Hello, hello, hello! Here it is, and only weeks and weeks later! As always, your thoughts, comments, and follows are much appreciated.
It had been exciting to enter a ball- not a party, a ball -alone. To pass the dazzling flashbulbs and walk into opulence: twinkling sheets of fairy lights, glittering jewels and sequins and velvets, golden platters laden with fruit and tartlets and caviar and whole fucking crabs, all interwoven with music from a seven piece orchestra. Something brushed her shoulder and when she looked up there were literal rose petals raining from the balcony overhead. Mel caught one and rubbed it between her fingers. It was fresh and unwaxed. This ball was like nothing she'd ever seen.
Next fucking level.
That had been close to two hours ago and as the shock of the extravagance wore off Mel was beginning to get antsy and, in full honesty, a little bored. She'd perked up twenty minutes earlier when Miranda had glided by in a swirl of sparkling red, looking for some kind of cue that the moment had arrived. But Miranda just threw her a wink and mouthed 'not here yet'. Mel had smiled and tried not to wilt. Where the hell was Bruce Wayne? She glanced testily at the frosty glasses of wine set out on wide trays; she didn't want to feel fuzzy when the time came to give their pitch. She had a job to do.
Her brilliance needed to glow. She had to be a beacon.
An older man with a slightly too tight cummerbund waltzed by with his much younger date; he gave Mel a second glance before turning hurriedly back to his irritated dance partner. Mel felt a smug little twinge and adjusted her skirt casually. Her gown was made entirely of dark green silk, the back exquisitely low and the straps thin as spider's silk. There was a coterie of slinky black dresses in her closet that would've served just fine, but when she saw the flash of emerald in a window on Livingston Street Mel knew nothing else would do. She felt hot as hell and, as always, she revelled in the knowledge. She glanced at the wine again. What the hell, one glass couldn't hurt. She crossed to the bar while scanning the caterers. Were the folks who worked charity balls the tupperware type?
"Tsk, tsk. You don't call, you don't write."
The horribly familiar voice was like oily fingers scratching a slimy path down a chalkboard. Its owner leaned against the catering table in front of her and there was nothing she could've done to stop the scowl leaking across her face. She was fucking smart as hell, had never looked better than tonight, and would be absolutely damned before she gave another second of her time to Philip fucking Stryver. As Mel turned away he reached out and closed his fingers around her elbow.
"Now, hold on. Don't be like that."
She wished he'd been rough, wished his hand felt clammy or sweaty, wished for something that would confirm a subhuman status. His hold was limp and dry and when she stopped moving he pulled it away. He smiled his lopsided smile.
"How're things?"
"Uh, fabulous."
It was difficult to weave the subtext of you're a troll and everyone knows it into a single word, but Mel thought she managed it decently. Stryver ignored the sarcasm dripping from her tone, giving her a slow once over and grabbing a crab leg from an overstuffed platter.
"Nice dress. Whose date are you this time?"
"I didn't bring one. Miranda Tate invited me."
The answer visibly threw him and she basked in his confusion and discomfort. He'd asked the perfect question, scummy sycophant that he was. His dark lizard eyes narrowed ever so slightly as he looked her over again, sussing, searching, plotting; she easily predicted his next move. Stryver cracked the crab leg and munched the meat noisily. She waited and, sure enough, his look became sympathetic and evil.
Some people just have patterns.
"You know, I really gave you some golden advice before," he sighed and sucked crab juice from his fingers, "I'm starting to think that girls like you really can't take a hint."
"I was going to say the same about boys like you."
"Dr. Isley?"
Nothing but the surprise of hearing her name rolling along that accent would've made her turn and, frankly, Mel was disappointed to be interrupted. The furious look on Stryver's face was worth its weight in oily gold and made her skin tingle with wicked glee.
"Mr. Mendoza!"
Ander Mendoza strolled towards her looking effortlessly sharp in a charcoal gray suit and a pair of gleaming black oxfords. Mel allowed her disappointment to drop away and she extended a hand with a smile.
"I guess I shouldn't be surprised to see you here."
Mendoza's handshake was as firm and warm as she remembered. The opposite of subhuman; superhuman, perhaps. Stryver huffed loudly over her shoulder and the glance she deigned to give him was both triumphant and bored. His slash of a mouth was a line but Mel was surprised to see the outrage fading from his face. She looked around. Mendoza stared at him evenly with no discernible expression; Stryver flicked his eyes between them once, twice, and then- to her shock -spun on his heel and walked away. No argument, no insults, no nothing. Before he'd turned his back, disappearing with his cloud of unpleasantness and crab smell, there was something exceptionally strange in the look he gave Mendoza.
"Goodness, he did not like you. What did you do to him?"
He flashed that grin that made her knees go weak and rubbed a thumb over his beard.
"Some people can't handle the power of these baby blues."
The sentence was punctuated with a devastating wink and Mel laughed, filing the odd encounter away in her mind and smoothing her silky neckline. Was there anything better than running into a handsome acquaintance when dressed to the damn nines? She didn't think so. He held out an arm as the lively music transitioned.
"Is your dance card open?"
She hesitated for only half a second. Technically she had a job to do and it was not dancing with mysterious businessmen, but just then a flurry of rose petals floated down around them and- goddammit -she was a sucker for a well tailored suit.
"Wide open."
He led her out to the dance floor and Mel placed her fingers delicately on the spot between his shoulder and neck. There was something so...so...old Hollywood, or old world, or old something about the whole thing: a handsome almost stranger swooping in to rescue her at a ball, engaging in witty repartee, taking his arm to waltz the night away. It was intoxicating.
"So, Mendoza," she said coyly, channeling her inner Lauren Bacall, "is that Spanish?"
Their swaying had turned her halfway around and she noticed Miranda on the balcony above deep in conversation. Mendoza's thumb came to rest against the exposed skin of her lower back.
"Habla usted español?" he asked, raising an eyebrow.
Oof.
The combination was both distracting and delicious and she scrambled for a moment to recall her high school Spanish.
"Solo un poco," she began slowly, "y no muy bien."
"Yo también." He gave her a little dip, "I'm Basque."
She laughed in surprise and delight. Clever fucker. It was amazing to think she'd nearly been bored ten minutes ago.
"And what exactly do you do?"
He shrugged.
"Little of this, little of that."
"Hmm, alright."
Mel made a point of considering him thoroughly.
"Business world, I'm assuming," she cocked her head when he grinned, "Investing? Definitely something new and up and coming."
"What was your clue?"
"Old money wouldn't have asked a lowly scientist to dance."
"Botanist."
It shouldn't have mattered but his adjustment of her words sat warm and pleasant in her belly. A smile tugged at the corner of her lips.
"Yes, a botanist."
"But," he supplied, "working as a chemist."
Over his shoulder a false bird-of-paradise, heliconia solomonensis, hung placidly from an elaborate vase. She stared at the pointed leaves for a moment and felt a small tug of sadness.
"Something like that."
"How does that work?"
Did he actually want to know? Mel considered Mendoza once more, scanning his face and feeling almost unsure. The question was simple enough, was genuine enough. He gazed back levelly. She felt oddly as though she were on the edge of a precipice; the pad of his thumb against her skin felt warm.
"Ever been to Gotham Library?"
He looked surprised at the question, which was fair. He shook his head.
"No."
She could feel her pulse in her throat even though her heart was not racing. Somewhere in the back of her mind she knew the song had ended and a new one had begun. Neither of them acknowledged it.
"I read that millions of people visit every year just to look. Not to find a favorite story, not smell that book page smell...just to be a tourist in a space with almost limitless dimension and content. Do you know why?"
"Why?"
She shrugged.
"Because it's a beautiful building. Because it's worthwhile to look at, to admire the facade, to snap a picture and throw it up on social media. And, hey, there is nothing wrong with being beautiful, but that doesn't mean they're not missing the point."
"In this analogy," Mendoza ventured thoughtfully, "the books are chemicals and the library all flora, and both of them…misunderstood?"
A short, breathless laugh tumbled from her mouth.
"It's even more complex than that."
The new song was slower and more fluid and its calmness allowed her space to think, for which Mel was grateful.
"Plants produce compounds called phytochemicals. They can play a role in growth or defense against competitors, pathogens, or predators."
He nodded.
"Like squid ink and porcupine quills."
"Sort of," she replied, "but they are not exclusively defensive. They can be colors, flavors, smells; they can be poison or offer pain relief."
Mel tilted her head towards the elaborate vase.
"The heliconia over your shoulder flourishes in full sun and relies on hummingbirds for pollination. But it developed specific chemical growing patterns in its flowers so they open at night."
Mendoza frowned ever so slightly.
"Why?"
His pale eyes flickered over the bright red petals as if they would give him the answer. Her pulse throbbed and the warmth in her belly began to burn just as it had on that park bench in the spring. Mel's fingers, which had rested softly on his shoulder, stretched and blossomed across the top of his back.
"Bats, Mr. Mendoza. They have a backup plan."
He did not respond immediately, instead watching Mel's face with a strange expression that was somewhere between interest and confusion. Her stomach dropped an inch; she'd hoped for something else, something more. Warding off the creeping sense of awkwardness, she tipped her chin at the heliconia once more.
"Do you suppose that's why it was picked to be in that corner?"
"No. It was picked because it's beautiful."
Mendoza smiled softly. His eyes, however, did not; they probed.
"Like the library." He added.
She tried to hold his gaze but its glacial intensity was so piercing that Mel had to look away, which embarrassed her further. Somewhere in the back of her mind the encounter with Stryver surfaced once more.
"I used to think it was just science, but it's not." The burning hole was back in full force and Mel's stomach clenched around it. "Science is just a focus for it, a lens. It is part of the natural system. It has a purpose and a function. It, whatever you want to call it, endures and adjusts and grows stronger."
"So your attraction to clean energy was perhaps less to do with bettering mankind and more to do with...changing the world?"
The words teased gently and she felt relief as the edge started to melt off of the conversation. She still wasn't quite ready to meet his eyes once again. Mel raised and lowered a shoulder.
"Wouldn't have pegged you for such an absolutist, Mr. Mendoza."
"So that's not it?"
"Not quite."
The orchestra played the final notes of the song. Mel had no idea how many had played since they first walked out on the dance floor, but they came to stillness now. Mendoza tilted his head down towards her; a secretive, private little gesture. His voice was curious.
"What is it you want?"
She was fucking smart as hell, had never looked better than tonight, and didn't owe anyone anything.
She looked up at him.
"Credit where credit is due."
There was a half second pause and then the dashing grin that made his face appear so handsome returned. He chuckled and offered Mel his arm and they slipped back into pleasant and meaningless conversation as they walked off the dance floor. In that half second, however, she figured out what she'd seen partially concealed on Stryver's face.
Fear.
Philip Stryver was terrified of Ander Mendoza. What she did not know was why.
The grey suit felt soft and light and- though very unlike his usual armor -it had played its part effectively. It was long past midnight now and he stood silently by the large bay windows, perfectly equidistant from the room's other two occupants.
"I imagine you're quite pleased."
Miranda Tate had dark blue eyes the precise color of the open ocean. Unfathomable, unreachable; in those depths a man was at the mercy of the waves or whatever roiled deep below. They caught the light from the fireplace, flashing as she spoke. The fire glinted also on the metal tubing of Bane's mask as he sat upon an ottoman, dwarfing it with his massive form. He wove a length of cord between his fingers.
"We prepared for several eventualities."
"The cat, however, was ideally placed."
Miranda Tate turned to Barsad then and regarded him with coolness.
"What serendipitous timing."
He blinked but did not reply. His timing had been impeccable because that had been the directive: remain out of sight until Bruce Wayne arrived, alert the cat, and remove the doctor as a potential target. He was no stranger to this work. Every man under his command was a soldier: infantry, artillery, explosives- each of them proficient and efficient. There was no need for another sniper because he did not miss. Aim, shoot, move forward. Her army, the League as they called themselves, wove in seamlessly with his men but they were something else entirely. And they were part of Bane somehow, just as Bane was part of the mercenary brotherhood. Barsad had never been asked to join the League and did not want to. He could work alongside them on a mission, but he did not want a cause. Bane twisted the cord; looping, threading, weaving.
"Wayne made a selection." his tone was even, as ever. "The cat was successful and our work will continue."
"And your doctor?"
"There is use in maintaining her."
In the lingering moment of silence that followed, her anger and suspicion hovered in the air like foul smoke. The woman was called Miranda Tate but it was not her true name. It was a persona, a role to be performed within the stage play of this objective. It was their mission, his mission, Bane's mission, but somehow Barsad knew it all truly belonged to her. When the ocean colored eyes landed back on him Barsad's face remained impassive. If she had not known about his orders tonight, if they had come from Bane alone, it did not matter. He had entered the arrangement as Bane's man. From this point onwards it would never be forgotten where his allegiance lay. He took pride in this and also knew he would need to be vigilant. The tides were shifting. She turned away from him; when she spoke her smile was small and malicious and her voice soft.
"A dainty plant...that creepeth o'er ruins old."
Bane looked up then. Their eyes glittered as they met and Barsad looked away rather than attempting to discern the meaning in their shared looks. He did not wish to know. Barsad was not a revolutionary, not a zealot, not driven by anything other than a will to live simply. Aim, shoot, move forward. His life had forward motion always; he had a purpose. Bane saw this, did not question this, utilized this. They were brothers. But Bane was not a simple man. After several long moments, the woman called Miranda Tate glided silently out of the room and the door shut with a snap. Barsad turned back to his commander.
"It is wise to keep the doctor. Pavel wrote a paper but she built the machine."
The mask crackled quietly and Bane nodded, the stillness of his hands transmitting a state of deep thought. Barsad didn't like much of anyone. He didn't like Miranda Tate; didn't trust Miranda Tate. He considered the other woman, the botanist in the green silk dress who spoke of her work with certainty and directness. The doctor with the lovely dark eyes with the flecks of green within them. Her loveliness was flecked through with a purpose. If only for this reason, Barsad felt he did not mind the doctor. A green snake in green grass, the proverb went. Danger hiding in plain sight. She had given him no reason to think she was not dangerous but, fortunately, he did not need to trust her. What he needed to trust was that the work would be done and he felt that to be true.
"She believes in her work."
His words awakened Bane from his meditation. The heavy fingers began their delicate task once more.
"Oh? And from where does this belief derive?"
Barsad stepped closer to the fire. They were soldiers, a commander and his lieutenant, but two men could always speak candidly beside a fire. That was his belief, anyway.
"She is neither an optimist nor a radical."
He thought of the meeting in the sun room, the conversation while they danced. Intelligence and apathy, flirtation and bitterness; indulgence and intensity and sadness and artifice. He considered her words: credit where credit is due. The notion itself was quite simple though her reasoning, and her character, were less so. Finally, Barsad shook his head.
"I don't know where it comes from."
"A void, perhaps."
The response came smoothly and Bane's voice was low, dark, and pleasant. Barsad made no reply. They were still for a time as the fire crackled and danced. In Zimbabwe there is a place where, deep in the jungle, the trees suddenly fall away and there is darkness. An antechamber of limestone filled with cobalt blue water, an entryway to a web of subterranean tunnels: a cave, a pit, something ancient and filled with endless secrecy. Bane was like this, in a way. His arrival stark and without ceremony, his existence massive, and his inner workings unknowable. When Barsad had stood and stared into the place where the light disappeared a tremor had gone up his spine. Nothing, not money nor diamonds nor anything tangible in heaven or earth, would convince him to go inside. But he stood for a time on the shore and let the power of the place wash over him. At this distance it was a marvel to behold and, though a simple man he was, he could still appreciate marvels. Ululwane ubhalu, they called it. The Bat Cave.
xo, trppnwtz