Ellie.
Meet me at your office when you get this.
Mirella Caputo grumbles when she receives the text message. Short and to the point. Just like him. She looks up at the line in front of her and she huffs, her visions of trudging back to her apartment and face-planting into her bed evaporating. It's early, but not so early that she can't swing by Lola's Bakery for her morning cup of tea before she faces him. She slips her phone into the back pocket of her black jeans and rolls her dark green eyes at the unwelcome development. Twenty-eight and newly single once again, everything hurts for Mirella. From her head to her toes, from her heart to her soul, she aches. She's exhausted, and she knows the barista can see it when she shambles up to the counter to order her jasmine tea. He offers her a smile and a good morning, and she doesn't know how he's not reacting to just how ghoulish she must appear. She takes her tea, leaves a small tip in the little clear plastic jar in front of the register, and staggers out like a zombie, a noticeable limp in her step. The past eight hours of her life had been on the rougher side of existence, a night full of skirmishes and close calls, and as she pulls her teal Volkswagen Jetta into HQ's parking lot, Mirella finds she doesn't feel all that happy to be spending another day above ground.
She walks inside HQ, ignoring the throbbing pain in her left ankle every time she puts weight on it. She's greeted with an empty building, and the shock of it hits her like an ice bath. For as long as she's been in this office, there's always been somebody here. Twenty-four hours a day, seven days a week.
"Hello?" she calls out.
"Back here, Ellie!"
Her shoulders sag. "May as well get this over with," she grumbles. She makes her way through the empty break room, unsure of which ache and pain she's wincing at as she moves. Mirella exits the break area, into the short hallway lined with offices. Hers is the last room on the left, beside the emergency exit that led out onto the pier. It was a perk of settling into a building that had once been a boat shop. Mirella was madly in love with the view of Okanagan Lake and the mountains from her window.
Behind Mirella's desk, Braxton Ross sits, waiting on his protégé. When she reveals herself in the doorway, he can barely suppress his grimace at the sight of her. The Spiritbox T-shirt she wears is ripped, stretched, and all but destroyed. Dirt and other things he doesn't care to venture a guess about stains her jeans and spots on her skin she'd clearly missed when she'd quickly cleaned herself up in the car and in the bathroom at Lola's. The ponytail she'd pulled her thick black hair into at the start of the evening was all but wrecked, strands of hair here, there, and everywhere.
But her dark green eyes...they looked no different than usual. Defeated and exhausted.
She says nothing about him taking her spot. At six-five, he sits taller in the chair than she does, a behemoth in a plain black T-shirt that strains against his muscles. He watches her in silence as she shuts the door behind her.
"Where is everybody?"
"I sent them home to get some rest. They don't look much better than you."
"You sure do know how to make a lady feel special," she drawls, sitting down in the chair across from him. She places her cup on the desk. He notes the way she grimaces as she struggles to get comfortable.
"I wanted to talk to just you, anyway."
"Well, here I am."
"You look like shit, Ellie."
"Gotta make the inside match the outside. You know how it is."
"Bad night?"
"I'm still here, aren't I?" She lets out a gasp and winces as she shifts in her chair.
"You okay?" he asks, concerned. She shoots him a withering look.
"Do you really care?"
"You know the answer to that."
Mirella sighs. "I'm fine. I'll be fine. A hot shower, some Advil and some ice, and I'll be back at it again in..." Mirella looks up at the clock above Braxton's head, positioned symmetrically between vintage movie posters for Out of the Past and Double Indemnity. "...About fourteen hours."
"I don't think so, Ellie."
Her eyes narrow. "What's that supposed to mean?"
That's when Mirella notices the two manila envelopes on her desk, underneath Braxton's large forearms. Leaning back, he slides the first one towards her. Leaning forward with a wince, she takes it, eyeing him wearily before she opens it. Flipping through the contents, she grimaces. "Are you going to tell me what I'm looking at?"
"Last night. Gotham City. Two crime scenes, no survivors."
"Shit." She rifles through the files Braxton has clearly spent the morning compiling. Mirella finds a Gotham Gazette printout in the middle of the black and white slaughter. A crime spree, the press there is calling it. She looks up at him. "That's what, now? Five in the last three weeks?" Slipping the contents back into the envelope, Mirella drops it onto the desk and reaches for her tea.
"Something like that," Braxton confirms. Leaning back in his chair, Braxton releases a loud sigh, and Mirella quietly observes the way he sinks into her chair. "I was pretty close with Evan back in the day. He ran things down in Gotham. We used to get together and do stupid shit every year at the conventions. He taught me a lot. He even came up here when I got married.
"And then life happened, and I kept telling myself I'd get around to calling him, and like...shit. He's gone now. He's really gone."
"I'm sorry." She looks down at her cup and sighs. It's a hollow sentiment, and she knows it, but Braxton appears to appreciate it nonetheless. "I see what Gotham is saying. What are our people saying?"
"Not a whole lot. This is what brings me to you."
Mirella sighs. She knows where this is headed.
"You're about to ask me for a favor, aren't you?"
"You know me too well at this point, Ellie."
"What are you asking me to do?"
"The funerals are going to take place about a week from now. I'm not going to be able to make it. I've already been committed to the funerals out in Seaville." He slides the second envelope over to her. "I want to send you in my place. We need to send a representative to pay our respects. Evan and his team deserves that much."
"Me?" Mirella squeaks. Opening the envelope, sure enough, is everything she needs to travel to Gotham City.
"While you're there, see if you can find out just what is going on down there. It's only a matter of time before whatever is looming makes it here. You know it, and I know it."
"Why me, though? Rory's never been..."
"Neither have you. You're asking me why I'm sending you. I'm sending you because you're my right hand, and this is a right hand duty. Besides..." He pauses and takes a deep breath, and Mirella tenses. "I think you need to get out of here for a while."
"What? Don't you dare..."
"Mirella." The full use of her name shuts her up, makes her straighten her posture. But her eyes narrow, and he can feel the bemusement and frustration radiating from her. Braxton tries to broach his next words carefully. His track record at diplomacy is spotty at best, especially in Mirella's case. "Look, it's not personal." She opens her mouth to speak, but he quiets her by raising his hand. "It's not. But it's not a secret that you're dealing with a lot right now. It's all the more reason for you to get out of here and take a break. I think...I think this trip might do you a bit of good."
"And just who is going to keep an eye on things while we're gone? Rory?"
"Under my supervision. I spoke with him about it this morning..."
Mirella is aghast. She can't hide it. Mirella rolls her eyes and scoffs, disgusted.
"Great. You're serious. You're shipping me out of here, and I'm the last one to know about it? What the fuck, Brax? Are you kidding me?"
"You need the break."
"A break? You call me playing Nancy Drew in another country a break?"
He leans forward. "A change of pace will do you good right now. You might not see it, but everyone in here can." His expression goes soft. "Ellie, I know you're trying your damnedest, but you're falling apart at the seams right now..."
"I'm fine."
"...Everyone can see it. Nobody blames you. This reporter...your sister...the cameras. Jesus, Ellie, you're a casualty waiting to happen. You need a break."
The softness of his tone bullies her into silence. He's right. She knows he's right, but she's pissed that he's right. He watches her for a long few moments before she sighs. "You and I are going to have to talk about you making arrangements about me without telling me. That's fucked up."
"We'll talk about it when you get back. I swear on it."
"Okay. Fine. So I guess I'm leaving, then. When do I leave?"
"Tonight. Everything's taken care of. Room's booked, car's rented, ticket's taken care of. All you need to do is be there."
"Oh, we're gonna talk about this when I get back," she grumbles.
"Go home. Get some sleep, get packed. You're headed to Gotham."