her simply froze. Pressure pulled at her and—
(—the hand on her shoulder held her in place as the blade sliced against her skin as she pushed back as more blood slicked down the front of her body as her quick pulse caused her throat to open wider to spill more to kill her more quickly as she was held in place as fingers bruised her skin as she fought to get away to keep fighting just a little longer to finish this before stopping to get the hands off of her can't let them stop her—)
—strong fingers were wrapped tightly around her wrist. Her entire body was tense, muscles straining, and she was breathing heavily. Chest heaving with air sticking in her throat. Fingers were wrapped around her wrist, she could feel the warmth of skin pressed tight against hers, and both of her hands were clenched into fists. There was blood on her knuckles. Her eyes were locked on the blood that dripped from her knuckles, down the back of her hand, and onto the fingers that were holding her in a locked grip. The bones of her hand ached, but the skin was whole. Not her blood. She was poised to fight, had been stopped in the middle of striking out, and she finally looked up.
Bruce Wayne was standing over her, one hand locked under her curled fist and his arm felt like an iron bar across her back to stop her from moving away, and she could feel the soft expensive material of his shirt against her stomach with every heaved breath. The crooked grin was gone, replaced by a flat line. That was as far as her eyes had gotten. Past the blood dripping across both of their hands and the hard line of his jaw. He looked like a completely different person, and there was blood on her hand tracking down from her knuckles. Pressure was braced against the center of her back, hard bone pressing against hard bone, and she was trapped.
"I don't, what, I can't—" She couldn't breathe. Her throat was too tight, lungs compressed. She was filled with heat, burning her from the inside, and Bruce Wayne had sunlight in his dark eyes.
"You knocked out two of my guys." His voice was so quiet that she had to strain to hear him, especially over the sound of her static breathing, and the words didn't make sense.
"Guys? I didn't, I wouldn't—" She would. Her reputation for fighting had started back in middle school, because everyone knew that Ryan Lopez didn't back down from a challenge. She'd knocked out men before. (She'd killed men before.) She didn't remember fighting anyone, but the proof of it was sticking against her skin. The last thing she remembered was feeling ashamed, wanting to apologize.
"Breathe, Lopez. Easy now." Quiet and soothing, which was a sharp contrast to the bruising grip around her wrist and the solid form she was pressed against. The arm against her back softened, shifted, until his hands was pressing between her shoulder blades. His fingertips were against the sensitive skin stretched over the back of her right shoulder, exit wound.
"I didn't mean to," she forced out. Her breathing was still harsh, and she was starting to shake now. The heat trapped under skin was overwhelming, her eyes were burning, and someone had grabbed her shoulder. She'd been dismissed, someone had come in to escort her out, and she couldn't remember anything after that.
"I know, it's okay." Fingertips were pressing against her skin, into the aching muscle around scar tissue, and her body was caught between wanting to move away and to push into the pressure. She was being pulled apart and—
—the fire was getting closer her shoulder was ripped open couldn't take her weight her mother's body was covering hers the smell was in her throat—
—her free hand was curled in the front of Wayne's shirt. Ruining the soft expensive material. The backs of her fingers were pressed tight against his stomach, and she forced her breathing to match his. Skin meeting soft heat with each inhale. Light warmth against her face with each exhale. She was shaking and burning and alive. Air was moving through her lungs and blood was pulsing in her veins and she was solid in her existence. There was blood on her hands, again. There was heat filling her up inside, again. There was sharp clarity to all of her senses, again.
"Wayne! Hands off!" The sudden voice caused her to jump, to push harder against the unyielding body in front of her, and her eyes squeezed shut as she tried to center herself. The voice wasn't unfamiliar, but it was like she was hearing it for the first time.
"This isn't what it looks like, Kelley." Wayne's voice was different now, no longer quiet or soothing. Louder, to carry across the office. Slightly slower, drawling, to antagonize. Kit. He must have went to the apartment and found her missing, and he'd managed to find her. He'd found her in Bruce Wayne's office, in Bruce Wayne's arms, and the heat disappeared. Ice swept through her and left her shivering, and she pulled at her trapped wrist.
"It looks like you've got your—" Bruce realized she was trying to get away and instantly removed his hands from her skin, and he took a step away as she stumbled backwards. As soon as she was standing on her own, she turned around. Left her exposed back to Wayne and ignored the way she wanted to move until she could keep him in her sight.
"This was my fault, Kit. I came here to talk, didn't realize I needed to set up a meeting—" She stopped speaking as her eyes took in the scene, and something painfully cold settled in her stomach as bile coated her throat. Two men were laying on the ground, unconscious but breathing, and there was blood on the thick carpet. Darkening rust against soft cream. What did she do?
"Your new boss tried to kill my security, but I'm not going to hold it against her. She's clearly working through some issues." Wayne loudly whispered the last word, and everything felt wrong. His words and how he'd said them didn't match the man that had stopped her from attacking him and had coached her through taking steady breaths. He was making light of it, despite the fact that the men she had hurt were just doing their jobs. Careless. Wayne sounded like he couldn't care less.
"We should leave, Ryan," Kit said and held out a hand. His left hand, his dominant hand, his silver hand. His entire left arm was a prosthetic. She had known that but hadn't really processed it. Hadn't cared to ask or spared a thought for how he'd lost an arm.
"Unless you want to stick around to take a swing at the next guard that comes in." Wayne's voice carried, and she felt herself flinch at the words. The men on the ground were breathing, but there was blood under their faces. She'd hurt them, when they were just doing their jobs.
"I'm leaving," she managed to say. She was going to have to step around the bodies. Unconscious, not dead. She would need to walk around them to leave the office.
"Lopez!" Wayne had waited for her to get past the guards, until she had reached out to take Kit's outstretched silver hand, and she marveled at the feeling of metal fingers pressing gently against her bruised skin. She looked over her shoulder, at where Wayne was now standing behind his desk, and the front of his shirt was untucked.
"We should go," Kit whispered next to her. Possibly too low for Wayne to even hear, but she couldn't move. She was too far away to see the clear details of Wayne's face, but she knew that he was smiling. Again, she got the sense that she was looking at the wrong person.
"The next time you slip your leash, find someone else to maul." The guards were still out cold, blood had spread, was drying against her skin. To maul, like she was some kind of animal. "See you around, killer."
At the sight of Wayne's crooked grin and the sound of his teasing drawl, heat flooded through her. She could feel again, no more numbness or lingering cold, and all she could feel was anger.
Perspective: Bruce Wayne
The woman had tensed at the word maul and had looked down at the unconscious security guards, but her entire body had flinched when he called her killer. Even across his office, he could see the fire burning in her eyes as she looked up at him. She'd been furious, top lip starting to curl in a snarl, and her knuckles had flashed white under the blood as she gripped her shadow's metal hand. He'd waited for her to speak, curious to see if she would attack, but she had left instead. Had turned on the heel of her thick-soled boots and had walked quickly away, with her bodyguard-assistant right behind her. As soon as she was out of sight, down the stairs as opposed to the elevator, Bruce called out for Cadence. The security guards would need hospital visits, he was sure that they both had concussions, and he carefully sat down in his chair as he waited for paramedics to show.
"Alfred, look into Ryan Lopez. Find everything you can." He leaned back in his chair to put on the image of a boss that cared enough to stick around but didn't care enough to wait on the floor at his employee's sides, but his attention was on the steady rise of the men's backs.
"Everything will be ready upon your arrival, Master Bruce."
Perspective: Kit Kelley
Ryan was moving so quickly that he had to hurry his steps just to stay behind her, and he felt faint amusement as people on the sidewalk moved out of her way. People in Gotham weren't so easily moved, but the crowds parted as Ryan marched. As the people around them started to thin out, he quickened his steps and fell into place next to her. Her eyes were trained forwards, jaw locked, and it would only take a quick look at her face to tell that she furious. Like some sort of wild animal that had been released in the city and was ready to attack the first thing that caught her attention. It was no wonder that people had moved from her path. It was self-preservation instincts kicking in.
When he'd started looking for her, he hadn't expected to find her in Bruce Wayne's office. He most definitely hadn't expected to find her looking this... animated. The woman in his charge had been little more than a ghost since the moment he first set eyes on her. Now, she looked wholly solid. Fully existing in the moment, in life. Nothing like the woman he'd found in the hospital twenty-four hours ago.
"What, exactly, happened in Wayne's office?" he decided to ask. Ryan looked over at him, dark eyes bright with a cruel smile slashing across her face, and he wondered again about how much had changed when she was brought back to life.
"I remembered who I am."
Ending Note From Raith: If anything was confusing, that was mostly intentional. At the beginning of the story, Ryan is traumatized and a bit disassociated from everything going on around her. I'm not saying that she's better now, more about what traumatized her and what's going on with her will be explained as the story continues. If there's any questions, I'd be happy to answer them. Leave a review, send me a message, or contact me on tumblr: raith-way
Thank you for reading!