Apologies for some formatting issues here; my document refuses to translate italics, and it's simply too much sugar for a penny to go through and re-do them all manually on here. It should still be quite readable as it is.
Thanks for reading!
Added note: fixed a find-and-replace word error. Apologies for that!
Blackgate Island was the smallest of Gotham's islands, and soon they were across the bridge back to Downtown. It felt eerie to walk in the middle of a bridge meant for cars. They felt normal when she drove over them, but walking reminded her of how huge and heavy they really were—tons upon tons of concrete and metal suspended over cold Atlantic waters. They turned west after the bridge, walking desolate streets through stripes of residential and commercial areas. Paige caught only glimpses of humanity—faces peering through windows before vanishing out of sight, curtains twitching in a window as someone drew them closed, a flash of a foot or a face disappearing down a side street. Each of them sent pangs of longing through her. What she wouldn't give to be on the inside, peering out, rather than on the outside, peering in.
She didn't guess at their destination, but when they turned south again and began crossing the bridge to South Hinkley Island, she knew.
They were going to her home.
Her apartment complex was on the north shore of the island, mid-sized and fairly new. As they approached, tension built in Paige's core. Did Bane know about her roommates? Were the extra men there to take them as well? Or, worse, to kill them? Yet despite the fear, she yearned desperately to see them, even for a moment. To see an honest, open, loving face—it seemed like the only thing in the world that could help her.
They reached the main entrance of the building, and Arnaud, to her shock, produced her own key card from a pocket and swiped them in. The interior warmth settled onto Paige like a blanket, and though the lobby of Winston wasn't much to look at, being only white walls, a drop tile ceiling, and rather scuffed linoleum, she still found herself breathing out in a quiet sigh.
The lobby, unsurprisingly, was empty. Even YunFei, the elderly woman who seemed to always man the package counter, day and night, was absent. The four of them proceeded to the elevator for the short ride to the fourth floor.
As the doors opened again, Paige became conscious of an unusual hush in the hall. Normally there was some sound echoing around—doors opening and closing, people talking, the echo of TV or music coming under doors. But today there was nothing, except the faint cry of a baby somewhere ahead of them. Tiny little Felicia, she thought, the Bakers' new daughter. They were a few doors down from her. The thin carpet beneath their feet did little to dampen their footsteps, and as they tromped down the hallway, Paige could somehow sense dozens of eyes peering out at them through the peepholes, though no doors opened. Paige wished that they would—she knew many of the people on the hall. There was the little seasonal wreath that Mrs. Marchis always put out; fall leaves and pumpkins, now. That was the Kims' door, and that the Fernandez's. The Bakers, and dear old Mrs. White across from them, one of the building's original residents. Paige looked at each peephole as they passed, wondering if she was meeting someone's eyes each time. What would become of these people, when the tide of freed convicts and enraged people swept through? Was there anything she could do to help?
The sound of her captors' boots thudded in her ears.
Then at last they reached her apartment. Anxiety clawed at Paige's throat. As Arnaud produced her keychain, she decided, in a flash, to speak. "I have roommates," she said. "It might be better if I go in first." She could just imagine Janna poised with one of their lamps over her head, ready to clobber whoever entered first, rifles or no.
Arnaud glanced at her, then shared a look with the other two men, who each shrugged. "Alright," Arnaud said. He handed her the keychain.
Taking a deep breath and praying that her roommates were gone, yet also yearning to see them, Paige opened the door.
Stepping inside, she flicked on the lights by reflex. Twin relief and disappointment drained the tension out of her muscles. Her roommates weren't there—she could tell by the feeling in the air. She had always been able to sense when someone was in, even if they were asleep in bed. The two men she didn't know swept in behind her, guns up as if expecting armed resistance. They surveyed the empty front room, then each went to one side of the apartment to check the other doors, calling, "Clear!" as they finished each in turn and confirmed her hunch. Her roommates were safe—and she was still desperately alone. Sighing, Paige stepped more fully inside, wondering why Arnaud had brought her here.
They were looking in at the living room, with the kitchen tucked into the corner on her left and separated from the rest by the breakfast bar. Their apartment was eclectic but cozy, as four un-choosy young people would tend to have. Well, three—Marisol was choosy, and her touch was evident in the matching throw blankets, pillows, and artwork that attempted to tie together the brown bucket chair, yellow and green couches, and deep purple carpet. Paige smiled wanly as she looked over it. So many happy memories were concentrated in those old, worn, hideous pieces of furniture. Movie nights, board games, laughter, tears. Most of the pieces were holdovers from their college days. She could remember sprawling face-down on that carpet when it had still covered the floor of Therese's room, bemoaning her upcoming Intro to Finance final, while Marisol rubbed circles on her back and offered to help quiz her. And she'd been sitting on that chair in her own room when Janna had cried out a broken heart, a memento of her ex-boyfriend. She'd been so flippant about the breakup until then, Paige had hardly been able to believe how deep the pain had gone…
Arnaud stepped up beside her, and she was snapped back to the present. "Pack your necessities," he said. "One bag. Then we go."
Paige felt sadness and loneliness sink even deeper into her. She wanted nothing more than to curl up on the couch and fall asleep. Perhaps she would wake up when the door opened again, admitting her three friends in a cheerful rush, and the memories of her dark nightmare would be swept away like shreds of cobwebs. But Arnaud nudged her forward with the barrel of his gun, and she knew that she was not in a dream.
Paige felt the weakness in her knees redouble as she walked, and she barely managed to catch herself on the kitchen counter. She bent over the faux marble, resting most of her upper body on it, her head on her arms.
"Arnaud," she said, with a frankness only exhaustion would allow, "I am starving. I am exhausted. I need to eat. And I'm going to eat something, unless you want to drag me away. Alright?"
She peaked at him from between strands of horribly frizzy hair, and saw him regarding her with amusement. The two other men had settled into something like parade rest in front of the door.
"Alright," he said. "We have some time. Do what you need to."
"Thank you," she said, though she shouldn't have to thank someone for something so basic. Still, it never hurt to be polite. With one hand on the counter, she managed to shuffle over to the pantry and pull out a sleeve of bagels and a jar of peanut butter. A knife followed, and then she made her way back around the counter to one of the stools pulled up on the other side. She rested on one of these, and then began to eat, smearing peanut butter lavishly on each bite of bagel.
It was the most delicious food she'd ever tasted.
She ate four bagels before she finally slowed. She followed up with three glasses of water from the pitcher in her fridge, and after that, she actually felt almost human, for the first time since Bane had pulled her out of the stock exchange. She set her glass down with a sigh, then turned to Arnaud, who had stood by impassively while she ate.
"Finished?" he asked.
Paige only nodded, already walking towards her bedroom on newly-strengthened legs. Arnaud followed her, which made her both annoyed and nervous, but she didn't protest. She shared the bedroom with Therese, and their two beds—a twin and a full, as Paige's frame only fit when she lay diagonally on the latter—took up most of the space. The room was almost a perfect rectangle, divided down the middle by Therese's stick-on wallpaper. It was a royal blue color, with small floral designs picked out in silver. Her smaller bed allowed her space for a desk, painted a creamy white and covered in trinkets and knick-knacks. She had pictures up on her walls, mostly her own drawings: knights, forest landscapes, badgers and bright flowers. There were framed photos of smiling family and friends, too. Paige was up there. Therese had painted her chest of drawers cream as well, and everything rested on a thick rug with a swirling design in blue and white.
Paige's half looked sparse in comparison. She'd left the walls with only their white paint, and her thin rug was an almost invisible color of beige. Her bedding was blue plaid, bought on sale, and her chest of drawers was a scuffed-up thing she'd found for free on the side of the road. Her shoes sat in a neat line at her footboard as if waiting for her. The only lovely touch was a bookcase of dark wood by the bed, made for her by the husband of a mentor of hers. She had only two pictures, both sitting on her chest, and one frame up on the wall. Paige spared one longing glance at her soft bed before moving to kneel beside it to pull out a suitcase.
"Where are we going?" Paige asked as she pulled out her hard-shell bag.
"Our new base," Arnaud said. "The Wayne Apartments."
Paige paused in the act of hefting her bag onto her bed. It made sense: next door to Wayne Tower, and therefore to its armory, and central to the city, the Wayne Apartments were largely for the corporate officers and other highly-placed employees in WE, as well as visiting business partners and investors. It was possibly the ritziest building in town, and that was saying something.
So she didn't have to pack for a sewer base, at least. And there would almost certainly be laundry available.
It didn't take her long to pack. She turned her whole mind to the task and did not allow herself to dwell on the fact that she was, apparently, to be kept prisoner for the foreseeable future. She did not allow herself to think about the gunshots she began to hear in the distance from the streets outside. She did not allow herself to think about Arnaud's eyes heavy on her back. She did not allow herself to wonder where her roommates were, if they were not here.
She packed.
Practical items only. Underwear, heavy socks, sweaters, jeans. She threw in her thermal leggings, her heavy parka and gloves, and a couple hats. Winter was already descending on the city. And who knows how long I'll be away.
Toiletries next. Arnaud followed on her heels like a guard dog as she went into the bathroom. First, gloriously, her spare glasses in the medicine cabinet. She put them on, and reveled in her restored vision. The prescription wasn't quite right anymore, but it was better than nothing. A quick glance in the mirror confirmed that her neck was blossoming with purple and black bruises, concentrating on her wind pipe. Her cheek sported a red mark too, though she didn't remember DuPreez striking her there. She touched both spots, grimacing. And I stabbed him, she thought, confusion still suffusing the idea. I can't believe I actually stabbed a man.
Shaking the thought away, she began gathering up her toiletries. She couldn't afford to get lost in self-analyzation.
It took a couple trips to gather everything. Her thick, curly hair was lovely when cared for, but a pain in the neck, and required a variety of products. Still, when everything was stowed neatly in her bag, she had some extra space.
Practical items done, she carefully unlocked one portion of her brain and allowed it to think about what might really matter to her. She looked around the room. Her favorite books were on the shelf. Her father's Bible was on her bedside table. She packed this, wrapping it in the parka to keep it safe. What else?
She turned her attention to the chest of drawers. The one frame on the wall was a collage of pictures and newspaper clippings about her winning state for ice skating. Her mother's work. The next, sitting on the chest, a small five by three, showed her mother, belly round and full with pregnancy, laughing with her arm around a man. He was tall, not in an attractive, strong way, nor in an impressive, brooding way; he was tall in the awkward, gangly, all-arms-and-legs, stick-thin, thin-necked way that Paige shared. His eyes were round and almost child-like, dancing with laughter. One long arm wrapped around her mother's waist, hand resting on her pregnant belly, and the other arm supported a chubby blond toddler boy, also laughing, who she had never met, and would never meet.
It was the closest thing she had to a picture with her father and her brother. This too went into the parka.
The other photo was from when she was six, already growing tall and thin, though that was masked as she was bundled in her mother's lap. Her mother's face was more lined than in the first photo, not only with care and age, but also with thin scars that remained even to this day. Paige's legs dangled over the side of her mother's wheelchair. They were both wearing pink birthday hats with "Barbie" written on them in curly script, and other children made blurs in the background. It was her sixth birthday, the most extravagant she'd ever had: six guests, party hats, streamers, and a store-bought sheet cake, with "Happy Birthday, Paige!" written in pink, glittery icing. Dinners had been sparse the rest of that month, more so for her mother than she'd realized at the time, but it remained one of the happiest memories of her life. Into the parka.
She thought, a little fancifully, about taking her ice skates out from under her bed—after all, the blades could be useful. But she somehow doubted Arnaud would allow her to take those. And, in any case, they wouldn't be useful enough to justify packing them.
She still had just a bit of space, so she took another two books. The first, pulled from the shelf, was an old, squat, weathered trade paperback of The Hobbit, its eighties-era cover shining in wrinkled, aged glory. The other was out front, by her usual chair. Slipping past Arnaud, who followed unerringly, she went to retrieve it.
It lay where she had left it on a side-table: a nonfiction recommended by her pastor, halfway completed. She picked it up, and her eyes caught on the guitar resting on its stand in the corner. She touched the neck of it lightly. It would be silly to bring it, she knew, if Arnaud even let her—the image of toting a guitar case through ruined Gotham was simply ridiculous. And she wasn't some master musician anyway. What skill she had was more attributable to the accident of having large hands and thin fingers than any real aptitude. Still, it was a long moment before she could pull her hand away from her father's guitar.
By the couch, she saw two things she had missed before. It was a small overnight bag, in paisley purple, open to show packed clothes and a toiletry bag. And beside it, placed carefully flat on the ground, was a violin case, a little battered, and festooned with colorful stickers.
Paige's hands flew to her mouth. "Oh!" she groaned, before she could think. "Oh, Sonia, no! No!"
She had forgotten it—forgotten it entirely, in the overwhelming shock of her kidnapping, of the explosions, of Bane. Her cousin Sonia had been due to fly into the Gotham Regional Airport the night Paige was taken from the stock exchange. Paige was supposed to pick her up. Who had done it, she wondered? It had been Marisol, assuredly—dear, logical, remembering Marisol, driving to the airport at midnight in the wake of Paige's bizarre disappearance, wondering what had happened. And now poor Sonia, not even old enough to drink, a shoe-in for first chair of the Gotham Symphony Orchestra but still a child at heart, was as lost in the city as Paige's roommates. Lost, gone, vanished—not even her dear violin beside her. Paige covered her eyes, pushing her glasses up her forehead as she did so.
Oh, Sonia, she thought, Sonia, I'm sorry. I'm sorry I wasn't there to meet you. I'm sorry you're stuck in here with all of us.
When she felt collected enough to raise her head again, her eyes met Arnaud's, standing behind the couch and watching dispassionately. He said nothing, which was just as well, and Paige walked past him back to her bedroom. There was nothing left to put in her bag, and so, she slipped the books into the parka, then a quick zip, and she was packed.
She had laid aside her thickest pair of wool socks and one other outfit. She turned to Arnaud. "I need to change," she said.
He regarded her, and for a moment she was worried he wouldn't leave. But then he shrugged, turned, and left the room. He left the door purposefully ajar, but he didn't look.
It was the best she would get. Working quickly, she shrugged out of every stitch, then pulled on fresh. She desperately wanted a good, long shower, but clean clothes still did a world of wonders. Clothed, she shot a furtive glance at the door, then edged over to Therese's desk. She searched it for a moment, but was quickly disappointed: Therese's cell phone was gone, as was her laptop. Her bag was nowhere in evidence either. Paige's own laptop had been in her bag at work, and was doubtless gone with her cell phone and the rest of her things. Returning to her bed, she grabbed her thick winter boots and laced them on. Lastly she pulled on her coat and buttoned it up to her chin. Then she looked down at the scarf.
It pooled on her bed. She didn't want to put it back on—didn't want to dwell on the moment it had been taken from its previous owner, or the moment it had been given to her. She didn't want to smell again the faint scent of men's deodorant or aftershave that lingered in the cloth.
"Put it back on," Arnaud said.
Paige's head snapped up. She hadn't heard him pull the door open. He stood in the doorway, gun held loosely in both hands, barrel towards the ground.
"I'd rather not," she said.
"Foolish," Arnaud said. "And not your choice. Put it on."
Paige rolled her lips together. She considered complete and utter rebellion. Going completely limp, not moving at all, forcing them to cart her around. She could never hope to fight past them, but she could at least not help.
But she knew, somehow, that such a tack would go very poorly with Bane. And he was the real enemy here. Arnaud and the other two goons were only proxies. So she picked up the scarf, touching it as little as possible, and draped it loosely around her neck, on the outside of the collar of the coat. She had a sudden thought. She turned back to her drawers and opened the top one, then pulled out the small box nestled in a corner: her jewelry box.
Her grandmother had been a great collector of pins and broaches, most of which were rather hideous butterflies. She had willed some to Paige—a complete surprise in the mail on a summer day some years ago—and amongst them were a few she had liked enough to keep, though she seldom wore them. The one she pulled out was a small dove, worked in silver, and carrying in its beak a sprig of olive leaves, gilded at the edges. Using this, she tied the scarf and pinned it under her throat. The dove shone against the red, and the contrast brought out the green more vividly. It was, she had been told, a peace-making gift from her father to her maternal grandmother. Hence how bright and unworn it was.
There. That was a little better. She turned, pulled her suitcase off the bed, and extended the handle. "I'm ready," she said.
Arnaud noted the pin, but gave no reaction other than a slightly raised eyebrow. He stepped to the side, and Paige brushed past him, the rubber wheels of her suitcase making an incongruous noise on the laminate. The other two men were still standing vigil by the door. As she emerged, one turned and unlocked it, keeping a hand on the handle. He looked to the other who, shockingly, readied his gun, then nodded. The first man threw open the door, and the second stepped out and snapped from side to side as he looked both ways down the hallway.
"Clear," he called.
Paige felt a nudge in her back, so she continued forward, preceded by the other man she didn't know. Goon One and Goon Two, she thought.
Goons One and Two walked beside each other ahead of them, and Arnaud brought up the rear. She noticed, as they left, that he didn't even bother to close her door. She felt a pang run through her. After all, with the way things were going, it seemed unlikely she would ever see her home again.
Silent, closed doorways surrounded them again as they walked. The sound of the baby crying—little Felicia, definitely, that was the Baker apartment—grew louder, and Paige felt so sorry for the poor thing. Why wasn't Penelope comforting her baby? Or why wasn't her husband, James—
Oh. Oh no.
Penelope Baker. Detective Penelope Baker.
They were only ten feet from the Baker apartment. Paige saw the door handle turning. Goon Two's gun swiveled as the door flew open with so much force that the knob broke into the drywall and stuck. James emerged, screaming, his face twisted in hatred, with his wife's extra duty pistol clutched in both hands.
Paige screamed just as gunfire rang out. Four shots.
None from James.
James—James's body—jerked as it fell. Blood painted the walls and the floor. Paige clapped her hands over her ears, dropping her suitcase, but even through them she could hear little Felicia's screams go silent for a moment in fear, then redouble. Goon Two—what a terribly flippant name for a murderer, she realized now—hurried forward and bent to check the body, grabbing the pistol away and sending it spinning back on the floor to Goon One, who caught it under his foot.
The checking was a formality. Paige could see that James was dead, four holes in his chest in a tight knot. Blood flowed out of them weakly, and his eyes were open, staring.
And little Felicia howled.
Goon Two nodded, and Paige felt Arnaud pull one of her hands away from her ears, then press the suitcase handle into it. "Go on," he said. He pushed her.
Paige stumbled forward on reflex, her head turned to stare at the apartment. "The baby," she said. Her voice was muted to her own ears. "The baby—we have to get the baby." She veered off towards the door, but Arnaud grabbed her shoulder and pulled her back.
"No," he said. "Keep moving."
"She's crying, can't you hear that she's crying?" Paige said. She was crying too, she realized. "She's just a baby! I have to—I have to—"
Arnaud's grip, like iron, kept her from leaving. He had both arms around her now, almost lifting her off the floor.
"Little help here?" he grunted.
One of the goons grabbed her suitcase in his off hand, his gun still ready and his eyes wary. Arnaud began hauling her down the hallway, her feet scrabbling for purchase on the carpet as she fought to reach the apartment.
"Mrs. White!" she screamed. "Felicia! Mrs. White! Get Felicia!"
But there was no sound, no answer, except for the continued cries of two-month old Felicia, orphaned before she knew her name.
They reached the elevator, and the doors closing in front of her eyes seemed to break a spell. Paige sagged like a deflated balloon. Sobs wracked her, and her vision was completely obscured. Arnaud's arms around her middle were the only thing keeping her upright.
Tears, now, she wondered? Now? Not for Dr. Pavel? For the apartments falling? For Blackgate? But none had had James's eyes, or Felicia's cries. Tiny Felicia. They'd brought the Bakers a casserole after the birth, and they'd each gotten to hold the tiny, pink, wiggling newborn. So small. Such wonderful little eyes.
Mrs. White would get Felicia. Paige knew she would. Or another family on the hall. They were decent people.
But no amount of decency would bring that baby's parents back from the dead.
The doors opened onto the lobby, and the two men exited ahead of them, clearing corners. Arnaud shook her a little, not harshly. "Can you stand?" he asked.
Paige managed to do it. The suitcase handle helped ground her, though it couldn't support her weight. Arnaud's hand on her upper arm, a familiar feeling now, guided her out of the elevator and back into the November sunlight outside.
They turned, and headed for Wayne Apartments. Paige looked over her shoulder until her apartment building was out of sight, and after. The ringing in her ears had become the tiny sound of a newborn baby's cry.