3.
Prue wondered if she'd broken any mirrors recently or stepped under any ladders, because this period of bad luck couldn't be a coincidence.
Now, on top of her Late Byzantine Period paper and helping Lisa out, she had to buy a new phone too.
She knew she'd lost it at the Daggett residence, and she was damned if she was ever going back to get it.
She was too afraid to do anything more than leave an anonymous tip to the police about Daggett and Bane. The operator didn't sound like she put much faith in her words, but she assured her they would look into it.
Prue saw nothing on the news in the following days to ascertain if they'd listened to her. In fact, Daggett's death was wrapped up in complete mystery. She googled him when she got home and realized he was a pretty important business man, even beyond Gotham, so it made no sense that he wouldn't be given more publicity. She even went on his company's website to check for updates, but nothing was disclosed.
Were the police hiding the crime on purpose? Why?
Had they not found the body? She had given them the address specifically. But then again, Bane and his men could've cleaned up by the time she found her way to a payphone.
Maybe that's why they took my phone.
Although she doubted that would've made a big difference. Even if she had called the police on time, they might've not caught him. Bane had managed to snub them at the Stock Exchange where they had been armed and ready to stop him.
She struggled with the nightmares for a week. The same dream, over and over; Bane, walking towards her in all his might, carrying his weight like a weapon. The same corridor, the same Japanese parting, the same dead body on the floor. She woke up clutching at invisible money, the echo of a 'thank you' on her lips.
Those two words haunted her more than anything else. What should be a polite reflex had now been become something perverse. She had expressed gratitude to a criminal twice in the span of a month. He had killed someone with his bare hands and she had given him a quiet thank you. She felt stupid and cowardly.
Lisa was not being much help. She was pestering Prue, trying to find out what had put her in a gloomy mood - well, gloomier than usual. Prue herself didn't know why she was hiding it from her. She still hadn't told her about her first confrontation with Bane. It seemed late now to tell her about the second. She almost felt Lisa wouldn't believe her. She could hardly believe it herself.
There was also the issue of apartment hunting. Lisa was far too picky for her own good; she kept circling places way above her pay range, in neighborhoods she couldn't afford. Prue suspected she was doing this in purpose, to delay actually having to move out.
"Look, I don't mind having you here," Prue lied guiltily, "but if you're going to stick around, you have to start paying rent. And replacing the milk."
"Next salary, I promise," Lisa assured her in a tone of voice that didn't actually assure Prue of anything.
Work was also being stressful. Her boss was none too happy she had lost her phone and had to renew all her contacts. Prue had kept quiet about the Daggett delivery, not wanting to cause him more alarm and endanger her employment (he might consider her a risk to his business, after all, if shitty things kept happening wherever she went), but she often felt tempted to reveal the sordid details, just to get him off her back. She'd had to dig in her own pockets to pay the failed delivery. She had stashed Bane's money in her glove compartment, where it sat like a corpse, festering, waiting.
It was all beyond her reach. And yet, she hadn't curled up in a ball yet.
She had thought about quitting; two near-death experiences were ample reason to give up, but for some reason, she felt that this would be even more cowardly. Like throwing in the towel and admitting defeat. She had one year of grad school left, and she was going to pull through.
Not even terrorists could stop her there.
"Ms. Neill, while your paper certainly makes some valid points about the social ramifications of the Battle of Manzikert, I feel that you have crimped material from other courses and padded your work for mine," her professor informed her critically.
Prue licked her lips quickly. "Technically, we can speak of the idea of 'empire hegemony' here too since the Battle of Manzikert led to Anatolia being conquered by the future Ottoman Empire…"
The professor met her statement with a raised eyebrow.
"Ms. Neill, when was the Ottoman Empire inaugurated as such?"
Prue sighed. "1299."
"And when does the Battle of Manzikert take place?"
"1071."
"So, roughly two hundred years earlier."
Prue knew when she was defeated.
"A B- is perfect, Sir," she muttered, returning to her seat. She reasoned with herself that she could recover from this minor setback with her next paper. Besides, she had been under a lot of stress recently.
You would've probably gotten a B- even without the attacks, a treacherous voice whispered in her ear.
When her newly purchased (and sadly less reliable) phone buzzed, she welcomed the distraction.
She cracked a smile. It was an order from Mrs. Morris, one of her oldest, most loyal clients. She was a sweet old lady who always made sure to fill Prue's backpack with lots of home-made scones after every delivery. Mrs. Morris loved to bake, but she didn't like to cook anything else. Prue considered this to be uniquely cool. A ride to her place would definitely cheer her up after class, if nothing else.
"Come in, sweetheart," the old woman's voice greeted her from inside.
Prue loved Mrs. Morris' apartment, it was small and intimate and decorated with strange knickknacks from her travels. The woman was very fond of African masks.
Prue usually lingered in the hallway to see if she had acquired anything new, but this time around something else caught her eye.
Mrs. Morris was sitting erect in a chair in the middle of her living room, her fingers clutching the arms of the chair, her face a strange, white grimace.
"Mrs. Morris?"
It took Prue two seconds to figure out what was wrong. She should have known. What had Bane told her? Until next time...Prudence. She hadn't listened.
Someone was standing behind the old woman, someone holding a gun.
"Prue, I'm so sorry…" the old woman trailed off, her mouth moving spasmodically.
She didn't recognize this henchman, but she knew right away it was one of Bane's men. Everything about his gait and attire confirmed it.
Prue raised her hand in a plea. "Please don't hurt her. Please."
The man pressed the tip of his gun to the back of Mrs. Morris' head, making the poor woman flinch.
"Go into the bedroom," he instructed her in a cool voice.
"Is – is he here?" Prue asked, trying to keep her voice level, although the end of her question sounded slightly hysterical.
The man cocked his head to the side, as if considering her. "No, but he sends his regards. Now go into the bedroom. Or else."
He cocked the gun, and the sound echoed against Mrs. Morris' skull, making her cry out.
"Okay, okay," Prue expelled quickly. She wouldn't let her friend get hurt in her stead. The idea of causing more pain made her sick to her stomach.
"Hang on, Mrs. Morris. I'll be right back. And you... don't you hurt her," she told the man with a degree of boldness she did not feel.
She turned and walked on shaking legs towards the end of the hallway. She was reliving the scene in Daggett's apartment.
But this time…this time…
The bedroom door was open.
Prue stepped in warily. There was no one there.
Except, there was something black and compact lying on the bed. Something that made her instinctively draw back.
"Did you find the briefcase?" the man's voice carried faintly down the hall.
"Y-yes," she called back.
"Pick it up, put it in your backpack," he instructed.
Prue hesitated, staring at the gleaming case. It looked larger than your average briefcase; it also looked like it was made from a special material for sensitive cargo. There was a cipher on the handle.
"Be quick about it, I don't have all day," the man's voice sounded impatient, almost nasty. There was a clear difference between him and Bane; the latter never needed to lose his cool to inspire absolute fear.
But Prue was scared enough to comply. She picked up the briefcase gingerly. It was weighty, but not too weighty. She fingered it carefully on both sides, trying to decipher what was inside, but it was a fool's errand. The material was impregnable. At least it wouldn't kill her back. She stuffed it quickly in her backpack and made her way to the living room.
"Show me," the man demanded, still holding the gun to the old woman's head.
Prue unzipped her backpack.
"Good. You'll get a text with an address. You're to take the cargo to that address. No funny business. Got it?"
Prue blinked in disbelief. "You want me to…deliver this package?"
The man smirked nastily. "Boss said that was your job, after all."
Boss said…
Prue gritted her teeth. "I can't do this."
"Can't you? Well, I guess your friend here is gonna die a pointless death."
Mrs. Morris was crying quietly, holding her liver-spotted fists to her mouth. Her whole body was wracked by sobs.
Prue felt her heart break. No.
"How do I know you won't hurt her after I leave?"
The man sneered. "Boss said to keep her alive. You'll have to take his word for it."
Prue hated how Bane's absence was not really an absence. He was there with them, in the shadows, in the unspoken pauses. In the orders.
"Why can't his men deliver it? I'm just a student. If someone intercepts me on the way –" she started.
The man laughed cruelly. "Exactly. No one will. You are just a student."
Prue realized he was right. She was the perfect cover. A young girl driving a delivery car. What could be more innocent and mundane than that?
"You're wasting time," the man reminded her impatiently. "Your friend can't survive that long."
Mrs. Morris gave a shake of her head, as if to warn Prue not to do it, but she wasn't about to let the poor woman die for a simple delivery. She was good at this. She could do it.
"Okay...okay."
As she drove along the winding streets of Gotham Heights, hands slightly shaking on the steering wheel, backpack sitting dutifully in the seat next to her, she wondered how they had tracked down Mrs. Morris, how they had known she was a friend.
My phone, she realized. He took my phone.
She didn't know how to process that information. She was transporting something that was surely illegal for one of the most wanted men in Gotham. He had entrusted her with a delivery. Her Byzantine paper was far from her mind now.
Just as the henchman had promised, she received a text on her new phone.
An anonymous number. She recognized the address immediately, and her shock was considerable. She had expected a location like the Narrows, not the Corporate District. That was the center of Gotham power. It was the most scrutinized, the most guarded, the most watched.
Oh.
They'd be on the lookout for someone like Bane and his men. But not for her.
Prue swore under her breath. She kept driving. She had to think of Mrs. Morris.
When she reached the designated address, she was startled to see the illustrious Wayne Tower in the near distance. She remembered now. Wayne Enterprises. Bane seemed to be very interested in this company.
As soon as her car stopped, she received another text.
The instructions were strange, to say the least. She was supposed to take a roundabout path towards the subway, dive into an alley and then…find the opening to a sewer.
She stood frozen for a few moments, not sure whether this was real or some kind of elaborate game.
A few moments later, she received another text with a photo attached.
Tick tock. Mrs. Morris was sitting in the same chair, with her hands over her face.
"Definitely not a game," she whispered to herself. She felt like bursting into tears, but there wasn't enough time to have a breakdown and deliver Bane's package. She had to suck it up.
She got out of the car, slipping the backpack over her shoulders.
Every step she took felt like she was digging her own grave. She kept glancing around, afraid that the few passers-by could tell she was up to no good. The Al Fresco logos on her jacket and backpack did little to assuage her. Yes, she was camouflaged, but she felt she would betray herself in some insignificant way. She had a terrible poker face. She'd never committed a crime in her life. She had no talent for it.
Every small noise around her startled her, every shadow made her anxious. But she continued walking, until she reached the subway entrance and took a left into the alley next to it.
The smell was rotten from a few dumpsters which hadn't been relieved. A couple of mice scattered quickly out of her path. Prue wasn't surprised. Gotham overflowed with grime and dirt, even in the Corporate District.
She walked further into the poorly lit alley until she reached a dead-end. And there, in the center was a manhole.
In no time, she received a new text. Drop the briefcase inside.
Prue thought this was ludicrous. These were the sewers. Why would Bane want something thrown down there?
But she wasn't here to argue, she was here to get the job done and save Mrs. Morris.
Maybe save herself too.
She knelt down on the dirty asphalt and struggled to pull the cement cover up.
It was heavier than she'd imagined. She wheezed and panted and bucked. Her nails were soon torn and red marks welled on her fingers, but she didn't give in. The lid gave away with a pop and she fell on her back with its weight on her chest.
"Ugh." She wriggled from underneath it and coughed deeply, trying to regain her breath.
Prue stared down apprehensively.
There was only darkness coming from the open hole. She could see nothing beyond it, no sign of life down there. She could only hear the dull leaking of sewer water.
With a sigh, she unzipped her backpack and took out the briefcase.
"If this is what you want."
She dropped it inside the hole gently.
Prue expected to hear a splash or some kind of thud, but there was nothing.
She held her breath, blocking out the traffic noise. It was as if the briefcase had fallen into something soft; a net or - or a pair of hands.
Yet there was nothing in that darkness. No one she could see.
But who could see her?
Prue drew back with a shudder. She zipped up her backpack, rolled the lid over the manhole until it screwed shut, and before she knew what was happening, she was running like mad towards the other end of the alley.
Only when she was back on the main street did she slow down.
She'd done it then. She'd delivered the briefcase.
She…was probably in deep shit.
Her phone buzzed with a new text. Well done. If you tell anyone about this, you know what we can do.
A final image of Mrs. Morris appeared on the screen. The woman was on her knees in front of the chair, holding a hand over her chest. There was no man with a gun behind her.
Prue gritted her teeth. You know what we can do.
God, who else could they target? There were a lot of people on her old phone. A lot of people she cared about.
What if they'd also found her father? They must have.
Prue couldn't walk any further. She collapsed on a nearby bench, hanging her head between her legs. This was a nightmare she wouldn't soon wake up from.
What would happen now? What would they do next? Or had this been a one-time job? Somehow, she doubted it.
She sat there for what felt like hours, contemplating her bleak future, or lack thereof.
She almost jumped when her phone started ringing.
Anonymous number.
Oh, for the love of God.
A spike of anger coursed through her, fast like lightning. What more did that awful henchman want from her?
She answered in a frenzy. "Tell your boss I did what he wanted, all right? I delivered the damn thing. Now leave Mrs. Morris alone. You should be ashamed of yourself, threatening an old woman. Do you get a kick out of hurting someone less powerful, are you that insecure in your manhood –"
But she stopped halfway through her impassioned accusation. She heard a rattle on the other end. A kind of mechanical vibration which was devoid of humanity. It stilled the blood in her veins.
The silence went on for a few moments, uninterrupted.
Then, finally, he spoke.
"Thank you, Prudence."
Prue opened her mouth, but no sound issued from her lips. Someone had wrapped a hand around her vocal cords, rendering her silent.
She could hear the gears behind his belabored breathing, the pistons of his mask.
She didn't realize he had hung up. She could still hear the horrible sounds in her ear.
Thank you, Prudence.
Thank you.
There they were; those two dreadful words again, a poisonous chant.
It was a kind of contract between them. One she hadn't known she'd signed.
And although Bane's warped timbre hardly contained any emotion, there was, underneath his simple thank you, the promise of more.
She thought about what the henchman had told her. No one would suspect someone like her. She was just a struggling student, delivering food. It really was the perfect cover.
Oh God. I'm - I'm his delivery girl.
Prue bent down and threw up on her shoes in the middle of the Corporate District.
A/N: thank you so much for your reviews, I was overwhelmed by the positive feedback! I hoped you enjoyed this one!