Chapter 15

Emma Trevor emerged from her unconsciousness with the acrid taste of pine and bleach on her tongue—a revolting, gagging taste. Everything was wrong. Her head weighed more than her entire body, and she struggled to keep her head balanced upright on her neck. She was restricted to short, shallow breaths – anything more than that was unbearable, because the taste of the pine and bleach was deep in her lungs.

Slowly, Emma took in her environment. She was in a plain enough room: water-stained walls and the dusty outline of furniture. A single lightbulb hung directly above her. The ugly yellow light it permitted was caustic to Emma's eyes. Who had left it on? And beneath the lightbulb was a wooden chair. Pieces of rope and tape lay around the chair. So she had been tied to that chair?

Getting to her feet was like an advanced calculus—it demanded all of her attention, and still she wasn't good at it. Emma lost her balance and tittered over, but she aimed her descent towards a wall and supported herself against it. The wall smelled like mold and dampness. This, combined with the pine and bleach on her tongue, made her vomit all over the floor.

Every breath drew up more of the acrid taste from her chest cavity. It was endless. They must have drugged her for a long time. But she was Emma Trevor, daughter of Diana of Themyscira—shouldn't I be immune to this? Emma leaned against the wall and focused on her thinking, on her breathing. Of course, she was superhuman, but she was still human. It only stood to reason that she could be drugged by obnoxiously large amounts of gas.

She rode the wall down to the floor and fell asleep with her back against the wall. When she woke up, her head no longer felt strange. It felt balanced on her neck, and weighed like any normal head should weigh. She tried breathing again – the pine and bleach taste lingered. But standing was no longer an impossibility. Emma slowly pushed off the ground, riding the wall with her back, and stood there, leaning against the wall, and breathing.

The memories came back to her, but in reverse order. She remembered the rooftop fight, the chase through the city, and finally, the conversation with her mother.

"Shit," groaned Emma. Her mother was going to murder her.

There was a single window in the room. It was cracked and stained with mineral deposits from water. Emma caught an image of herself in the reflection. The caustic light of the bulb did her no favors: was that really her drab and sunken face in the reflection? Her hair knotted and threadbare like a spider's web? She looked horrible, but then again, she felt horrible.

Beyond her reflection, the black dye of the night was fading rapidly, like bad ink in a printer. Early morning was coming. She had better get moving.

Stepping out of the room brought her to a dimly lit hallway. It stank of piss and there were cans and wrappers littered across the floor. The doors on either side of hall were missing. Emma Trevor walked down the hallway and caught a glimpse into each of the rooms—stained mattresses, discarded clothing, and big piles of garbage bags. But there was nobody breathing, nobody moving quietly in the hallway rooms. She would have heard them—the silence was intense, making her every movement magnified and precipitous, like something sudden would happen. At the end of the hallway was a narrow staircase, she took the steps carefully, avoiding the grime and litter along the steps, and came out into what looked like a lobby. There was a reception area, and a dozen plastic seats lined up by a bulletin board. But everything was ruined and pilfered— upended vending machines, rings of ashes by burnt-black barrels, more mattresses, and many empty cans laying hollow and empty on their sides.

This place was home to many without a home. But where was everyone? Emma walked through the lobby. Some of the newspapers laid down for matting were recent publications—only a few days old. Emma found a small sack of forgotten soupcans and bedding. The people had left in a hurry.

Emma came out onto an empty street. An old railroad track stretched laterally to her left and right. The gravel underneath the track was stony and mute. To her left and right were blocky buildings in similar disrepair. The gas rose up again in her esophagus—a disorienting surge of groundless and unmoored spinning. Where the hell was she?

She breathed forcibly– this time risking a greater pull from her lungs. The acrid taste was there alright, but the nausea had lost its total grip over her. She raised her head to the sky—the stars were still out, and the two constellations she did recognize hovered above her, a little to the left of the city: The Big and Little Dippers. Their twin sweeping handles curved outwards and opposite of eachother, like interstellar ying/yang, or a celestial dualism. Two opposing forces swirling and evading and forever connected. Black/White, Big/Little, Brother/Sister.

The North star sits at the end of the Little Dipper, Emma. And if you can't find the little Dipper, just look for the Big one. It always hangs around it—like me and you.

"Okay, Will," said Emma. She spoke to the night sky. And true to her little brother's word, there was Polaris, the north star, hanging around at the end of the Little Dipper.

She headed west on the train tracks—the tracks ran on a longitudinal axis to the north star, making her walk a simple but austere journey. Nothing but stony rubble and reeds along the tracks. The night air was cool and tasted like dust and tin—she occasionally lost her footing on the stones and gasped in a sharp breath that stung her chest. She kept her head down, minding her footing like she would watch David when he was crawling on the floor. The tracks ran reliably west—the north star never shifted, and suddenly she looked up and the long riflebarrels of the New Gotham skyscrapers appeared on the horizon. That was a wonderful, reliable thought, like the mast of a ship she could hang onto during a storm. Yes, she felt horrible. But she also felt the rising sun on her right cheek.

The dawnlight was fully awake when she reached the bottom of the hill. She trudged up the steep incline, her arms tucked in securely under breasts to control the nausea, as the morning mist caught the sunrise and sprinkled the trimmed neighborhood lawns a fairy-tale gold. Any other day, she would have fallen in love with mist, stopped to enjoy it and be thankful for it—but today, the mist reminded her of weaponized aerosol. It made her tuck her arms a little tighter into her sides, made her grimace. Now the hill was awake with activity—cars pulling out of their driveways, people going to work and parents taking their children to school. Everything was colorful and vibrant— the daffodils, the cherry blossoms, the garden gnomes on the neighborhood lawns; the children in their pressed school uniforms, their gaudy backpacks, and the parents walking in polished shoes, getting into waxy-chrome cars. Now the walk became a long exercise in humility— she was still in her all-black attire, her black boots, her black hair knotted and sullen, her face wan and sallow. She looked like a hungover goth queen; a black alleycat slinking home after a nighttime of underworld activity. The drivers behind the windshields and the children in the backseats did not try to hide their judgement when they saw her coming up the sidewalk—their heads turning on swivels, their eyes long and judging and amused. Emma ignored them. She kept her arms tight against her body, and focused on her breathing. The acrid taste was faraway on her tongue now, and every breath expelled from of the poison out of her lungs.

A lurid sports car came racing around the corner. Emma spotted it at the same time the driver spotted her, because as it came abreast of her, the windows rolled down, revealing a pair of young men in suits and greasy haircuts. The men stuck their heads out and hooted: "WALK OF SHAME!" and kept honking and hooting as they drove down the hill.

She did not know those boys, but now they knew her. Everyone on this hill, in her neighborhood, would forever remember this moment—and no doubt hold it against her in the future. It didn't matter that she went to work everyday on time, it didn't matter that she always dressed like a professional woman. One night had wrecked her reputation. But that was alright. A superhero needed a sharp contrast, a ridiculous alter-ego, right? Now everyone believed she had spent the previous night at some stranger's house—an amoral one-night stand after cocktails at a bar. Let them think that—let them think she was a deviant, or a mistress or a man-eater or a loose woman. It only made her disguise better.

She finally made it home. Her key was gone, but just for sheer audacity, she tried the front door anyway. And it opened.

Cautiously, Emma went inside her home.

"Mom? Dad?"

She closed the door behind her, and the sound of its closing rebounded in the lobby. It was an unsettling emptiness. A probing, intergalactic silence. And from it, Emma knew, with undying certainty, that nobody was home.

There was no landline in the home, and she hadn't lost her phone when she lost her bag. She got on her laptop and sent her mother an email: Mom, I lost my phone but I'm safe at home. Where are you guys? She then forwarded this email to her father and Lucius. In the kitchen she yanked open the fridge and downed an entire carton of cranberry juice. She didn't bother with a cup, just drank straight from carton. On the kitchen island were mugs of half-finished tea. There was the kettle on the stove. She touched mug – it was room temperature. But the kettle was very, very faint with warmth.

She headed into her bathroom and stripped off the grimy, sweat-smelly clothes. Standing naked, she twisted the knob on the shower to the hottest it would go until steam clouded the bathroom. She carefully slipped underneath the jet of water, moving by inches, letting her body adjust to the heat, while the steam surrounded her, until her entire body was underneath the water. Her skin turned pink and raw from the heat and her scalp prickled. But it felt good. She was like that for a very long time.

After the bath she was starting to feel decent again. She dried her hair, put on a comfortable pair of jeans and a cotton t-shirt, and went downstairs to the kitchen. She grabbed a bagel and cream cheese out of the refrigerator. She didn't bother with a spread knife; Emma tore off pieces of the bagel and used the curve to scoop out loads of the cream cheese. She munched and opened her laptop.

There was a message in her inbox. It was from Lucius:

Emma,

We're very worried about you. Your mother and father are with me at Wayne Enterprises. We found William. I'll come for you in an hour. Stay put.

There was only one important sentence in Lucius's email: We found William. Those three simple words were the cypher to the mystery of the empty home, and Emma's mind worked furiously to decode the clues: so William was at some point missing, and he was missing for a long enough time for Alfred to make tea, which Alfred would have made in order to calm everyone down—this meant that there was panic and uncertainty.

Emma looked at the mugs again—on the kitchen island and half-empty. Her mother would never have allowed for that. She believed in washing dishes as soon as they were used, in keeping the house and kitchen clean. If there were dirty dishes lying about, it was only because something more pressing had superseded her mind. It meant that everyone had left the house in a hurry.

Emma put the rest of her uneaten bagel to the side. She was no longer hungry. A low, churning anxiety was developing in her belly. Lucius had written 'we found William,' which meant that William had been found, which meant he was most likely unconscious or dead.

Emma picked up the mugs and wiped the kitchen island. She cleaned the dishes. Time was not passing quickly enough—each moment was a slow, molasses-like opportunity for the fear to roil in her organs—yet somehow time was passing too quickly—everytime she looked at the clock the hour struck closer—soon she would hear more news concerning her brother, soon enough she would find out if he was alive or dead. What was it William had once told her—something about a scientist and his cat? As long as the box remained closed, the cat was neither alive nor dead. And Emma felt the same about William: as long as she cleaned up the kitchen, as long as she remained in the kitchen and kept herself occupied with cleaning, her brother was still alive. He was still his grumpy, sullen, totally insecure self.

Emma was organizing the sugar and flour in the cabinet she had punched when she heard someone else's breathing. Lucius had quietly entered the kitchen.

"Lucius," said Emma with all of the custom of a normal visit. She kept working fixatedly on the cabinet. "Hello."

She spoke like if she had not expected him, as if his visit was a pleasant surprise. She did not want to turn around and read her brother's status on Lucius's ashen, apologetic face.

"Emma," said Lucius' voice, the sound was throaty and worn-out. "What happened? We were looking for both of you last night."

"Is she mad?"

Emma meant her mother, of course.

"She was," said Lucius.

This confirmed the terror in Emma's mind: something seriously awful must have happened. Her mother was no longer angry, but scared.

The jangling of car keys. Lucius must have brought out a handful. "We don't really have time to waste, Emma. Your brother, he, is—"

"Dead?" offered Emma in a tone that sounded neutral and objective. She was trying to ready herself for the blow.

Lucius spoke on an outhale of breath. "No. Your brother isn't dead. Thank God."

But nothing about Lucius's response sounded 'thankful'—he still sounded like a man giving terrible news. What had happened to William? What was worse than death?

She heard the rustle of Lucius's clothing, like he was rubbing his hands over his head.

"We really need to go, Emma. Are you ready to go?"

"Yeah, I'm ready," she said, turning away from cabinet. "Let me just—"

Lucius suddenly closed the distance between them. His hand was on her chin, and he was standing over her, looking down at her face.

"My god, Emma, what happened to your face? It's colorless."

"Like a vampire," she tried to say cheerfully.

He carefully examined her, gently directing her head by her chin. "Your pupils are dilated. And your reaction time is slowed."

"My reaction time?"

"Just right now, when I put my hand on your chin. You didn't even flinch."

"I—"

"And your pallor—it is like a vampire," he continued. His hand fell away from her face; the examination was over, and his diagnosis readied. "Emma, did someone drug you?"

Lucius read the answer on her face—"Roland," he said quietly.

"Wait, how did you know it was—?"

But Lucius was on the move. He was racing around the kitchen island, heading back to the living room. "Your brother. Something similar has happened to him. We have to go."

"Wait, Lucius—" she diligently followed him out of the kitchen. "What about Will? Was he drugged too?"

Lucius opened the front door. His black leathery skin looked several shades paler in the sudden morning light. "Not drugged, but poisoned. We received an anonymous tip and found him near a dam. He was unconscious and wearing strange clothes."

Emma closed and locked the front door behind her. "Grey clothes?"

Lucius's foot scraped the pavement underneath him—a moment of disbelief, of hesitation.

"Roland," confirmed Emma. Her mind was on the men who drugged and kidnapped her. They all wore grey.

"We've taken him back to the company for treatment," said Lucius. He rounded the driver side of his Lexus (the same model that she had driven and crashed earlier, Emma noted). "Your family is waiting for us there."

Emma opened the passenger door. "What do you mean treatment? And why are you taking him to the company if he's sick – why not a hospital?"

She ducked into the passenger seat—Lucius already had the car engine racing. They pulled out of the driveway and raced down the hill. Lucius drove like a man outrunning death himself. Emma had never seen him like this before—clothes disheveled, eyes bloodshot, nerves shambled. And from the weariness sagging at his cheeks, he hadn't slept in the last 24 hours.

Outside, the Gotham skyrise was a beautiful azure dappled with white cloud puffs—a peaceful, picturesque scene that suggested picnics in the park and late morning brunches on balconies. Emma looked out the window—it was Sunday. She noted this fact like a bored zoologist watching animals on a safari drive.

They drove into the city. The aftermath of last night's events flashed across the jumbotrons and metro station screens: news anchors and debaters speaking into the camera, their mouths moving furiously, indignantly, and uncomprehending. Scenes from the police chase intercut these debates—the grandiosity of a helicopter's birds-eye view of the police caravan; a boots-on-the-ground intimacy of a shaky eyewitness camera on the streets. And there were the countless interviews of terrified and exhilarated citizens all asking the same question into the camera: is he back? Why kidnap the Commissioner? What is going on?

They drove through the city. Pedestrians moved in masse on the city sidewalks—people going to work, people living their lives. This was not a surprising occurrence in Gotham City—the city was always packed in the morning—but it did surprise Emma considering what had happened the night before. The Batman's sudden return was a rupture to the daily routine of the city, but clearly Emma overestimated that rupture—it was more ripple than wave. Life was still going on. Lucius drove. Emma watched. Neither of them spoke, but they both contributed to the suffusing calmness overtaking the cabin of the car: a buzzing but lurking energy, like an underground powerline. Another surge of wisdom was overtaking Emma: the same steadying numbness she experienced while watching the 'Batman' escape on the bridge. She was growing, her childhood dying. Becoming more and more attuned with the worried, anxious faces of the adults and citizens on the sidewalks. Her worry was also their worry—the question on everyone's mind (it was in the shiftiness of their eyes; the nervous upturn of their lips): Are we going to be okay?

"Lucius, what the hell is going on?" she finally asked. Her voice sounded froggy and croaky. She tasted the fruity tang of morning breath on her tongue: her mouth had been shut for a long time.

Lucius carefully glanced at the rearview mirror—a gesture that spoke for the gravity of the situation. But this careful, clandestine paranoia looked natural on Lucius. He seemed worried in an objective, far-away way—like a seasoned General absorbing bad news about a small, negligible loss of men.

"Roland kidnapped your brother last night. He injected him with his serum."

Emma gently closed her eyes. Everything in the city was too much: too noisy, too flashy, too jumpy. The loud billboards, the pungent smog, the brassy blaring of car horns. Suddenly the acrid taste of pine and bleach surged up her chest cavity—she smacked at the door and Lucius, seeing her gagging face, pulled the car over to the sidewalk.

Emma puked up the cream cheese and bagel mixture, the chug chug coming out of her throat violently, like a dormant volcano erupting. Her head spun, the horrible aftertaste of vomit clawed at her throat. An unmoored, weightlessness overtook her body, like she was freefalling. And then there was Lucius's hand at her shoulder. He pulled her back into the car.

"Easy, easy, Emma."

"Ugh," she answered him. She pushed the seat back: deeper and deeper, she sank until she was nearly parallel with the car floor. The car hummed underneath her: its engine steady and vibrating. It was oddly comforting.

"There's a pharmacy right down here, do you want something?"

She waved her hand. Her eyes were closed. "No, no. I'm fine."

There was a steady silence. Somehow, down here, the commotion of the city sounded muted and far away, like it couldn't hurt her anymore.

Lucius put the car into gear. It made clicking sounds. "We're almost there, Emma. Hang on."

"Lucius?"

"Yes?"

"Can we not drive for a second—just for a second. The motion, the engine, it's too much . . . "

The car shifted back into park. "Of course, Emma. Of course."

"They drugged me, Lucius. Roland's men. Gave me some kind of chemical agent."

"Don't talk, Emma. Just breathe."

"No, it helps, to talk. It's the breathing that sucks. I taste the pine when I breathe."

"Pine?"

"Yeah. Whatever they put in me. It tastes like—"

She made a sudden sucking sound. The taste resurged in her chest. She was going to vomit again, it was so overbearing.

"Emma—move, lemme get the door—"

"Wait, Lucius—" the taste faded away, as quickly and suddenly as it had appeared, like leaves vanishing around the bend of a fast river.

"Are you okay?"

She knew, somehow, that she was okay again. She set the seat back upright. "Yeah, I'm fine. Just drive. I'm fine, Lucius, really."

He looked at her uncertainly out the corner of his eye. Emma opened the glove compartment.

"Do you have any napkins?"

Lucius opened the center console. A package of tissue paper. Also: a bottle of mouthwash.

"Nice," she said, taking both in her hands. "What else do you have in there?"

Lucius put the car into gear. He was shaking his head. "I'm an old man, Emma. Bad breath and all."

They drove to Wayne Enterprises, and Emma told Lucius everything that had happened: leaping across the skyscrapers, the fight on the rooftop, and waking up in an abandoned building in Old Gotham. Lucius's expression gradually became more and more wide.

"They could have killed you, Emma. Or done worse."

"I know," said Emma darkly. "But they didn't."

"But they didn't," agreed Lucius.

They rounded about Wayne Enterprises and pulled into the underground garage. Lucius looked into the rearview mirror again—nobody behind him. Then he pushed a button on his steering wheel, and the gate to the underground garage began to close behind him.

"Hey," said Emma, looking into the sidemirror. "Why are you doing that?"

Lucius's reserved parking space was the closest by the elevator. He parked the car at his space.

Emma went to open the door. Lucius shook his head. "Hold on, Emma."

He pressed another button on his steering wheel.

"But what are we waiting for—?"

There was the sound of pistons firing and the car suddenly began sinking into the floor. Emma g whirled around in her seat, amazed, while Lucius remained sitting, completely nonplussed as if he were waiting for the light at an intersection.

They journeyed downwards, via a dark and unlit chute. The only illumination coming from the dashboard. Lucius's silhouette barely discernible from the dark shapes of the car seat. The car vibrated securely underneath their seats—or perhaps that was the movement of the elevator chute. Very gradually, like a morning sunrise, the cabin began to come into visibility. Feeble light brimmed along the exterior of the lift. They were almost there—where ever there was, and then, quite matter-of-factly, the car buckled on the ground floor. The lift had stopped.

Emma had to hold her hands to her eyes for several seconds to adjust the sudden brightness.

Lucius unlocked his door and stepped out. "We're here."