9.

Prue couldn't get out of bed.

In theory, she knew it wasn't possible to live the rest of her life under the duvet, but in practice, she was getting really good at lying still and staring at the ceiling.

Maybe if she stared hard enough, she'd wake up from this nightmare.

She pressed a napkin to her nose and blew.

Ever since the "excursion" down in the sewers, she'd come down with a nasty bit of cold. It wasn't just her lack of overall motivation; she'd really gotten sick. It turns out you can't run around damp gutters wearing only your PJs and a coat.

Barsad and his boys were nursing her back to health, ironically. Chicken soup and all.

She still had a delivery to make.

Prue reached out for the soup bowl on the nightstand. It was lukewarm by now. She pressed her lips to the rim and drank without really tasting anything. It was a miracle she could keep it down. The first few days after her trip underground, she could barely stomach anything. Barsad had to force her to eat some toast.

She couldn't get the picture of the bat mask out of her head. The way it had slipped between the grates and fallen into the whirlpool. It had almost looked like a piece of flesh. And then the ghastly sight of Bruce Wayne's broken body being carried away by Bane's henchmen…

When she closed her eyes, she could still hear the ugly blows of their fight resounding against the walls.

And what would happen now? What would the city do without its Batman? He was a fixture, a pillar, a guardian. How long would it take for the people to realize he wasn't defending Gotham anymore?

She'd only lived in Gotham for a year and a half but she had never heard of anyone capable of defeating the vigilante. Not like this.

And the same man who had put down the Bat had told her afterwards, in the most chilling way possible, that she was in his grasp.

"You are mine to command. You belong to me. Until the very end."

The threat reminded her of all those addictive romance novels her mother used to read. Usually, the alpha male in those stories would say something gruff and possessive like "you are mine". It meant the guy was crazy about her and determined to make her his. It was supposed to sound dangerous, but really, it was a declaration of feelings. It was meant to make the female audience sigh with longing.

Prue chuckled to herself. She felt no such longing. Bane, ever the unromantic and pragmatic terrorist, meant something quite different by his words. He meant, "You are my mule for the foreseeable future."

She was certain the man couldn't harbor emotional attachments. It was probably not advised in his line of work, though he certainly seemed to feel a lot. Most of it was anger. His voice had been laced with fury when he had talked about Bruce Wayne's betrayal of the League of Shadows. That was something she needed to look into. Not here, at home. She would be wiser to do some research at Gotham University.

But that meant getting out of bed.

Prue groaned and turned on her side. This was going to suck.

But if she managed to compile enough evidence about this League of Shadows, maybe she could go to the police with it and maybe they'd offer her some protection.

A lot of maybes.

Still, she had to try. She'd seen Bruce Wayne get pummeled to an inch of his life. Not to mention…something terrible was about to go down in Gotham. And he wasn't around to protect it. She'd seen the intensity in Bane's eyes. She knew she'd hit upon the right idea with Hannibal and Petronius… Otherwise, he wouldn't have angrily decreed that she would be his underling for the rest of her time.

She'd gotten to him.

It was …something. At least, she had an inkling of his plans. She was duty-bound to hamper them.

Oh yeah. If Batman couldn't stop him, Prue Neill will.

She sniffed her nose loudly.

.

Barsad tipped her chin up, inspecting her neck. The swelling had gone down, but not entirely. His steel blue eyes almost looked concerned.

"You sure you're good to go?"

Prue gently removed herself from his grasp. "Yeah, my fever's gone and the fresh air will do me good. Plus, I need to finish my assignments."

"Always with that school of yours...Remember, you've got the delivery in the afternoon." He sounded like a sinister, doting father.

How can I forget? she drawled to herself. It was sort of brilliant. Miranda Tate would order some catering from Al Fresco's, and Prue would be the delivery girl on stand.

Simple and out in the open and perfect.

She often marveled at the many ways someone like her came in handy. The Chinese orderly at Arkham had been right. We hide by not hiding at all.

Pretending to be common people going about their day was how The League of Shadows got their way.

Barsad handed her a mug filled with tea. He dropped a cold capsule inside, watching it fizz out.

"Drink up."

Prue took it from him, muttering a small thank you. She drank the whole thing in one gulp and wiped her mouth.

She looked at him watching her. He'd been so diligent these past few days, making sure she recovered. It was unnerving.

"Why are you being so nice, Barsad?"

"Whatever do you mean, love?"

"Well…I know I'm part of the team, but I doubt Bane told you to be kind to me."

"Not being kind, just being a decent fellow," he replied, tone aggrieved, brows furrowed. "Christ, what sort of men have you been dallying with if I seem kind?"

Prue sucked on her cheek. "All right, but I still think you're being extra nice to me."

"Ooh, you want me to stop, do you? Want me to rough you up?"

Prue shook her head quickly. "No, I just –" You shouldn't be a part of this, she thought sadly. Maybe in a different life you could've been a good guy.

She exhaled. "I guess I'm glad you're looking out for me."

Barsad pretended to scowl, but she could see he was pleased with her little comment. Prue smiled to herself. In this mad world they were living, bonds between people were the strangest things.

.

Prue moved her fingers across the leathery spines, enjoying their soothing touch. She had always liked libraries, but after the sewers, this large room filled with books was the most welcoming place on Earth.

Gotham University seemed like a sacred fortress where no one, not even Bane could reach her.

She hunkered down between two rows, flipping open a volume on Bhutanese history.

History. This was her bread and butter. It had always been, ever since she could remember. She had always been obsessed with the past. At first, it was her mother's troubled past that had absorbed her. She'd sought to know Darla better by documenting the life she'd had before. But then, as she grew older, she wanted to know everyone's secret history. She wanted to know why things had turned out the way they had. Why the world had taken such an uneven shape. She believed there could be answers in the old annals, crammed between the faded scripts. Old historians had been wiser than her. They may have left her a key. She still believed this.

History was what she was good at, and it was her only weapon.

She hadn't managed to find anything palpable on the League of Shadows online or even after perusing the library's catalog. There were many Leagues and many Shadows, but none that went together. None that pointed in the right direction.

And then, she'd gotten an idea. It's about the people, not the institution. The League must have started as a group of like-minded individuals. Everyone has a secret history.

If Bruce Wayne had been a part of this League, he would lead her to it.

She googled Bruce Wayne's biography - every bit and scrape she could find. It wasn't very substantial; he really was as elusive as his vigilante persona, but no public person like him could disappear entirely. And he couldn't escape the gossip rags either. A lot of people discredited tabloids as a source of valid information and while she was inclined to agree, one would be foolish to discard them entirely. There was no smoke without a little bit of fire.

So, she purposely searched for the most outlandish pieces of gossip she could find, because in his case, they might as well be true. He was the Batman, after all.

After skimming through sixteen articles about his secret illegitimate children and the French countess he'd supposedly bedded, she chanced on something slightly different.

One shoddy South Korean outlet was claiming that Bruce Wayne had served time in a prison in Bhutan. Prue wrote down the information in her notebook. She switched to another article she'd bookmarked previously. It said there that Bruce Wayne had gone on a Euro-Asian tour in his early twenties. It was expected of most socialites to travel the world. The funny thing was no one knew much about this tour. It hadn't been a regular affair with pap photos of him on a yacht or of him spotted in Venice with a leggy girlfriend.

So perhaps, given Bruce Wayne's nightly activities, this tour had been something else. Perhaps this tour had led to his recruitment in the League. It seemed to fit the timeline. He had returned to manage his parents' company after his trips abroad and he had probably been Batman ever since. There wouldn't have been time for him to join the League and she didn't think Gotham was the League's main hub anyway.

She tried to track down as many locations of his foreign tour as possible. It was difficult work, given the scant information available. But Bhutan felt like a central lead. If he'd spent time in prison there, he must have been doing something illicit.

She went into the library and started pulling all the books she could find on Bhutan. What she knew from her years of studying was not enough to make her connect the dots, but she remembered that most of Bhutan's old historical records had been conveniently destroyed in a fire in 1827. She wondered if this League had had something to do with it.

Anything is possible…she thought grimly.

Her phone buzzed in her pocket.

Prue groaned, leaning her head against the shelves. It was three in the afternoon already. Research would have to wait.

She had a delivery to make.

Miranda Tate lived in a tasteful brownstone in the Old Gotham District. It was the more historical, less swanky part of town, but it still shone with money. Better money. More aristocratic and less Nouveau Riche.

Prue parked her delivery car across the street. The neighborhood was wrapped in a solemn aura of good breeding. The few passers-by who were walking their greyhounds or doing their afternoon shopping all spoke in a soft cadence, trying not to disturb each other.

Hardly the site for criminal activity. And yet.

Prue walked up the steps with her carrier bag and pressed a button next to the hardwood door.

"Yes?" a soft female voice inquired. She sounded elderly.

"Delivery for Ms. Tate from Al Fresco's," she recited briskly, as if she was just here on a regular job.

The door instantly gave in with a small buzz and a white-haired woman wearing a maid's uniform greeted her in the hallway.

Prue smiled at her. "Hello. I um…need Ms. Tate to pay for the package in person."

"Of course," the woman said, her wrinkled face showing no sign that anything was amiss. "She is expecting you."

Prue swallowed the knot in her throat. She stared up at the dark, winding staircase to her left. She felt a presence on the banister, watching her from above, but when she lifted her head, she saw no one.

She was certain, however, that this harmless old woman was not Miranda Tate's only house staff. She remembered the armored men which had swarmed Daggett's residence. Best not to think about it.

She followed the maid, hitching the bag over her shoulder. Inside it were the files she was supposed to hand over to Miranda.

She was wondering what it would be like to see the elusive woman again. She had made a strong impression on Prue at the Gala.

She was surprised when the maid walked her across the living room and towards the French windows. They were heading…outside?

Prue knew that some of these brownstones had back yards but this was quite different from what she'd expected. She was staring at a glass cage, topped by a glass dome, surrounded by all kinds of vibrant greenery. It was a hothouse.

The maid waved for her to go through the glass door.

"Ms. Tate is inside, waiting for you."

Prue scratched the back of her neck self-consciously. Even though the hothouse was a delicately wrought contraption, filled with flowers and plants, it seemed more intimidating than the inside of an office.

She shuffled in hesitantly. A curling wave of heat struck her from all sides. The sun's rays poured directly overhead, making her head swim.

The smell was overpowering too – lush and fruity and a little bitter. There was pollen in the air. She wanted to sneeze.

Suddenly, a white arm rose above the foliage. It looked like Venus of Milo's missing limb.

Miranda was beckoning to her.

Prue licked her lips. There was already sweat pooling on her Cupid's bow. Her heavy jacket felt stifling in this counterfeit summer landscape.

Miranda Tate was sitting on a white stool in front of a white canvas. She wore a white, flowing dress, as if to complete the image.

She held the paintbrush in her fingers like a question mark. She had started to paint what looked like a grey hole in the middle of the white canvas. Her palette was made up of blacks and greys and browns. Not very cheerful colors.

Miranda smiled a faint, vulpine smile in her direction. She lifted her chin.

"Draw a chair, will you?"

There was another stool hidden behind a growth of ferns.

Prue hovered in front of her, clutching the carrier bag. She just wanted to deliver the files and go. But there was also the heady temptation of her – this mysterious woman who captured her attention.

Curiosity won out, eventually.

Plus, I could gather more information about the League, she thought to herself.

She drew up the stool and sat down, placing the bag at her feet.

Miranda turned back to the canvas. "I am struggling to capture an old place from my childhood. It is proving rather difficult."

"A place from your childhood?" Prue echoed, staring at the bleak grey hole. "Is it…a metaphor?"

Miranda laughed and it sounded like the tinkling of bells. "I wish."

Prue wondered what she could possibly mean. She wanted to ask her questions – so many questions – but she didn't know where to start.

"You have something on your mind, don't you?" Miranda asked. "Except it's difficult to put in words."

Prue was momentarily spooked by her precision. She must be an easy read.

"Come on, don't be shy," the woman teased with the same refulgent smile.

Prue was already sweltering under her jacket. She felt hot beads on her temples. Her face must be filled with perspiration. "I just – have a question."

"Only one?" Miranda raised an eyebrow and dabbed her brush against the glops of color.

"I don't suppose you'd answer all of them."

"Mm," she agreed. "I cannot tell you much about the operation."

Prue wiped her sweaty palms against her jeans. She had already ascertained that the operation would involve casualties, including Bane's…if her historical deductions were correct.

But where did this beautiful woman fit in? Was she suicidal like Bane?

Somehow, Prue doubted it. She doubted everything at the moment.

Instead, she decided to ask something that concerned only herself.

"Actually…it's something you said at the Gala," Prue began with trepidation. "Something you told me that stuck with me."

It was the truth. She had been thinking about it ever since.

"Ah. I think I know what it was."

Prue waited for Miranda confirm it. Her hypnotizing violet eyes pinned her down. She could feel the beads of sweat trailing down her back.

"I told you, you have a willingness."

Prue nodded, almost relieved. "What does it mean, exactly?"

Miranda tapped her fingers lackadaisically against the paintbrush, her gaze distant, as if recalling something from the past. Prue watched her with rapt attention.

At length, the woman returned her gaze to her. There was something warm in her eyes, something almost affectionate. Prue wondered if it was directed at her.

"You know…people have become so comfortable and stupid in the past century. We do not recognize words anymore. But I will tell you, because you do not seem to me to be comfortable or stupid."

Prue smiled weakly, acknowledging the compliment.

Miranda continued, her voice soft as a dream. "I suppose common people call it "generosity", but I prefer "willingness". It is…more dynamic, less sentimental. You see, most people in this world live only for themselves. Oh, even when they are in love. Even when they have children. It is all a projection of themselves, for themselves. They are the sun, and everyone else is in their orbit. Put them to the test – a real, bloody test – and you shall see how quickly they defend their skin. But…there are also a few people, a fraction really, who only live for others, who cannot imagine another kind of life. They would gladly die for them, kill for them. They would do anything that was asked and more. Living in their own body is foreign to them. They must always give themselves to others. They don't have a will. They have a willingness. It is different, you see."

Prue blinked, startled out of the trance when the speech came to an end. The heat of the hothouse enveloped her like a blanket. She could listen to Miranda speak forever. She absorbed the words quietly while the woman added more grey to her canvas.

"And you think I am like that?" Prue asked at length. "You think I live for others? You think I'd do anything for them?"

Miranda nodded with a small smile. "Of course. I could see it in you from the moment we met. You have dedicated your life to others. It only makes sense you would be here now, doing this."

Doing this.

Prue stared down into her lap. She wanted to deny the words. She wanted to say she didn't have a choice. Bane had forced her. She wiped the sweat from her brow.

It's true it had all started because she'd wanted to help that pregnant woman at the Stock Exchange. And it had spiraled from there...favors and demands and compromise...

That doesn't make me a doormat.

No, it didn't make her a doormat, but maybe it made her a good mule. A good little crony.

You belong to me.

"I'm sure he has seen it too," Miranda spoke silkily, reading her thoughts once more. "He wouldn't have recruited you otherwise."

Prue's chest felt heavy with lead. It felt as grey as that hole in the canvas. She shrugged off her jacket, trying to get some air. But the heat seemed unrelenting. She had to get out of here.

"Oh, darling girl," Miranda cooed with a concerned look on her face. "I did not mean to make you sad. On the contrary. Your kind is the noblest there is."

Prue did not feel very noble. Miranda had no idea who she was. What she had done.

Prue was a selfish creature, deep down.

If she truly lived for others, she wouldn't have killed her mother and unborn brother.

She wouldn't have forced her father to raise someone else's daughter.

No. Don't. Don't.

But it was already out. She was thinking about it. She'd blocked it for so many years, trying to deny its reality. But a good historian never conceals the past, no matter how painful. She didn't know why Miranda's words had brought it to the surface again, but there it was…the shameful wreck she had thought she'd buried.

Prue felt hot tears at the corners of her eyes and she blinked fast, forcing them back in.

Her father had always treated her like his own. But she'd figured it out when she was a bit older. She'd wanted to know everyone's secret history. She'd dug out pieces of her mother's past from her time spent in rehab. Darla had already been pregnant by the time she met and fell for Andrew. Prue put two and two together. She was not Andrew's daughter, had never been. She was the offspring of a violent junkie musician. That's who she was.

She'd managed not to think about this for a long time, but an afternoon spent in Miranda's hothouse had brought it all back somehow.

Prue wiped the wetness under her eyes quickly.

Miranda reached out and placed a cool hand on her wrist. "You mustn't cry, please. I do mean it; you are noble creatures. Just like him, you live to serve."

Prue stilled in her chair. "Just – just like him?"

Miranda nodded. "Of course. He has a willingness too. I knew it the moment I met him. The moment he…but well, that's another story."

And she gave her the elusive smile again, the smile which could rival that of Mona Lisa.

Prue's temples throbbed painfully. She couldn't make sense of Miranda's assessment. To think of Bane as someone who lived for others, who lived to serve … It was improper. He always seemed in charge.

But...she remembered the way Bane's eyes had widened when she had mentioned Miranda's words at the Gala. He had been struck by something...something painful and familiar.

Maybe Bane wasn't the real boss, after all. Maybe Prue was staring at the real boss.

The thought made her blood freeze up in her veins despite the sweltering heat.

She gripped the stool's edge until her knuckles turned white.

"I – I really should go. I have to get back to work…but I have the files for you," she muttered, bending down and unzipping the bag.

"Thank you, Prue," Miranda murmured, using her name for the first time. "But you must stay for tea. I insist."

"Oh …no, I couldn't put you out like that."

"The pleasure is all mine."

Prue rose from the stool abruptly. "I really can't. Sorry, maybe another time."

Miranda pursed her lips, a delicate frown nestled between her brows. "That is a shame. Another time."

Prue did not even take her bag. She left it there, along with her jacket. She nodded perfunctorily and dashed out of the hothouse at full speed.

She pushed open the glass door and inhaled the crisp autumn air in relief. The sweat felt cool under her blouse and her eyelashes were cold with unshed tears. She pulled on the French windows and traversed the living room in wide steps.

I have to go to the police…I have to tell them about Miranda Tate.

No more backtracking, no more cowardice. No more servitude. Too much was at stake.

She almost made it into the shaded hallway – almost.

A dark figure appeared behind her. Before she could even gasp, a hand came over her mouth and she felt something blunt and sharp hit the back of her head.

Her legs gave in and she was swallowed by darkness.

A/N: a long and meaty chapter to make up for the wait! Also, Bane will show up next time, no worries. I want to thank the enthusiastic Guest reviewers who really put a smile on my face and all of you who keep up with this story and support it, it means a lot to me! If you want a refresher on Prue's backstory & character, go to the beginning of chapter 2. I hope you liked this chapter!