4.
Prue sat in the delivery car with the laptop perched in her lap. She was typing up an email to one of her professors, asking for an extension on a paper.
...the reason for my tardiness is the fact that I am running errands for a possible terrorist/mercenary who might decide to kill me in the next 24 hours unless I do his bidding. Thank you for your understanding.
Prue heaved a sigh and pressed repeatedly on the backspace button.
She wondered if her professors would even care if they found out. As long as she delivered her assignments, she supposed she might as well be carted off in a body bag. It would be the same to them.
She reached for her midnight dose of Red Bull and swallowed down some painkillers. Her heart was racing. Any moment now, she'd get the call and she'd have to drive out.
She had already been on three deliveries so far. Each one had taken her into the depths of the most sophisticated Gotham neighborhoods. The kind of places where you could see Swedish au-pairs picking up children from private schools and depositing them in front of tall, iron-wrought gates, the stateliness of which always left her slightly breathless. She had seen opulence before, but never this close. These were the lands of gleaming skyscrapers, sparkling diamonds and 10.000 $ champagne. And she was infiltrating its confines on behalf of a madman.
She was begrudgingly impressed with Bane's genius; her innocuous delivery car sparked no interest on the avenues of the very wealthy.
On all three drives, she was told to do the same thing: namely, carry various containers to the mouths of sewers. For this was one thing that even the very rich shared with the very poor; public sewage.
Prue had debated for hours at end whether to leave the police another anonymous tip about the sewers. They hadn't exactly listened to her before. Fear of Bane and his men who now knew enough about her to make her life miserable kept her away from the authorities. But she felt complicit in whatever he was planning, and she hated the guilt gnawing at her bones. She desperately wanted to talk to someone, she just didn't know who. Bane could find that person and –
She did not want to think beyond that.
So she numbed herself with painkillers and tried not to lose sight of what was important; keeping her loved ones (her dad, in particular) safe. She would not suffer losing another family member.
The ringtone made her jump. She pressed a palm over her mouth to still her breath.
Showtime.
"Yes. Hello."
"You'll receive a text with the directions. Memorize and delete. Start engine at half-past eight. Don't screw up," the anonymous henchman's voice recited in her ear.
"O-kay," she replied uncertainly, as she always did, and the henchman hung up.
Bane hadn't called to thank her since that first time, and she was relieved, but she could sense him beyond his lackeys' words. She could sense his power and the way it reached through the phone and grasped her throat like a claw.
Even now, she reached up and touched the side of her neck, feeling as if a shadow had settled there.
Her phone buzzed with the instructions. Prue's eyes widened as she perused them carefully. This wasn't going to be a drop-off. She was supposed to pick something up from the Narrows.
The Narrows.
She was going from the most affluent boroughs to…the slums.
The Narrows was known as Gotham's least hospitable region. It was an industrial island on the fringes of the city, and most Gothamites liked to forget it was there because it housed the infamous Arkham Asylum. From the looks of her instructions, the meeting point was in its vicinity.
Prue drummed her fingers nervously against the wheel. She'd never been to the Narrows before. Although there were a few residential buildings on the island, no one living there was in the habit of ordering food. Few vehicles made the journey to the island to begin with. The Asylum, though heavily guarded, made everyone feel uncomfortable and unsafe. No surprise there, since it housed the most criminally insane minds in the city. Prue got the shivers just thinking about it.
She was scared, but oddly, she felt more comfortable knowing she wouldn't be driving up some swanky avenue dotted with illustrious mansions. You knew exactly what you got with The Narrows. There was no panache.
The streetlights rolled across the windshield like drunken fireflies. At this time of night, the air was solid with fog. She watched the buildings recede behind her as she made her way to the bridge that would take her out of the city and towards the island.
She was good at driving and she had always enjoyed it. Prue couldn't put it in words. It wasn't about speed or movement. She didn't like cars for their ability to transport her - not physically anyway.
Rather, she liked the confined space. She liked that the world around her seemed to fade and go quiet. It felt like being underwater. It had a calming effect on her. It made sleep easier afterwards.
Not that she would sleep tonight. Her throat felt dry. Her stomach was roiling. She could already see Arkham Asylum in the distance, its observation tower reaching up like a lighthouse from the sea.
You're going to be fine. You're going to be fine. You're going to be fine, she kept chanting in her head.
Prue had never wondered about what went on inside those walls. It was best not to contemplate such things, but she had a thought now that Bane might end up there one day. She almost giggled, helplessly.
No, somehow, she could not picture that. He was too formidable.
She paid the toll at the bridge without looking at the toll collector. She drove forward blindly. The dirty waters of the Atlantic lopped against the metal rails of the bridge and made a playful, dirty sound in her ears.
The Narrows was steeped in a yellow, almost chemical haze. The buildings looked brittle, roughened by disuse. But the Asylum defied you like a proud plantation house, stretching endlessly across a wide perimeter, an old, aristocratic inheritance. Except for its thick wire-fence and observation post. Those looked quite modern.
Prue drove in a loop, avoiding Arkham's premises but sticking close by. There weren't many stop points on this island. She knew she was supposed to find a shut-up diner next to a chainsaw factory.
There was hardly another car on the road at this time of night, except for a patrol vehicle which she suspected belonged to Arkham. Even so, she didn't really stick out that much. Her car was neither shiny nor funny-looking. It could've passed for a cab. She was fine.
But really, what was Bane playing at, sending her here?
Eventually, she found the diner in question. The letters had been smudged and corroded beyond recognition, but she thought she could decipher the name. Albany? Albain? Albatross? Something along those lines.
What spooked her far beyond the unintelligible sign was the fact that the door to the diner was partly open. Even though the place looked like it hadn't been frequented in years. Shit.
Prue fumbled in her bag for the pepper spray. A feeble weapon perhaps, but it was better than nothing.
She sat in the car, holding the small can between her fingers, waiting. For what, she didn't know.
She had the upsetting suspicion that she was supposed to get out of the car and go inside.
The minutes ticked by on the car's digital watch as she sat, watching the ominous-looking entrance, trying to make up her mind about what she was supposed to do.
Don't screw up, the henchman had said.
Her phone belched out a text and Prue shrieked. "Jesus!"
Key under blue lamp.
That was the whole message.
Prue shook her phone angrily. "What am I supposed to do with that?"
It was pretty clear there were no blue lamps in her close vicinity. She would have to get out and go inside.
She had never been a very brave girl, and she wasn't about to start now, but fear was a potent motivator. Fear compelled her to act in most situations. In fact, Prue had lived with fear buried deep in her heart for most of her life. Fear that, one day, she would be heavily punished for her childhood crimes. Well, this might be what the gods had in mind for her.
She stepped inside the dilapidated diner, making sure not to brush against the door or touch any of the cobwebbed surfaces around her. She inhaled the dusty, stale air. The silence was periodically interrupted by small, scurrying sounds. She shuddered.
Prue surveyed the counter and its broken wood-paneling, swollen by moisture and yellowed by time. It didn't take her long to spot the contrasting splash of color lumped between empty bottles of soda. The chipped screen of the dirty blue lamp shone distinctly in the murky light. With uneasy fingers she picked it up and grappled for the key.
She had expected to find a rusty key to match the atmosphere of the locale, but instead she was met with clean, smooth steel. The key looked new, made for a modern fixture.
Now what?
She didn't think she was expected to lock up the diner, for one. But she couldn't see any modern appliances anywhere. The place looked like it had been frozen in time, circa 1987.
Still, she persevered.
Don't screw up.
She waded her way through broken chairs, torn-up upholstery and upended tables (most of which had been stolen anyway) and spied a small corridor in the back which led to the restrooms and a utility closet.
The restroom doors were caved-in and warped, but the closet swung open with only an eerie creak.
Prue used her phone as a flashlight to peek inside.
There wasn't much to see. She only found more garbage and broken glassware, but there was one thing which stuck out like a sore thumb; a tall filing cabinet propped up against the wall. It didn't look like it belonged in this place.
Bingo.
She went straight for its drawers, relieved that the job was halfway done.
Prue tried the key on each of the small locks. Her surprise was hardly small when she realized the key fit none of them.
What the…?
She tried again, with the same result. Prue exhaled through her nostrils. This was not happening. Either she had a bad case of butter fingers or this was some elaborate trap. What else was this stupid key supposed to open? She gave the cabinet a frustrated kick…and the whole thing shuddered.
Huh.
She kicked it again. The whole thing sounded hollow, empty.
Prue gripped the edges with both hands and pulled. Holy shit. The cabinet moved against her fingers quite easily. In no time, she'd shoved it out of the way and what was revealed behind it drove a cold chill down her spine.
It was a gleaming metal door with a round, pressurized lock. The kind you see in special facilities that thrive on privacy. She could tell right away that the key would fit.
The tunnel looked like it was infrequently used, since the smell was overwhelmingly musty, but there must have been ventilation somewhere because there was only an inkling of mold and moisture gathered in the corners. The darkness beyond looked milky-grey, as if there was a source of light somewhere in the distance.
Prue stood on the threshold, holding the key in her hand. Secret tunnels weren't exactly a shocker in a place like Gotham, but she had an absolute and terrifying certainty that this one led straight into Arkham. The proximity was too incriminating. And this wasn't just a way into the Asylum, but a way out of it too.
How many ways out were there?
A sudden terror seized her lungs. What if a murderous lunatic were to jump out of the dark at her? What if a madman with an ax –
Prue froze.
She was certain she had heard a small cough coming from the dark. The certainty solidified when she heard footsteps in the distance. Coming closer.
Fuck. It's the ax-murderer. Fuck.
Prue felt tempted to shut the heavy door in their face and make a run for it, but before she could make up her mind, a frail figure emerged around the corner and was made visible to her.
It certainly did not look like a dangerous lunatic.
In fact, it looked like an elderly Chinese man, dressed in grey overalls, the color of which matched the tunnel walls to a startling degree.
Prue waited with bated breath. She had the pepper spray ready in her pocket, just in case, but the old man was only carrying a small cardboard box. It was an ordinary box, the kind college students used to pack their belongings. Hell, she had several of them at home.
The man did not seem at all startled by her. He had clearly expected for someone to be at the door. He was yet another delivery man.
Prue wondered how Bane had managed to recruit someone who looked like a mild-mannered family man.
"Good evening," he finally spoke when he was five feet away from her. His features looked drawn-out in ink in the blue light of her phone.
Prue shifted on her feet. "Good evening."
"Hm. He said female, but this is not what I expected," he murmured, still holding the box to his chest.
Prue cleared her throat nervously. "At least they told you the gender. They…told me nothing."
"Smart," he ascertained, nodding his head. "It's better you don't know."
"Why?" she asked, a slight accusation in her voice.
The man cocked his head to the side. "Do you want to know?"
Prue realized that, in fact, she didn't. She wanted to stay as untouched by these sordid affairs as possible, even as she was standing at the entrance of a secret tunnel with a strange Chinese man.
She changed tacks. "Well, I almost didn't find the door."
"Yet you did. These things are instinctual," he replied without hesitance.
He sported a purple birthmark on his left cheek, and she found herself captivated by its fleshy form.
"Maybe. But this seems like a big risk. Anyone could come in here and comb the place and then…" she trailed off, waving her arm around them. She hated how she almost sounded nice about it. She should have sounded angrier.
To her shock, the old man smiled. His face rippled like broken lake.
"You haven't been doing this very long, have you? Things must be left in the open, young lady. We hide by not hiding at all."
Prue blinked. She absorbed the words too quickly and she did not understand them at all, but later, she would think on them and realize he was right. Everything Bane and his men were doing was actually out in the open, which was why they did not get caught. Using her was one such example.
At the moment, though, she was more concerned about the box he was holding.
"I suppose that's for me?"
He nodded. "Should provide interesting reading material."
He leaned forward and deposited it in her open arms. Its heft was not negligible. When she looked up at him, she noticed what the box had been covering. The official tag on his chest. The overalls were not simple overalls. It was a uniform.
"You work at the Asylum," she blurted out. It was obvious.
"Ah, I'm only a simple orderly," he excused himself, shuffling away from her direct gaze.
Prue had known that this job would be connected to the Asylum, one way or another, but to have the physical proof in her arms was quite disturbing. From what the man had told her, she was most likely holding stolen documents.
"And what do you do when you don't serve him?" he asked her politely.
Serve him. Prue wrinkled her nose. "I…uh, I'm a student."
"What do you study, then?"
"History."
The old man shook his head sadly. "Why study it, when we never seem to learn from it?"
Prue was about to protest, but he held up a wrinkled palm. "Enough for tonight. Go. Tell the master you have completed your task."
"He's not my master," she said, but the tunnel was already deserted. He had disappeared too quickly.
Even though she had left Arkham Asylum behind her, Prue still felt its presence in the air, like the stench of incense. The cardboard box sat obediently in the back seat. Her fingers ached on the steering wheel. She was wracked with curiosity; what was in those papers? She wanted to open the box and pour over them like a famished dog, but she was afraid of what she might find. The case histories of madmen? Their bloody and sinister endeavors? Their bloodcurdling pathologies?
She watched the streets go by like unspooled wool. Everything about this city felt only half-finished, as if someone had decided to saw some of its parts off and leave it stunted. There was so much she didn't know about it, she realized. She had been living in Gotham for over a year and hadn't been in the Narrows until tonight.
When she unlocked the front door of her apartment, Lisa was thankfully not in front of the TV. She was sound asleep in Prue's bed.
Prue felt glad for small miracles. She dumped the box in the hallway, afraid she'd be tempted to rifle through it if she brought it inside the apartment proper. She walked dazedly towards the kitchen to fetch herself a drink. She hadn't been this exhausted since undergrad.
"Jesus Christ!"
She pressed both palms against her mouth to push back the scream that threatened to escape her lips.
There was someone towering over her modest living room. A gargantuan figure which seemed to reject the moonlight filtering through the window.
She should have heard his breathing from the doorway, but she had been absent-minded and reckless and stupid. Now, the machinery of his being came into clear focus and it was the only thing she could hear.
Like the ticking of an incessant clock.
How had Lisa not noticed – how had he gotten inside – what was he doing here?
All of these questions must have been reflected in her wide-eyed stare, because he removed himself from the window and walked towards her. His gait was graceful, though the earth seemed to shake in his wake. Like a predatory feline whose instincts, though ferocious, left room for dignity.
Prue stepped back clumsily.
"I – I got the box," she stage-whispered, clutching at the wall behind her.
"So I see." He hardly deigned to look towards the hallway. His small black eyes were seeing through her and through the wall itself. What he saw beyond that, she couldn't tell.
His voice was diffuse, dispersed, like a string of pearls clattering against her eardrum. She forced herself to be present and not get lost in these horrid sensations.
"I did what you told me," she repeated, slowly, purposely. "You didn't need to…" Show up. Like a specter.
"Oh, but I did," he replied in a wry mechanical warble. "I trust no one else with this particular charge."
Prue parted her lips. So, he had come to pick up the box in person. She regretted now not having taken a quick look inside. She had underestimated its importance.
"But you…trusted me with it?" she argued, eyeing the incriminating box, lying on the floor only a few feet away.
If only she could run to it and open it.
"No," he said, the corners of his eyes folding, either with rage or humor, she could not tell. The mask which covered his face like a snout prevented the ripples of real emotion. "I simply know you don't have the power to betray me."
Prue leaned against the wall. She felt that this was very presumptuous of him. Yes, he was a beast, but was she quite so domestic and small in his eyes?
"You can't be sure of that."
His shadow seemed to reach forward and trap her against the wall, even as he stood several feet away.
"I could have taken the box to the police," she tried again.
"No, you couldn't have."
Prue hated how right he was. How obedient she had proved herself to be. What did she have against him? He could hurt the people she cared for. She could hurt no one.
She lifted her chin, desperate for leverage. "You should be careful. If you meddle with Arkham Asylum, you might just end up there."
Nothing about his visage changed, but she saw that the veins across his large hands had turned black in the moonlight. He hummed under his breath, an odd, broken sound.
"You have a use, my dear. Do not overreach it."
His words sounded deceptively like advice. He spoke like a schoolteacher, a scholar with a penchant for too much smoking. But beyond this façade was his herculean power, waiting to be tested.
Prue's breath caught in her throat like a fishbone. "What happens when I stop being useful?"
The beast regarded her calmly, and ignored her question.
Instead, "Get rid of her."
Prue frowned. "What?"
Bane nodded his head towards her bedroom.
"You mean Lisa?"
He hummed.
"Why?"
"She is an inconvenience."
Prue felt it must be a cosmic joke that both she and Bane shared this sentiment about her roommate. But in this moment, she felt oddly defensive of Lisa, who was, deep down, a pretty decent person.
"She's my friend and she needs my help."
"Do it, or I will dispose of her for you," he announced without much decorum.
Prue opened her mouth to speak but he raised a finger to silence her. There was no room for argument here.
For the first time, Prue wondered if Lisa had really gone to bed or if, perhaps, Bane had squeezed the life out of her, the way he had crushed Daggett –
He seemed to guess her line of inquiry instantly, for, this time, she was sure the crinkling at his eyes was a perverse mark of humor. He found her suppositions amusing.
Screw you, she screamed with her eyes.
But he moved beyond her like a shadow towards the hallway. He picked up the cardboard box like it was nothing and slipped it under his arm.
"Thank you," were his last words before he crept back into the night.
Prue closed her eyes as she leaned her head against the wall. Their well-rehearsed refrain.
Thank you.
You are not welcome.
A/N: Much like Bane, I thank you for your reviews and encouragements! Hope you enjoyed this installment.