The watery path ahead was filled with obstacles. Two support girders no longer supporting the load they were built to carry stood tall from the depths. Leafless trees grew from seemingly out of nowhere on both edges of the urban chasm, their roots buried deep underwater. Surrounding structures leaned in crookedly, narrowing the gap.
Cathy glanced about for raft material at hand, unsure what exactly would be useful to her, but hopeful that some improvised idea would click the moment she laid eyes on it. Two rusted cars sat behind her, left abandoned on the overpass ever since the earthquake forced their passengers to flee. Both had been stripped down of every accessory possible to profit off of. Even the seats inside had been wrenched from their moorings. Cathy pondered for a moment if it were possible for one of the cars to float, but she nixed the idea immediately after thinking further—whether or not the vehicle was buoyant, she'd have a heck of a time steering the thing with only a makeshift oar and her own two hands.
There was nothing useful up there. First, she needed to get down from the overpass for any hope of continuing. Moving forward was a no-go—nothing but a straight drop from there—and the City behind her may as well have been cut off too because she wasn't going back.
To the right-side lane of the freeway, a support girder still stood halfway underneath the crumbled road's end. Cathy vaulted herself over the median, ambled across the street and peeked over the cement wall. The sea hadn't quite managed to swallow the ground on that side. The girders were even still on dry land and led to an alleyway between two apartment complexes, and then back into Arkham City.
Cathy sighed unhappily, but was committed to what was necessary. Jolts of nerves suddenly tingled in her limbs, almost causing her hesitation. As she tiptoed delicately onto the girder, she was all of a sudden too wary of the large openings she could fall through. The longer she stared through the gaps, the larger they grew. Too high, she was much too high! If heights were never a problem before, they certainly were now.
Cathy bent at the waist in a clumsy attempt at balance. Breathing shallowly, she sat down before vertigo could consume her, gingerly rolled over onto her stomach, and let her legs dangle blindly over the edge to find a foothold.
She was never much of a climber as a kid, didn't even like climbing trees, but now was not the time to be picky. With a vice-like grip that could have crushed stone, she held the girders for dear life. Bending one knee to her chest and lowering her other foot down, she sought for the upside-down triangular point to safely step on. And so it continued, one uncoordinated foothold after another, until she touched down on flat, solid ground. Shaking off the thrill of accomplishment, she ventured to the nearby alley, wary of the open road on the other end, and discreetly sifted like a treasure hunter through the piles of trash leaning on the brick building's side.
There seemed to mostly be a bunch of warehouse surplus—dismantled crates, parachute-sized bags of clear plastic, and bright blue nylon rope. The rope was only about the width of her pinky, but that didn't mean it wasn't strong. Warehouses didn't rely on them for nothing.
Balancing the rope and a fistful of plastic in her hands, weighing them like her arms were a scale, the inspiration Cathy had been waiting for presented itself. She didn't even wait until the idea was fully formed and step-by-step planned in her head, she was already grabbing for materials she deemed necessary.
Taking one of the large bags filled with miscellaneous junk, she dumped out the contents, snapped the bag out and quickly tied the corners to trap the air bubble. It wasn't as inflated as she wanted, but unless someone threw out an air pump, that was what all she could work with. She did the same to three more bags, having to restart once or twice to make sure they were all even. It would be a bad idea to tip to one side.
Luckily the blue rope was pre-cut in several long, used pieces and not coiled in a spool, because she didn't have a knife with her. That would have been useful, she thought grimly. Before fleeing her apartment she never thought to simply grab a knife from the utensil drawer. She got along fine without one so far, but she couldn't help but wonder how many more options would have opened up for her had she thought to stow one in her bag.
Placing a warehouse pallet upside down, Cathy stuffed the four bags uniformly into the three-inch underspace. Using six pieces of rope, three going vertical and three going horizontal, she tied her creation together, making doubly sure that no space was left wide enough for a bag to slip out from under the wood planks.
Flipping it back the right way again, she stood back for a moment to search for any critical flaws that could cause the raft to sink. The pallet floated off the ground, supported by the air-filled bags. In theory it would work like a pontoon of sorts.
Nothing left to do but push it in the water. Hopefully, the improvised balloons would provide enough lift to not allow water to rise through the slats between wood planks.
Her ugly raft passed the first test—it floated. But for the final test, it had to still skim the surface while carrying a passenger. Cathy sat, then dangled her legs over the edge, pressing down on the pallet with her feet. The platform tilted from the force, but was giving resistance. Cathy pressed harder, and harder still when the wood was proving difficult to sink. Unsure of how much force was required to equal her body weight, Cathy stepped off. There was no other way to know for sure except the only way...
She swung her arms to and fro in preparation for the jump. Just as her feet were about to spring, her body seized and she chickened out, scuttling back to safety again. Cathy closed her eyes and shook her head to loosen all inhibition. Taking a moment to herself, she jogged in place to psych herself up, shaking the nerves out of her fingertips. Her muscles could not be given allowance to hesitate for even a second, she couldn't afford to stop short and miss landing the raft. These were her only pair of clothes, the weather would claim her in no time if they got wet.
With a wooden thump she landed in a crouch, but uttered a brief shriek. The momentum leaned her too far ahead and the edge dipped underwater. With a foreboding whimper, Cathy spread her arms out and planted her palms flat, placing her knees apart for balance to calm the entire board. The wobbling subsided and the platform became somewhat stable again. Peering through the slats underneath her, she could see water bobbing between the plastic bags, but unable to rise high enough to soak her clothes.
Cathy sighed a gentle breath of relief. Unbelievable. It worked. It actually worked! Very carefully, she positioned herself to sit cross-legged, testing the raft's ability to stay level one more time before setting off through the city canyon straight ahead.
Steering couldn't have been more awkward. The only thing that could've even remotely be used as a paddle was a broken, medium-sized locker door that probably belonged to a two-tier unit. An oar would have been easier to handle, the metal door spread her hands too far apart to gain much control, but as long as she took her time, the locker door was serviceable. It got her ahead, at least.
It was an odd feeling to be so close to the water and yet be floating just inches above it. If she tilted her chin high enough, the raft would disappear from her peripheral, leaving her with a fleeting, temporary sense of wonderment, like she was flying.
The only thing standing between her and life-threatening danger was simply some air-filled plastic and a wood platform. But the more she thought of getting herself out of Arkham, and immediately getting help for Phil, Mike, and the others, a spark of courage would stiffen her arms, steady her paddle, and steer her straighter. All she had to do was just get past the maze of buildings ahead, and the open harbour would greet her.
The journey was slow-going, understandably. Even if Cathy did somehow manage to get an oar, her zero expertise—or even experience—in rowing would have sent her just as far just as fast. She developed a sort of rhythm that seemed to work, however, even if a professional would balk at the lack of finesse. Dip, sweep, lift, repeat. Dip, sweep, lift, repeat. Every once in a while she would switch and paddle on the left side to stay on course. The gentle swish of the water almost became musical.
A tiny, cold drop tickled her forehead. Cathy craned her head to the sky. The clouds had thickened considerably in the last hour. They did nothing to quell Cathy's growing sense of unease. It was her hope that the possible storm could hold itself off until she got to Gotham.
Cathy took care to keep to the middle of the waterway, away from sunken city objects jutting out above the surface, such as street lamps and more girders. In one panic-inducing moment, she had to quickly avoid a partially submerged stop sign that she almost missed just below the surface, and narrowly avoided bursting one of her raft's balloons.
Navigating a corner, Cathy came upon a large opening that was once a busy intersecting street, and the Gotham City Olympus loomed high above in it's ten-plus floor glory, the crowning headpiece of it all. Contrary to what the flooding would appear to have destroyed, Gotham City Olympus glowed as if it were still open for business, as if a little crisis could never stop patrons from dancing and drinking their asses off, or mobsters from discussing business in their plush V.I.P. lounges.
The Club's decoration was just as prominent as it's owner. A figurehead of the Greek god Zeus, carved from the waist up, was placed above the highest terrace like on the bow of a ship. A neon lightning bolt of electric blue was closed tight in it's stone fist, with the shoulder thrown back as if poised to throw. Neon letters of the same color below the figurehead announced to all Gotham City Olympus.
Cathy wondered whatever became of it's prolific owner, Maximilian Zeus. She knew who he was of course, most Gothamites did. His name was big news a couple years ago, pushing that weirdo exterminator with the rat fetish into obscurity after having been the hot story for weeks. Maxie was some sort of business magnate, specialized mostly in shipping. Went into seclusion for a few months and couldn't be reached by anyone. His lackeys fielded questions from the media with vague answers time after time, but eventually, when the pressure became too much, Maxie reemerged weeks later.
As the newest patient of Arkham Asylum.
Some sort of stress-related mental breakdown, representatives of the company claimed, a temporary lapse. And for a while that explanation was enough to fend off further prying questions. The public, though, believed that story less and less the more Maxie Zeus' release was delayed.
News went dark after a while. There was only so much reporters could dig up before they were stuck in the same cycle, running out of ideas to approach the same gossip in fresh ways. Did Gotham put their trust in an insane man? Is this a ploy to avoid jail time for years of crooked deals and weapon smuggling? Is Maximilian Zeus even his real name? The questions people had to know.
It seemed, though, that Maxie's prized nightclub was running fine without him for the past year or two. An executive or second-in-command must have stepped up to the plate and kept Maxie's assets productive in his absence. Whoever they were, they had done their job well, at least. Up until Arkham City happened, the Olympus Club was still open and thriving, and despite a PR nightmare and temporary drop in stock, the entire company managed to get back on solid footing earlier that year.
Whitecaps formed on the harbour's surface; the wind was picking up. Dammit, thought Cathy. She hopped to it, paddling as fast as the raft would allow. There was a gap to the Olympus building's left side, just big enough for the raft to glide through, then all she had left to do was pass a few more buildings behind it and she would be out of Arkham City for good.
Freedom. So close, it was so close. Cathy anticipated it so badly that her mouth salivated, and it tasted just as sweet as some people said it did. You're almost there.
The cloud blanket above let snow fall gently at first, just a floating trickle, but soon the air grew colder and the wind pushed Cathy just slightly off course from time to time. No, no, no, hold off, please hold off, she repeated to herself, steering for the gap. Just a few seconds later in response, a mighty gust pushed Cathy. Her mid-section clenched in effort to keep her body straight and not upset the raft's balance.
Just a little more, just a little more, come on!
The water level was so high that Cathy cruised past windows of the Olympus building. Despite the upper floors being alive with light, the lower ones were all dark. Cathy couldn't see a thing inside.
The build of snow was a driving force, falling in slanted sheets, creating a fog in the distance and blocking Cathy's view of the buildings past the gap. Cathy shielded her eyes and squinted ahead, determined to make it through, but she was forced to submit. She wanted desperately to keep going, to brave the brewing storm and let perseverance in the face of adversity be her saving grace, but she wasn't a hero. The storm would easily knock her off the raft before Gotham's shore was ever in reach.
With an immensely heavy heart, a pining that she had to reluctantly snuff out, her journey had to be put on pause; her freedom would have to wait, the political prisoners would have to wait...
...Her dad would have to wait.
Parking her raft by a small recess on a ledge, Cathy set the locker door down and prepared herself to get on. She still didn't have much protection from the wind in there, for it blew in her direction. The building next door deflected half of it, however, and that at least made things just a little easier.
Cathy inched sideways carefully, closer to the Olympus Club, and got in a kneeling position to hoist herself up, wary of the shift in weight distribution. As she slowly reached for the stone ledge, the raft suddenly tipped forward and slid out from underneath her.
Her knees dipped under first, then her feet followed with a splash. A soprano gasp slipped through Cathy's throat at the painful shot of cold. She managed to catch herself before she fell in any higher than her knees. Her shoulder muscles screamed in protest at the sudden call to action, but out of desperation Cathy had to power through the pain. Gritting her teeth, she groaned as she pressed her stomach flat on the frozen ledge and pivoted herself sideways to drag her legs out of the biting water nipping at her skin excruciatingly. With a sloshy noise, she popped her lower legs out of water, feeling their temperature drop even further when a gust of wintery wind blew again. The water soaked so easily through the pitiful layers of her jeans and sweatpants. Cathy rolled onto her back and gave herself time to ease the groaning of her arms, her chest heaving as she tried to control her rapid breaths. The near fall sent her heart pulsing in fear.
In an attempt to hold herself together, Cathy sat up and backed against the wall of the small corner. The soaked area of her pants clinged tightly to her calves like a new, cold, thick skin, and a frigid breeze stung her cheeks. With numbing fingers, she clutched the lapels of her coat and wrapped them tighter over her body and doubled over, rocking to keep blood flowing. Her molars cracked together in a painful jaw twitch, and it only took a moment to realize that it was caused by the cold. Her teeth had been chattering so badly that even her cheekbones were sore from the strain. Being a twenty-one year veteran of north-eastern winters made little difference; a built-up immunity to this degree of weather was impossible to achieve.
Cathy knew fully well she wouldn't survive until morning by staying in that spot.
Shuddery groans rose from her throat as she shivered. It felt good to keep her vocal chords vibrating, it provided the tiniest spark of warmth in her chest. Hardly enough, though. It disappeared only seconds later, but it was better than nothing. She pinched her sweatpants and pulled. They snapped back into shape with a moist slap. Cathy swore under her breath. This was bad. Potentially very, very bad.
Cathy hugged her knees, attempting in vain to warm her shins. If Phil and Mike had found her in this state, she would have had to no hesitation to follow them. But they weren't here. She was on her own. The thought of them left to fend for themselves gnawed at her heart.
Just get out of the cold, you'll find something. Get out of the cold, figure it out later, she coached herself. All she could do was pray that Mike, Phil, and the others were still alive. Holding the brick pillar behind her for support, she rose onto her feet. Her arms snapped back protectively over her chest when another burst of whistling wind blasted into her face.
The lights were on in Gotham Olympus, maybe it was warm inside too. After securing the raft on the ledge by lifting it out of the water, Cathy edged over crevices and nooks wide enough to step on, keeping close to the partially submerged building like some sort of spider woman. Her parkour skills could have been described as on par with her tree climbing. Eventually, though, she found a row of four windows. Cupping her hands and peering through a light layer of dried salt and water stains, the room inside looked empty. Hopefully it was dry, too...
Wrenching the screechy, stubborn window up inch by inch, Cathy made enough space and slithered inside. The immediate lack of harsh wind and pinpricks of snowflakes on her face was instant relief.
With moonlight illuminating the room, panels on the floor indicated what seemed to be fine hardwood flooring. Once stepping down from the sill, her rubber soles squeaked with every step she took. Polished hardwood flooring. Water squeezed from her spongy runners, leaving a trail of shoe print puddles behind her. Squelch, squeak, squelch.
Keeping the window open for the time being, just in case there was need for a quick escape, Cathy scanned the room cautiously despite it's darkness. It was the size of a modest bedroom, though it appeared to be entirely empty of furniture. For such a decadent building, the ceiling wasn't as high as she would have thought, either. Quite average, actually.
A decorative fireplace of beige marble in the wall across hooked Cathy's eye. Four lonely logs in the empty, ashy grate stirred her memory. The matchbook! She patted her pockets down in alarm, scared that she forgot them back at the camp. Digging into her right pocket, her fingers met with the familiar little cardboard square. She let her head limply tilt backwards in relief. The matches didn't get wet.
Odds were that this was her new room for the night. She returned to the window (squelch, squelch, squeak, squeak, squelch), pushed the frame down and flicked the latch shut.
She plopped her bag on the right side of the fireplace, hidden behind the protruding marble slab, and kneeled before it to light a fire. The little match's flame didn't take to the logs right away, but with a little patience and a few puffs, she made progress. Waiting until the fire would grow, she sat down in front of the hearth.
The fire grew livelier by the second, and soon the entire room flickered with brilliant orange light.
Cathy sat with her knees tucked to her chest, positioning her lower legs in the fire's light to inspect the damage. A layer of frost had settled in the material of her pants, and the denim had warped and crinkled severely like a crushed paper bag. Cathy tried to roll up the cuffs to warm her long-numbed shins, but the fabric was so stiff that she could barely flip them up once. But, as clingy as her socks were, they managed to roll off her clammy feet with relative ease. Once she was able to peel them off and let the heat take over, the relief was amazing. Cathy leaned back on her hands and wiggled her frozen toes, letting them bask gloriously as comforting, soft warmth enveloped them whole. The resulting tingle would have seemed like a small pleasure before Arkham City happened, but in that moment to Cathy, it was like the greatest massage/sauna/jacuzzi combo that she had ever known.
She placed the soaked sock mounds near the hearth to dry. Her shoes would take longer. Testing their weight in her hand, she was amazed by the amount of water they absorbed. The shoes would have to wait until morning, maybe, and that was only if they stayed by a heat source. The beanie needed drying, too. Currently the wool was like a cold compress over her head. Grabbing a fistful from the peak of her head, she pulled, letting her damp hair spring forth and fall to her shoulders. She set it next to the socks.
Her bare toes were getting itchy from their slow thaw, but she was able to finally feel them again after a minute or so. Flexing them also brought attention to other cramped muscles in her body. Cathy couldn't remember a time in the past year where she'd put so much physical exertion into only a few days. Yet unlike a work-out or high-energy dance, she hadn't been aware of how exhausted she was whilst running for her life. It was true what they said, adrenaline really did make you numb for a time.
A literal chill ran down her spine. The room itself was freezing. With her back facing away from the fire, that half of her body was still exposed to chilly air. She stretched the opening of her bag and pulled out the scratchy brown blanket. The organization of her things wasn't a big worry, she'd replace them later in the morning when she left anyway. She held it up to the fire to warm; not close enough as to have an errant spark float onto the wool, but the fabric had still absorbed the temperature outside after all. Once satisfied, she unfolded it and draped it over her shoulders.
The crackling fire was all she had for entertainment, but it was all that was needed. Even her thoughts had a time to rest, and she felt more soothed by the jumpy glow than she ever thought possible.
Folding her legs in, she squeezed her feet with her hands to help the warming process. Her toes were cool to the touch, but their reddened color was a good sign.
A thump rumbled one floor above.
Cathy started at the sound. She craned her neck to the ceiling, pupils shrinking.
Silence.
Her eyes stung from her eyelids pulled back in high alert, like they had forgotten how to blink. Her lungs ceased expanding as she listened hard. Even the fire crackle was too loud, snuffing out any noise that may have come after the initial bump. A weight sat like a paperweight in her stomach, pinning her body to the floor. Cathy's eyes darted and her lips parted as if that could make her hear better.
The sound of shoes pattering far down the hallway picked up in her left ear, the one towards the door. Cathy faced it so fast that her hair slapped her cheek. There was only darkness beyond the open door frame, but audibly, that was about to change very soon.
The window! Now!
Cathy's legs bucked in the air as she straightened to shift onto her knees, but her arms were the equivalent of wet noodles and she plopped back down onto her backside. The footsteps got louder and hurried. Whoever it was broke out into a run.
Like a baby learning to walk for the first time, Cathy's limbs felt weak all of sudden; her adrenaline was shrinking rather than swelling to spur her on faster. The onset of a panic attack was upon her. She forced her body to delay it, to bury the sensation deep down, she couldn't afford to fumble in this moment. The floor spun underneath her, throwing her equilibrium in chaos.
Cathy crushed the blanket to her throat like a cloak as her breath picked up pace. She managed to scramble onto her knees, but by then it was too late to run, the pounding footsteps were too close.
In a mere flash of a second, a hulking man in a blue tinted toga clambered into view and filled the doorway, slapping his hands on the door frame so hard that it was akin to a clap of thunder, wearing an expression equally as thunderous.
A/N: So, DC? Thinking of hiring me to write book novelization versions of Batman yet? :D Eh? EH?...*chirp, chirp, chirp*...That's okay, take your time.
(I can dream, right? This is a good place to shove in a disclaimer that I don't own Batman or anything you recognize!)
Also, the misspelled character names on the character filters in this Arkham Asylum section were driving me nuts. I don't know who sent those in xD Madhatter/Jarvis Tech? Zsazh? Roman Syonis? So I sent a message to Support to get them corrected a couple weeks ago, and while I was at it, also asked to add in an M. Zeus category, but it looks like it didn't go through. He was totally mentioned in the first two games, he still counts!
You all know how much I love hearing from you guys, feel free to leave your thoughts and opinions on how the story's progressing, anything that's on your mind.