Chapter Eleven
I clung to Croc the entire ride out of Blackgate. It was mainly out of self-preservation, I was too keyed up to get my fumbling hands to work the seat belts and was still in a state of worry over a spiteful Batman. I had made it out of a fall of three stories fairly unscathed, but a Bat-toss from a helicopter wouldn't be so kind to my bones. Pressed between Waylon's thick arm and flank I almost felt safe surrounded by his musk and muscle. Each fleeing copter from Blackgate had a car waiting for them at separate locations. After ours had dropped us off, we soon located our waiting SUV.
When I followed Waylon to the car the waiting driver blocked my entry with an arm. I looked up at the man, my forehead wrinkled in confusion.
"Black Mask sends his regards, now you'll be on your way," he said, shoving a backpack into my arms.
What?
No.
No he didn't mean that I was just hearing things wrong.
"What?" I asked, fingers digging into the plastic fabric of the book bag. Waylon huffed irritably behind me.
"My instructions are for driving Killer Croc. Not you." I shook my head, mouth popping open, but the driver waved me away. Desperate, I turned back to Croc. Maybe he could clear up the confusion or at least intimidate the guy. My companion looked bored.
"Tough luck Dollface," he moved forward, almost gently pushing me to the side as he climbed into the SUV. I glared at him, grinding my teeth. He rolled down the tinted window, grinning at me. "See y'around," he growled, a smug look of satisfaction pulling at his white lips. My stomach dropped.
"Are you not helping me so you can get back at me?" I hissed, eyes narrowing. He couldn't seriously be mad about when I kind of rejected him, if it could be called that. Croc leveled a lazy smile at me.
"Don't be so emotional, not everything's about you." Yeah well I would've believed that if he weren't obviously suppressing a smirk.
"Fuck you."
"You wish," he cough-laughed, the vehicle pulling away. I watched it leave, the situation still not hitting me. That wasn't my one chance at freedom leaving with my only kind-of-friend laughing at my imminent re-incarceration. Nope. I shoved my face into the backpack, screaming into it while I stood alone on Dock E of the shipping district.
I pulled back after a bit of aggression faded, the reality of the moment closing in. Shivering in the falling snow I investigated the bag, see what Black Mask thought I was worthy of instead of a ride to his safe house. It was light, mostly empty except for a set of gray sweats and a few stacks of fifty-dollar bills. About eight hundred dollars' worth.
I broke out in a sweat.
Dropping the bag I changed in the open, refusing to look at the money. The sweats were clean, soft, warm, and best of all didn't smell like blood or prison. Tossing my coveralls into the bay and the last scraps of my lock picking goods into the bag, I slid the backpack over my shoulders and shuffled towards my dumpy apartment in the Narrows.
My living locations in Gotham had always been, frankly, shit holes. My line of work meant I needed a place hard to access and harder to find. I'd found my latest accommodations through the Broker. He had ensured me the place was discrete, nice for the price, and utterly out of the GCPD's scope of knowledge. To be fair I wasn't as picky as I should've been, I practically signed my life away as soon as I'd found out it had hot water.
I groaned, knocking my forehead against the door. My key was back with my other confiscated goods at Blackgate. Popping the lock open after a few lazy tries, I entered my secret little oasis.
The actual apartment had about the same square footage of a Blackgate prison cell, which I could have found ironic or funny if I tried. The apartment was one room with a kitchenette barely big enough for a mini fridge, green futon, floral loveseat, TV dinner tray used as a desk, one broken window that wouldn't open across from the door, and a bathroom with a narrow shower. The walls and ceiling were a crème color and covered in water stains, the wood floor scuffed and warped, and all the furniture dingy and bought second hand. I'd always been a fan of the theory that a person's bedroom showed their personality.
Sliding three deadbolts, one chain, and the lock on the door into place I threw down my bag on the loveseat and retreated into the bathroom for a shower. Planning, safety, revenge, work, crying, eating, self loathing, sleeping, and pacing a new rut into the floorboards be damned; I was going to get clean.
Almost two hours later I sat at my loveseat, damp hair smelling like green apples. Clad in a fluffy lavender robe, I cracked open my prehistoric laptop on the dinner tray. Relaxing back into the cushions, I scheduled a check up for my busted leg, checked my e-mails, and watched some of the Blackgate breakout live news coverage. Apparently Penguin, Black Mask, Killer Croc, Deadshot, Deathstroke, and Firefly were the only big names that weren't accounted for. The last one was bit of a surprise.
Shambling to my bed I dropped into the pile of stale fabric with a luxurious groan. Nuzzling into the rough pillow cover I fell asleep with the throb of my leg.