Meals didn't get easier. Three times a day, every day, Cathy would be anxious over what could transpire by the end of it. All sorts of What Ifs haunted her before she entered the dining chamber. Maxie's temper flare wasn't common, but it was as brittle as February ice. She ate in feigned tranquility, praying he'd forgotten about last night's intrusion.
Cathy briefly flicked her gaze across the table. Maxie was glowering, gripping his fork a little too tightly, as shown by his white knuckles. The cause, she learned only a minute later, had nothing to do with her. Maxie announced, after being silent for longer than normal, that he had discovered a "mortal spy" hiding in one of the lower floors. No doubt a prisoner seeking refuge, just like Cathy before.
"I feel they are advancing," he said, eyes distant. Something ominous gave his voice edge.
Cathy, Dionysus, and Calliope exchanged looks. Through their silent communication they all understood what this meant; Maxie was growing paranoid.
And no one needed to be told how bad that was.
Maxie, meanwhile, kept silent for the meal's duration, contemplating over his plate. When the gathering came to a close, he officially said, "Dionysus, I require your assistance," while wiping his mouth with a cloth napkin.
"At once," said Dionysus, bowing his head.
All afternoon the two men worked on a project in the lower floors. Cathy and Calliope were not invited. Therefore, they resigned to spend their mornings elsewhere. Cathy spent her time in the enormous foyer overlooking the Amusement Mile, reading a book she pulled from the library. Calliope chose somewhere else in the spacious building. She wasn't secretive of her wherabouts, but neither did she find it of great importance to inform Cathy where she'd be.
Upon Maxie's return to the dining chamber for lunch, where they had all gathered once more when the time was right, he seemed just a little more buoyant. The dark circles underlining his eyes were a little more prominent now, though. He tore into a wheat bun enthusiastically, leaning his elbow on the table.
"Our patrol was to my satisfaction," he said. "However, we musn't be complacent. Dionysus and I require your assistance, gentle ladies of Olympus. We must close off our realm from those below."
His decision was final. Attempts at negotiation would invite something woefully unpleasant. Of what, no one knew what exactly, but when it came to Maxie's creativity, no one wanted to find out.
It was such a shame to knock holes into Olympus's clean white panel design. Orders were orders, though, and Cathy wasn't about to feel more sorry for a wall than herself, or Dionysus, or Calliope. She crouched, holding the wooden board steady as Dionysus nailed it into place. The grand foyer's spectacular, open view of the Amusement Mile shrank piece by piece.
They were using moldy carpentry supplies that had been stored in a downstairs maintenance tunnel, but Maxie deemed it usable.
Olympus's dark, ethereal beauty was slowly being sealed off from the outside world, until only slats of moonlight could get through. The inside looked haunted. Isolated.
Cathy grew increasingly nervous as the day wore on. Maxie was becoming a little more manic by the day, convinced that the mortals were beginning an assault on Olympus.
Between the four of them, only half of Olympus's windows were boarded up in a five hour span. Dionysus had been dismissed earlier to get started on their supper. Maxie came to fetch Cathy and Calliope from a seventh floor lounge when it was ready.
Food had a way of bringing people together. Maxie clearly saw it as something bonding. It was his chance to keep tabs, count the heads, and revel in his growing kingdom.
Cathy spent most of her dinner picking at the splinter wedged in the mound below her thumb.
Meanwhile...
A stylish haircut, an equally stylish black peacoat, tasteful knee-high leather boots paired with nylon stockings—Vicki was the perfect candidate to keep one's eyes glued to the T.V.
"This is Vicki Vale reporting live from Arkham City, the controversial super-prison built right here in the heart of Gotham. In a few moments, Bruce Wayne will be live on stage to explain his sudden interest in Gotham politics. The infamous playboy millionaire has never been one to—"
"It's billionaire, Vicki. Millionaires are so last year."
The press frothed. Cameras bathed Bruce in an endless strobe effect. He cut an uninterrupted line through the gathering, which quickly closed behind him. He took his place behind the podium.
Meanwhile...
Mike's leg was no better healed than Arkham City was preparing for shut down. It was day three since the raid. His jaw was stiff from gritting his teeth so much. He knew he needed a doctor. Luckily for him, while it wasn't getting better, it wasn't getting worse. If anything good could be said about the cold, it was that the lower temperatures soothed the hot pain, numbing it to a dull throb he could ride out.
Phil appeared from around the corner to the snowy alley Mike and Neil were hiding out in.
"We're good," Phil said, jerking his thumb behind him, out into the open street.
Since the raid on their camp, they'd expanded their journey to the Bowery. Needing rest for a while, they currently found themselves a small secluded area where a neon light above had been smashed in, giving them better cover of darkness. Or at least more than what could be afforded in most other areas, thanks to Arkham City's powerful floodlights lining the containment wall.
They scuttled from the alley and into the open intersection. Mike had refused any attempts to help him walk for days now, therefore the other two knew better than to ask this time. He limped behind them, steadfast.
Neil, though he trusted Phil's thorough surveillance, believed one could never be too careful, and looked up and down the three-way intersection as a back-up.
The coast was clear. Hopefully luck would be on their side and some food could still be left over.
They had eaten by way of taking the meager scraps no one else wanted from the food drop off zones. However, that was easier said than done. Staying perfectly hidden and out of sight until the zone eventually cleared was absolutely essential to their survival. The strongest inmates would create a territory over the drop off zones, like high food-chain predators. No one else ate until they did. Usurpers would be punished. Harshly.
Glints of fresh blood usually splattered the road in the general area of drop-off points. No surprise that an anarchistic super-prison would be subject to violent disputes.
Phil crouched over the splintered remains of the crate and pawed through the rubble. Heaving a plank aside, he spotted a shimmer of green. He salvaged a foil packet containing a sesame seed bar.
"Here's one," he said, holding it over his shoulder for either Mike or Neil to take. Once it was plucked from his fingers, he soldiered on.
Ultimately, after a full lap of poring through the entire damage radius, all he'd managed to pull from the wreck was three mini-boxes of raisins, and a packet of assorted nuts.
Phil sighed, holding up another splintered plank he'd been holding up. "It's clean," he said, letting it go.
"Can't be," said Neil. He handed the raisins and nuts to Mike and marched over to Phil, lunging over the broken timber. "There's gotta be more. There's gotta."
"It's no good, Neil," said Phil dismally, rising from his position. He didn't even bother dusting the gravel off his knees. It wasn't even worth it, the rest of him was just as stained and dusty. "There's nothing left."
Neil pushed over a pile of rubble with his foot anyway, muttering to himself. "Naw, man, come on."
Mike stayed where he was, fifteen feet away, taking inventory of the paltry pickings in his hands. "Hm," he said simply. "Well, it ain't no five course, but at least it's something." His words, however, were much more optimistic than his tone.
Neil, meanwhile, scanned the ground like a rescue pilot in the clouds. His hope was commendable, but salvaging more food was a lost cause.
Phil clapped his hands to sweep off wood bits and sighed again. His nose wrinkled as he looked skyward. "Where'd you say we are by now, Mike?"
His question was met with silence.
"Park Row? Bowery?" Phil suggested.
No answer.
"...Mike?"
Neil was in his line of sight and turned around first. Phil saw him stiffen—and that was what tipped him off.
On high alert, Phil whipped around. "Oh no..."
Someone had gotten the jump on them. And Mike was the unfortunate victim.
"The food, or your friend gets shanked," their attacker warned, teeth gnashed in a confident, adrenaline-fueled grin. His bloated bicep was wrapped around Mike's throat like a python. "Your choice."
Mike was forced to stoop. He stuck his bad leg out to lessen the pressure weighing down on him. He was clearly in pain, but was even more wary of the knife hovering just inches over his heart.
Phil held out his hands placatingly. "Whoa, whoa, hey. Listen, man, let's talk for a minute here."
The prisoner took a step back, forcing Mike to almost lose balance and stumble. The injured man grit his teeth as his foot twisted the wrong way.
"I ain't got no damn minute," the prisoner shot back, boosting his catch roughly for a tighter grip.
Mike held the inmate's arm, craning his chin up like he was trying to keep himself afloat above an over-inflated life jacket. Even under the shadow of night his reddening face was easy to notice.
"Hey, bud," Mike strained, yet if it weren't for the prisoner choking him he sounded as though he were meeting the guy for a beer. "We don't got much. It ain't worth it."
The prisoner flexed his arm. Mike gurgled from the sharp jerk to his Adam's apple and was silenced. "You think I care?" the prisoner said, voice edged with his own beastly grunt. The guy was naturally intimidating.
And sounded very serious.
"Okay, okay," Phil said, still flashing his palms and keeping them there to illustrate his complacency. "Just give us our friend and we'll hand over the food."
The prisoner frowned, twisting his ugly face even uglier. Red patches on his rough cheeks, courtesy of the nippy air, added visual to his fury. "How stupid do you think I am?" He jerked Mike again, simply to cause pain. "Food first, and maybe I'll be nice enough and leave your friend not gutted."
"There's no need for that," said Phil quickly. Unprompted, Neil shoved the snacks into his hands.
Hands still raised, fingers clamped over the packets and mini-boxes, Phil approached in a calm manner. His breath in the chilly air was giving his heartbeat away, though.
"That's it," the prisoner drawled, teeth gnashed in ghastly pleasure. His sight was dead-set on the food. He adjusted his fingers over the knife. Sweat was causing it to slip. Nevertheless, he was in full control and Mike wasn't going anywhere. "Don't try any funny stuff. I wouldn't—DEAUGH!"
Phil jumped, startled.
Mike was released, nearly toppling from his sudden freedom. The prisoner grabbed his forehead where a small, blunt object had just sliced through the air and struck him. The knife clattered on the street.
Mike wasn't about to question why he was now loose. He loped over to his friends, never looking back.
Phil and Neil were transfixed on what just happened and had barely understood the scene before a flapping noise whooshed overhead and and even bigger object landed hard on the downed inmate.
The bigger object was human.
Wearing a hooded capelet, yellow flashed from the underside as the mysterious person kicked the rising prisoner into submission, stepping on the shoulders to hold the assailant down.
Mike reached the relative safety of his friends and stopped short, finally looking over his shoulder.
The mysterious figure twirled the Bo staff he was carrying like a baton and brought it down on the inmate's skull, rendering the prisoner still, leaving him to lay like the asphalt was his bed. Satisfied, the mysterious figure faced Phil, Mike, and Neil.
"It's you," said Neil in quiet awe. The stylized R on the right pec was a dead giveaway.
Robin's eyes were bright pinpricks against the overlooming shadow his hood provided. Even darker was the black eye mask surrounding them, making his eyes stand out more. Form-fitting burgundy armor covered his torso, while his legs were clothed in black. His boots looked like something out of the future, they were even more heavy-duty than combat and steel-toe combined.
Robin turned away, pointing some sort of gadget in his hand to the sky.
"Wait!" Phil cried out, holding out a hand before Robin took off. He dug into his pocket and pulled out Cathy's driver's license. "There's a young girl somewhere in this place," he said quickly, tapping her picture clumsily in his hurry, as if Robin's attention had already run out. "She ain't from Blackgate or Arkham. She got left behind here weeks ago. The kid's only twenty-one for goodness sake. We need your help!"
Robin did not leave, nor did he make a motion indicating he planned to. He lowered the oddly shaped device in his hand. Silent, he took the I.D. card from Phil and studied the picture carefully. His eyes narrowed in concentration.
He handed the card back to Phil. "I'll keep an eye out for her. I promise. Until then, you three stay out of sight."
He pointed the gadget at the roof to the nearest apartment building and pulled the trigger. A shrill whipping sound sang from it as a grapple was expelled. A distant clank caught. Robin was catapulted, ascending into the sky and was out of sight sooner than the time it took for the three men to pick apart what had happened to them not even a minute ago. They stared ceaselessly at the point on the rooftop where Robin had winked out of existence.
"So..." said Mike, "are we not gonna acknowledge that Batman Junior just saved our asses?"